My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Read online

  Romy Sommer

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  My Best Friend’s Royal Wedding

  By Romy Sommer

  Romy Sommer

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  Prologue

  Khara

  “You’re off the floor tonight.” My boss grabs at my elbow as I slide behind the bar. “They need you upstairs in the private dining room. One of their waitresses didn’t show.”

  “Why me? Surely they could use one of the regular restaurant servers?” I set the tray of dirty glasses down beside the sink and face him. “I just serve drinks.”

  “Taking food orders isn’t much different from taking drinks orders, and you’re our most

  experienced waitress.”

  I roll my eyes. ‘Most experienced’ means nothing more than ‘the loser who’s been serving

  drinks since the moment she was legally allowed to, and still hasn’t got out.’

  “Big tippers?” I ask.

  Frank shrugs. “You never can tell with the kind of guests who book the private rooms. They

  like to throw their money around, but when it comes to remembering the hired help…? You might

  get lucky, you might not.”

  I really don’t want to do this. I’m comfortable here on the casino floor, where I know the

  score and the tips are good. My friend Phoenix would have been a much better choice, but she’s off back-packing around Europe at the moment. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second at the thought of Europe, a place that has always seemed magical but impossibly unreal. The odds of me ever doing something so impetuous are so low no bookie would risk taking that bet.

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  Frank tries again. “Khara, you said you wanted to move onward and upward. Maybe this will

  lead to a permanent promotion.” He grips my arm, his expression serious. “You know I don’t want to lose you, but you’re better than this.” He nods his head toward the casino floor, toward the constant ding-ding-ding of slot machines, the never-ending night, and I hear what he doesn’t say: Don’t end up like me.

  “Fine. But can I get a moment to change first?” I glance down at my black tank top bearing

  the casino’s logo, where an over-enthusiastic gambler slopped beer on me earlier.

  “Sure, just remember to keep it classy. Then get your skinny ass upstairs quick as you can.

  Wouldn’t want to keep Their Highnesses waiting.”

  I laugh. Frank is one of the reasons I haven’t already quit this job. Only in his world would

  my ass be considered skinny.

  In the cramped staff locker room, I strip off my top and hot pants and stuff them into my

  locker. There is one sure-fire way to earn tips in a casino, and dressing classy isn’t it. Luckily, I always keep a dress in the locker in case of emergencies – like an unexpected hot date. With its above-the-knee skirt and plunging neckline, the little black skater dress might not be quite the look management has in mind for its restaurant servers, but it’s classier than the other options I have stashed in there, and yet still guaranteed to get me noticed. And getting noticed is the best way to earn tips.

  I hurry up the back stairs to the restaurant. While the casino floor is where the everyday

  tourists and slot machine addicts hang out, the upstairs restaurant is where the people with money go. It was decorated by a famous interior designer, and has a Mediterranean cuisine menu curated by a Michelin-starred chef, but to me it just looks dark and pretentious. Its only saving grace is the view over the hotel’s lush gardens. The Bellagio has its fountains, the Luxor has its pyramid, and we have our water gardens. In the seven years I’ve worked here, I’ve walked through those gardens exactly once.

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  The three private function rooms are separated from the restaurant by a long corridor. The

  restaurant manager sends me to the largest of the rooms where two burly men, who look ominously like bodyguards, flank the door. I’m scared for a moment that they’re going to frisk me, then one nods curtly and holds the door open for me. The guests are already seated. The head waiter gives me a disapproving once over, thrusts an opened bottle of expensive French champagne into my

  hands, and gives me a not-so-subtle shove in my lower back to get moving.

  Two things are immediately obvious. The first is that the guests aren’t much older than me,

  and the second is that they clearly started their party elsewhere, because they’re already pretty buzzed.

  I top up their champagne glasses, then head to the kitchen to fetch the starter platters. The first course is served on delicate white porcelain plates. Bacon-wrapped scallops, crab cakes, and jumbo shrimp. My mouth waters.

  As I serve, I get the opportunity to observe the guests. Four men, three women, and judging

  by their accents, none of them are American. No wonder Calvin called them ‘Their Highnesses’.

  Perhaps they are. They all sound like Prince Harry. I wonder which one of them is the reason for the bodyguards at the door?

  The men are in smart evening dress, the women wear cocktail dresses. I can’t tell designer

  from knock-off, but I’m pretty sure their dresses don’t come from Target.

  The next course is lobster bisque with Caesar salad. My stomach rumbles and I hope no one

  else hears it. I haven’t eaten since that burger at Wendy’s before the start of my shift nearly eight hours ago. This is why I prefer serving drinks on the casino floor: less temptation.

  “I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end of the meal,” I complain to the sous chef as I

  watch him flip prime steaks in the kitchen. “Those smell so good!”

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  He wipes the sweat from his brow and grins. He has the warmest brown eyes imaginable, and

  the broad-shouldered build of an athlete; a swimmer or a wrestler maybe. “You wouldn’t say that if you were the one grilling them all night. What time do you get off?”

  “Whenever that lot do.” I nod toward the dining room.

  “Want to go grab something to eat at Tacos el Gordo afterward?”

  I grin back. “It’s a date. I’m Khara.”

  “Raúl.” He holds out his hand, then ruefully yanks it back before I can shake it. His hand is

  spattered with basting sauce.

  With an extra sway in my hips, I push through the swing doors, balancing the tray of prime

  sirloin, lobster linguine, and sea bass. The food no longer looks quite as enticing. I can make it through this evening. Tacos shared with an attractive man with a sense of humor beats the fanciest dishes in the world any day.

  Half my tray is empty when I feel a hand grasp my thigh. “Hey, gorgeous,” a voice slurs.

  I’m not unused to being groped by customers. I should have known better than to assume

  these people, with their money and looks and rank, would be any different from the drunken tourists on the casino floor. I turn, icy glare in place, to look at the man whose hand is now sliding higher, under the hem of my skirt, getting way too familiar.

  What else can I do? I glance at the head waiter, wondering if I’ll be fired if I make a scene.

  Serving on the casino floor is so much easier. There, I could slap the hand away and give a sharp retort, and no one would bat an eye. Not to mention that Security would be all over a drunk and difficult gambler in a heartbeat. But here…?

  The man’s blond hair flops down over his forehead, almost into his pale blue eyes. He might

  have been attractive, if not for the receding chin and boyish looks. I prefer real men. The kind that w
ork with their hands.

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  His too-soft hand is still sliding higher, almost at the edge of my panties now. I think I’ve just discovered the reason why none of the restaurant waitresses wanted to work this room tonight.

  “Please remove your hand. Sir.” The last is an afterthought, and more for the benefit of the

  head waiter who turns to eye me suspiciously, than for the pale man looking at me as if I’m nothing more than another prime steak.

  “Do you know who I am?” He says it with charm and a sloppy smile that almost takes the

  arrogance out of his words. Almost.

  “Cut it out, Nick. The waitress isn’t on the menu.” This from the dark-haired man at the end

  of the table. “I’m hungry and you’re holding up my food.” He sounds bored.

  Blondie lets me go, and I scoot around the table to distribute the rest of the plates. When I

  reach the dark-haired man, he leans toward me, voice low. “I apologize for my cousin. He’s had a bit too much to drink.”

  “No shit.” I reply, keeping my voice equally low. I set down his plate, the Chilean sea bass,

  and turn to leave, but one of the women waves for me to stop.

  “What is this? I can’t eat carbs.” Her voice has taken on a haughty tone, completely different from the giggly, effervescent way she spoke to her friends.

  “You ordered the lobster linguine.” I keep my voice soft, polite, though it’s an effort.

  “Yes, I ordered lobster. Not pasta.”

  The dark-haired man laughs, a soft sound, quickly stifled. I glare at him, wishing I could do

  the same.

  “I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a new dish for you,” I say, forcing a smile for the woman and removing her plate.

  “What’s wrong?” Raúl asks, as I slam down the tray beside him.

  “Damn entitled rich folks, that’s all.” I draw in a deep breath, and let it out very slowly and carefully. I need their money. I have to be able to smile when I walk back in there.

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  “Can you whip up something with lobster, but no linguine? She can’t eat carbs.”

  “No worries.” He smiles and takes the plate from me, carrying it over to the chef.

  I lean up against the wall, out of everyone’s way. The familiar sound of real people doing real work soothes my temper. These are my kind of people.

  When the meal is done and I go in to clear away the dirty dishes, the porcelain plates are still half-piled with food. Our restaurant isn’t exactly famous for its large portions, and yet the young women have barely touched their food – including the specially-prepared lobster.

  The wastage is enough to make me want to throw the food in their faces. Instead, I keep on

  smiling and stack the dishes on my tray.

  The head waiter circles the table once more, clearing away the empty champagne bottles, and

  opening the next. Haven’t they already had more than enough to drink?

  The dark-haired man looks up from studying the dessert menu. His gaze snags on me, slowly

  kindling. It’s a look that gets under my skin, prickly and hot with a hint of amusement, and I don’t like it at all. He is by far the best looking man in this group. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his green-gray eyes are piercing, and his chin is definitely not weak. He exudes confidence and charm, but I’m immune. I’ve met enough of his type.

  At any given moment, there are dozens of men like him in Vegas. Bachelor parties and frat

  boy weekends and conference groups. All with money to burn and the same attitude of entitlement.

  Most of them barely give me a second look, since I’m just the hired help, but those that do notice, like this one, are even worse. They seem to think that because I wear a short skirt and an apron, I’m as easily available as the drinks.

  “Anyone for dessert?” I ask brightly.

  The three women, all blond, all skinny, and indistinguishable from one another, shake their

  heads in unison, and I hear Frank’s voice in my head. Nothing but bone; nothing to hold onto. I suppress a grin, but not quickly enough.

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  The dark-haired man raises an enquiring eyebrow at me, that amused look is in his eyes again,

  almost as if he read my thoughts. Then: “I’ll have the New York cheesecake.” He holds out the

  menu to me, but when I reach to take it, he doesn’t let it go, teasing me. Or more likely taunting me, like a typical playground bully.

  The woman to his right pouts. “But I want to go down to the casino.”

  “And you will, Flora. As soon as I’ve had my dessert. Or you could go downstairs in the

  meantime and I’ll join you there later, once I’ve had dessert.”

  Flora’s pout deepens. “But it’ll be no fun without you.”

  Having observed them all evening, I completely get where she’s coming from. This dark-

  haired man is the one who has kept the dinner conversation flowing, deftly handled his cousin’s moods, made everyone laugh, and flirted with the ladies. He’s also the least drunk in the party.

  Without him, they make a deadly dull group.

  Nick the Obnoxious’ eyes narrow as he looks from his cousin to me. “I know what your idea

  of dessert is.”

  The dark-haired man merely laughs, then flashes a flirty smile at Flora. “Don’t listen to him, Flora, darling. You know I love you and only you.”

  I stifle another laugh, cover it with a cough. Maybe for this week. I’d bet all my worldly

  goods this man says the same thing to many, many women. And because he has money, I’ll also bet these brainless model types are just queuing up to be next.

  When I return to the dining room with his dessert, the room is empty except for the dark-

  haired man. Since the burly bodyguards disappeared along with the rest of the group, I assume he’s not the VVIP.

  He takes his time, sipping the last of his champagne, and twirling the stem of his glass. Now

  that the others have gone, he looks bored.

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  The head waiter brings the bill, and he signs it with a flourish. The tip is generous, and I

  breathe out a sigh of relief. Since no cash or cards changes hands, they must be guests in the hotel.

  Not that I care.

  Silently, I clear away his dessert plate and empty champagne flute. It’s just the two of us in the room again, and I can feel his gaze burning me up. It strokes down my legs, making me feel naked. Hot, bothered, and naked.

  Nervous, awkward, I nearly tip my tray and have to grab for the glass.

  He laughs.

  I glare.

  With the bill already paid, I have nothing to lose. “Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

  “When you’ve seen one casino, you’ve seen them all.”

  Talk about preaching to the converted. I’ve worked in this one long enough that I’d be happy

  never to step foot inside another casino. And as soon as I graduate, if I ever graduate, I plan to get a job somewhere that has windows that let in real daylight.

  “Throwing your money away at the tables is supposed to be thrilling,” I say. Not that I’d

  know. I have better things to do with my money than throw it away, but I’m desperate for him to leave. Raúl’s shift in the kitchen already ended.

  But the dark-haired foreigner merely shrugs again, and this time the movement looks weary,

  as if he’s not bored but tired. If being the heart and soul of this little party is so much effort, why does he bother?

  “There’s more to Vegas than casinos. You could always try the Stratosphere Tower, or the

  Zombie Burlesque show,” I offer.

  His cool green-gray eyes kindle again, wiping away that weary look. “What time do you get


  off work?”

  Seriously? I narrow my eyes at him, but say nothing.

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  “You can show me what lies beyond The Strip. I can pay.”

  My back stiffens. I may be almost permanently broke, but I am not for sale. “I already have a

  date,” I say stiffly.

  He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe me. “In case you change your mind…” He smirks as he

  lays a room card down on the table, no longer even bothering to pretend he’s looking for a tour guide.

  Anger ripples through me, white-hot. “The waitress is Not. On. The. Menu.”

  Then I turn and walk out, my hands shaking so hard the glass wobbles dangerously on the

  tray.

  Romy Sommer

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  Chapter One

  Adam

  One year later…

  As we crown the rise that separates the estate from the outside world, I see an ominous black car pull up beside the stable block and groan aloud. The sleek stretch limo with its dark-tinted windows can’t mean anything good. My horse, sensing home and her nosebag of hay, picks up her pace, but I’m less keen. Whoever is being driven in that vehicle, it’s certainly not anyone I want to see. Has my father sent someone from the office to check why I’m skiving off work again? I wonder if I

  should turn around and keep riding until the unwelcome visitor is gone. Riding is my one escape, my only chance to be alone, away from the stifling confines of family and work and expectations, and I resent this intrusion.

  But Bonney is growing tired and needs a rub down and a rest. Unwillingly, I keep her on

  course. I slow her to a walk, though, reluctant to find out what this visitor wants from me. Because there is no doubt that it’s me that he - or she - wants, and I am so tired of everyone wanting things from me that I can’t give.

  By the time I reach the red-brick stables, a relic of the Victorian era, a groom has already

  come running to take the reins. I dismount, just as the uniformed chauffeur leaning up against the vehicle moves to open the limo door. The visitor who steps out is tall and slim, grey-haired and