Two

How had Prince Captain America found his way into the back of her truck?

No scenario in her mind gave an answer.

Charlie peered closer, and a full whiff of his breath hit her in the face. She coughed and drew back.

Drunk?

Captain America was drunk ?

Her brain glitched on the idea, but then she looked up into the starry sky.

"When I prayed for a prince as a little girl, Lord, this is not what I had in mind."

It was much easier to appreciate God's sense of humor in other people's lives.

She leaned her hip against the truck and pulled her phone close. First day in America, and the man couldn't even make it to

his sister's house without a mishap? Prince Lit certainly didn't need to get involved with her fundraiser!

Charlie: So... I found the prince.

Luke: Um... that was really weird to see in print.

Luke: Where did you find him?

Charlie: In the back of my truck.

Luke: In the back of your truck? I'm trying to think of reasons, but none of them are good. What did you do to him?

Charlie: I didn't do anything to him! When I pulled into my house, I found him in the truck bed. Drunk asleep.

Luke: Just so you know, magic kisses don't work on drunk princes.

Charlie: Not to worry. I prefer my men sober and sensible before I sweep them off their feet.

Luke: Glad to know his royal good looks haven't disarmed your logic.

Luke: And I'm sorry, Charlie. We'd thought he was making steps in the right direction, but it sounds like he's going to need a

little mountain TLC to get on the straight and narrow.

Charlie: Prince Valiant doesn't stand a chance with a brother-in-law like you.

Luke: I was made for this moment.

Charlie: Since it's starting to rain, I'm going to try to get him inside.

Luke: Ellie and I will be there in about thirty minutes.

Charlie: See you then.

Charlie stared down at the unconscious man. Of course the only type of prince she'd ever meet was a rogue one. She lowered the tailgate. Further proof of the ridiculousness of those childhood fairy tales.

She tugged at the prince's foot, distracted for a second by the fact he wore tennis shoes.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but... tennis shoes? She huffed and tugged again. Luke's wife, Ellie, was a princess,

and she was almost normal, so why wouldn't Ellie's brother wear tennis shoes?

At another tug, the man groaned.

The rain intensified, followed by a nice roar of thunder.

Perfect.

With a very unladylike growl, proving all the more how unqualified she was for this whole Mistletoe Wish coordinator business,

Charlie grabbed the prince's feet and pulled until she'd moved his body to the edge of the truck bed.

A few more tugs brought him to where his legs dangled over the tailgate.

Good. Progress.

She fisted his jacket in both hands and raised him to a sitting position. With great lack of ceremony, his head drooped against

her shoulder, and his cool, damp hair pressed into her neck and jaw.

How had her life come to this?

Beneath the scent of alcohol, the warm, spicy fragrance of cardamom filled her airway. Heat flew into her face.

Not fair. At all.

She pushed back from him, steadying him by his shoulders—his strong, muscular shoulders.

The warmth in her cheeks sparked to sizzling.

It was a good thing he was nearly comatose right now.

Another roll of thunder sounded, and Charlie sent a longing look to her front porch. There was no way she and Prince Drools-A-Lot

Charming would make it to the front door if he didn't help a little. She gave his shoulders a little shake.

"Hey..." Oh dear, what was his name again? Adam? "Wake up!"

His head bobbled like a rag doll. Another round of thunder grumbled its warning.

"I could just leave you here." She raised her voice, giving him a stronger shake. "And you could... get struck by lightning."

A strangled sound erupted from him.

Was that a laugh?

Well, at least it proved a good sign he might be waking.

The sound gurgled again. Louder.

And if she'd had her wits about her, she'd have dodged out of the way. But her brain didn't respond fast enough. She blamed

the cologne.

Because the sound grew in volume, and in one very foul swoop, the prince upchucked all down the front of her shirt. She squeezed

her eyes closed and whimpered out a laugh.

Yep. The perfect twisted fairy tale.

"I'm... I'm... sorry." He hiccupped, slowly opening one eye as his head weaved. "I... I've never gotten s-sick on

someone before."

Even in his stupor, she had to admit the accent sounded nice.

Blast those stinking costume dramas.

"Listen, Prince." Yes, it was stupid to call him prince , but right now intelligence seemed to have left the vicinity on both sides of the conversation. "I need you to put your arm

around my shoulders and walk with me to my house."

He looked down at her from his perch on the tailgate, his eyes squinting. "You're a woman?"

"Smart and handsome, I see."

He attempted a grin, maybe, but his facial expression moved with about as much speed and accuracy as his words.

Another shock of thunder rallied him a little, and he shifted until he stood, sort of. Charlie slipped her arm beneath his, wrap ping it around his back, and they trudged toward the front door. As Charlie was one of the shortest people in her family, the prince towered over her.

"I'm usually better at this," he slurred.

"What? Walking?"

A snort erupted from him. "Nooo." He drew out the word, his breath hitting her face with such force, she coughed. "Holding

my... my drink." He gave his head a shake. "But I... I've not been drinking much lately, you see? Trying to m-make better

choices."

They started up the steps.

"You're doing a stellar job."

He snorted a laugh again and then paused, rubbing his nose. "I don't mean to be rude, but I think you need to change your

perfume."

"I think my current perfume has more to do with the gift you left down the front of my shirt." She pulled him up another step.

more to go.

"That wasn't very nice of me." He groaned, staring down at her shirt. "I do want to be nice, you know."

Oh Lord, please don't let him be one of those emotional drunks. After her day, the last thing she needed was an intoxicated prince weeping on her vomit-covered shirt.

"One more step, Your Majesty, and we'll be out of this rain."

"Actually, Majesty is reserved for my parents." He paused and turned toward her. " Highness is for rank like mine."

"Highness? Pretty appropriate for the moment, don't you think?"

His grin quirked again, and he narrowed his eyes at her, slowly taking the final step. "You are a very nice person," he murmured

as his face dropped against her head. "My parents would like you."

It was her turn to snort as they shuffled to the front door. His parents? Yeah, she proved the very model of a royal daughter-in-law.

Perfume and all.

Charlie propped the prince against the wall beside the front door as she dug out her keys from her pocket. Within another few seconds, they hobbled inside, only to have her drop her keys upon entry.

Lord, help me.

Charlie loosened her hold on Prince Pukey to flip on the light, but the man tipped forward. She pivoted to catch him, only

to have him straighten so quickly, his head slammed directly into her nose.

She stumbled back, losing her hold on him, her vision blurring as she reached for her face. He merely groaned and slid down

into a sitting position on the floor.

Her nose shot a warning throb from her forehead to her lips. Blood was coming.

"Your keys, my lady." The prince raised Charlie's keys to her view, his grin crooked. If Charlie's nose hadn't been stinging,

she'd have laughed.

"Are you alright?"

The prince started an unsteady rise, so Charlie rushed forward, redirecting him to the couch. He refused to budge, his brows

rising as his gaze dropped to her nose.

"Did... did I"—he gestured toward her face with the keys, his eyes close enough for her to get a clear view of how incredibly

blue they were—"hurt you?"

The agony in his voice, in those piercing eyes, distracted her from her pain for a moment.

A flicker of lucidness steadied his attention. "Forgive me."

The raw words rasped out of him as if they came from some deep place inside that broad chest of his.

Something like the faintest flutter of hummingbird wings flittered alive in her stomach.

And then his focus grew in intensity, and he started falling for ward. If she hadn't guided him safely to her couch, more blood may have spilled in her living room than the stream coming from her nostrils.

She ran to the kitchen and gathered a handful of paper towels. Smashing them to her face, she returned to the living room

to the sound of... snoring.

Again.

She leaned against the doorframe with the towels against her nose, a chuckle tickling the back of her throat.

At eight, she'd dreamed of a fairy-tale prince coming to sweep her off her feet. But nearly twenty years later, she stared

at a drunk, snoring, actual prince who'd just busted her nose after puking on her.

It was a good thing she'd outgrown that pesky childhood fantasy, because one thing was certain. This prince was not for her.

***

Where on earth was he?

Arran's eyes refused to open, even as the sound of footsteps neared.

And how had he found himself wherever here was?

He groaned. Thoughts refused to congeal.

"You definitely know how to make a first impression, brother-dear."

Brother-dear? The voice bled into recognition. Ellie?

"And I'm afraid you made a bit of a mess of things on your first night."

A strange scratching sound erupted to his right, followed by light flooding into the dark recesses of his sluggish thinking.

The action immediately incited a headache. Or reminded Arran of the headache he already had. Because, somewhere in his foggy

memory, he felt certain he'd had a headache for a long time.

Arran pushed open one eye to find his sister staring down at him.

"Not the best way to start turning over a new leaf."

His chest seized at her words, but he couldn't quite piece together the reason why. "What happened?"

"We can discuss it once you get up and dressed." She sat down on the bed, her gaze more compassionate than he deserved. "Then,

after you're cleaned and sobered up, I'll drive you to the worksite."

The words hit him in quick succession, and his brain attempted to catch up.

"Luke loaned you some work clothes for roofing a house, but you're going to need to purchase your own if you want some that

fit."

Words. Arran knew he understood them, but none of them made sense. Work clothes? Roofing?

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and the pain in his head exploded into an agonizing pulse. Wincing, he pressed

his palms against his forehead, trying to recall what stupid thing he'd done to get himself into this degree of misery. The

sinking recollection began dawning through the fog. A small-town street. Murphy's Bar?

"I'm not certain what is different about the native nectar of the Blue Ridge," he growled. "But I only had two servings of

Murphy's special brew and barely remember what happened next."

"How on earth did you find your way into his pub?"

"GPS stopped working, so I sought out directions." He attempted to sit up straighter. "And it was the only place that seemed

open."

"From what Luke says, Murphy takes pride in making his homemade whiskey as strong as possible." Ellie sighed. "You had no

idea how hard it was going to hit you."

"And on an empty stomach, no less." He groaned, blinking both eyes open. Last night? Arran's head throbbed from the effort to pull up syrupy thoughts. A woman? Gray eyes. Had she been real? Arran pressed his palms into his aching eyeballs. "Last night wasn't supposed to happen like that."

Ellie didn't respond.

"Despite the current representation, this has not been my routine for the past month." He pushed a hand through his hair, but even that seemed to hurt his head. "I had already

begun to make changes to my life. Dropped those toxic friends, started to show up to family and royal events." He raised his

gaze to hers. "I even went to one of Gran's horse shows as her plus-one."

"And caused all of her geriatric friends to swoon at your charm, no doubt." Ellie placed her hand over his on the bed. "Like

old times. Before Angelica."

He closed his eyes, in part due to the pain, in part to avoid Ellie's knowing look. "I lost my way, El, but I don't mean to

stay there." He met her gaze. "I don't want to stay there anymore."

"Which is why you're here." Her brows hovered northward to add emphasis. "Of your own accord."

"With some heavy prodding from our parents."

"But still of your own accord, which shows where your heart truly is." She searched his face, the gentleness in her expression

dousing some of his self-loathing. There was barely a year of difference between them, and surprisingly, he was the elder

of the two. But over the past two years, she'd superseded him in wisdom and solid life choices. "You know I understand how

hard it is to rise from bad choices, but here you are."

"Here I am, for my fresh start."

And he'd bungled it masterfully so far.

An image of the silver-eyed woman emerged in his mind again, and this time he was standing in front of her, looking down into

her heart-shaped face.

"What... exactly happened last night?"

Ellie's nose wrinkled with her frown, digging a deeper trench for his unease. "Do you remember anything?"

He closed his eyes, and a few images filtered through. The first one...

Arran shot a look at his sister. "Did I get sick on a woman?"

"You did." Ellie squinted. "All over the front of her."

His stomach knotted as another foggy memory emerged. "And... and I hit her in the face?" His eyes wilted closed again,

the pain in his chest now rivaling the one in his head. "I've never hit a woman."

"You didn't mean to."

The story of his life. He didn't mean to mess up, and yet he did.

He didn't mean to look like an idiot. But here he was.

"Is she alright?"

"She's fine, I believe. Her name is Charlotte. She's Luke's cousin."

His shoulder slumped beneath the weight of his ongoing stupidity. "Then I'll see her again so I can apologize properly."

"Arran." Ellie leaned forward and squeezed his arm. "You're going to be alright. I know you are." She drew in a long breath.

"Apart from our parents, I know you better than anyone else in our family. You love hard, so you hurt deeply, but you're choosing

to change. Father and Mother have seen it. So have others. Getting away from the past and unhealthy distractions as you try

to move forward is a good idea. Working with your hands and your heart is too, whilst you attempt to remember who you really are."

The scene in the bar rushed back to mind. If he wasn't Arran St. Clare, Prince of Bredon and the Western Isles, who was he?

And was it possible to find out in this obscure little town in the Blue Ridge Mountains?

The idea worked through him like a splinter, almost emerging from the skin but not quite. The ache in his chest grew. If he

looked too closely at his own heart, he wasn't too certain he'd like what was left without a crown.