Prologue

Sixteen years ago...

O nce upon a time, a prince attempted to learn to drive.

This would be a strange sort of fairy tale because, in all the stories of far-off kingdoms, brave knights defeating dragons and fair maidens locked in towers, no Prince Charming had ever failed a driving test.

Twice.

And even though he finally managed to get his license, Prince Kalle Llewellyn Anton George, firstborn and heir apparent of King Magnus of Laandia, is still having trouble driving.

"Clutch, now gas," I instruct, pedalling with my hands to show Kalle how to work his feet. "You've got it."

Two days ago, Kalle finally passed his driver's exam; but instead of setting out in the beat-up pick-up the king had assigned for his use, Kalle decided he also needed to learn to drive on a standard transmission. I don't know if it was because of FOMO, some girl, or his little brother Gunnar's new fascination with everything with a motor, but the prince is determined to master the stick shift.

And since the only standard vehicle at the castle belongs to my father, Royal Groundskeeper and Man of the Lawn—that's what my sisters and I call him, not any official title—Dad was tasked to teach Kalle how to drive with a clutch.

Apparently, that one lesson was more successful than his four months of in-car lessons by the king's security team because, after only a day, Dad gives Kalle the keys to practice on the quieter roads around the castle.

And he sends me with him.

Kalle and I are three weeks, and four days apart in age—I'm older. We're acquaintances, but I wouldn't call us friends, mainly because Kalle rarely spends his energy on anything that isn't related to sports. I enjoy watching sports on occasion but anything ball-puck-or-racquet-related is not my friend.

I like numbers. And books.

My childhood bookshelves were full of fairy tales. As I got older, these were replaced by retellings of fairy tales, with an emphasis on the more PG-plus versions. I read romance novels, royal romances being a personal favourite, which is ironic since the chances of me having a royal romance are slim to none. Even with me hanging out at the castle, the home of the royal family of Laandia.

Every summer since I was nine, I spent my days helping my father in the gardens at the castle. That doesn't mean I hung out with Kalle, his brothers and his little sister, though; I may have a first-hand view of the comings and goings of a real royal family but Dad put me to work. I learned about annuals and perennials, how to spot a weed, what weeds are not our friends, and the best time to prune.

I was a good pruner. I still am, finding quiet satisfaction in clipping each branch at just the right spot .

My mother has high hopes for a royal romance. She has four daughters; there are four princes. You don't need to be a numbers person to do the math. Unfortunately—for my mother—the closest any of the England girls have got to a royal romance was when Bo asked my sister Enid to dance at last year's Christmas party in Battle Harbour. That kept Mom going for weeks.

I've long ago taken myself out of her dreams for a prince to fall for an England girl. I stopped being impressed by the brothers after I had the misfortune of seeing Prince Bo and Prince Gunnar light a fire with their flatulence.

And now this.

Kalle lets off the clutch, jamming his foot on the gas, which is not how I showed him, but at least my father's truck jerks forward without stalling. He picks up speed but the gears screech as he shifts into second.

I can't hide my grimace at the sound.

"Wasn't that bad," Kalle grunts, shifting into third a little too fast.

"Wasn't that good either." I've been shifting gears since I was twelve, and driving around the country roads surrounding my family's farm with my older sister since I was fourteen.

That's what you do in Battle Harbour when you're not born into the royal family. For us, it's just a small fishing village on the edge of Laandia, which is a tiny country smack dab between the provinces of Quebec and Newfoundland in Canada, and the Atlantic Ocean.

"Think you can do better?" Kalle asks, hitting eighty so he can shift into fourth .

"I know I'm better, and you shouldn't go so fast on this road. They just redid the shoulders and you'll spin out on the gravel if you hit it." He gives me a look—half grumpy, half confused. "I live out here," I tell him.

"I knew that."

"You have no idea where I live," I shoot back. Growing up in such close proximity, yet with such an insurmountable distance from the royal family, wipes out most of the reverence one might feel around them. I have respect for the monarchy, I like King Magnus, admire Queen Selene, but despite sitting in front of Kalle in every class we've been in—Edie England, Kalle Erickson— and the fervent hopes of my mother, we've never been close.

To my mother's dismay, I have to add.

"I know where you live." Kalle has an insolent arrogance that comes more from being the type of male who excels at every sport rather than being born a prince.

I say that because both Odin and Bo show better manners than their older brother.

"How could you know where I live?"

"I just do. You're not invisible, you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're in the garden all the time with your dad. You could come and say hi." Kalle gives me a sideways glance and I snap my mouth shut. It's been hanging open since he said he knows where I live.

"I… I'm working," I finally manage.

"I see you with your book. You're not working all the time. "

This may be the first actual conversation I've had with Prince Kalle and I'm not holding up my end of it very well. "I… That's my break."

Kalle shrugs. "Just saying, you can come say hi on your break. We don't bite."

He downshifts as we approach a stop sign. He's still not great with the clutch but at least this time, he doesn't need a reminder from me. Which is good because I'm not sure I could get the words out.

Regardless of how I try to pretend I'm indifferent to him, this is Prince Kalle of Laandia talking to me like he wants me to… I don't know what. Hang out? Be friends?

I'm the daughter of the man who weeds his gardens. The royal family is not my friend.

"Ok," I manage.

"You can talk to Mom about flowers." Kalle makes a face like a man who doesn't understand the joy of putting hands in dirt.

"Yeah."

He turns at the stop sign, thankfully in the opposite direction from where I live. Kalle might think he knows where I live, but he doesn't need to see it. Not that there's anything wrong with the old farmhouse with the red-painted barn that's seen better days, but it's no castle.

The road is a straight stretch, clear and empty at this time of the morning. Kalle wanted early because he had some practice to go to, so I showed up before my shift at Mr. Frosty's ice cream shop. I help Dad in the gardens on my days off. It's a beautiful day, already warm and sunny, with a sky as blue as Kalle's eyes .

It's impossible not to make the comparison. It's also becoming difficult not to stare at the way he lounges in the seat like he's some professional driver, which he clearly is not. His right- hand rests on the gearshift, his forearm tanned and sprinkled with reddish-blond hair. The sleeve of his T-shirt is snug around his bicep. Kalle might only be sixteen but looks older, more like a man than most of the guys our age, with his height—still growing at six-two—and the width of his shoulders.

His arms are impressive.

I whip my attention away from his arm. From him, which is also difficult because the cab of my father's truck isn't very big and Kalle's hand is at an interesting distance from my bare knee.

I should not care about Prince Kalle's arm or any other of his appendages.

I should look out the window and do my best to ignore him, just like he's been doing for years.

Only… has he? I see you with your book.

I nibble on a hangnail and focus on an object on the shoulder of the road that is quickly approaching because Kalle is going pretty fast.

I squint into the sun. I think it might be— "Turtle—!" I cry.

"What?"

Kalle swerves—I have no idea why. It happens so fast; one moment, we're (speeding) down a deserted road, and the next, he jerks the wheel to the left, the tire catching on the newly laid gravel shoulder. He jerks it to the right, horribly over-correcting, so now we're aiming for the opposite shoulder and the huge turtle trying to cross the road.

"Don't hit it! "

He misses the turtle but heads straight into the ditch.

It's a shallow ditch, more of a dip with overgrown grasses and the occasional shrub. We hit two of the shrubs and leave a path of flattened grasses before Kalle comes to a stop only inches in front of a patch of barbed-wire fence.

A herd of black-and-white cows munch placidly on the other side.

"What did you yell for?" Kalle demands, both hands now clutching the wheel.

"There was a turtle. I just pointed it out."

"You made it sound like I was going to hit it." He bangs his forehead against the steering wheel. "Jesus. My parents are never going to let me drive again."

"It's not that bad."

"I almost killed a cow. And a turtle. And you."

It's the "And you" that melts something inside me, something I never even knew was meltable.

"You didn't kill anything," I soothe. "It's not a big deal."

Still leaning his forehead on the steering wheel, Kalle looks over at me with his really blue eyes. I can't help but notice his lashes are long and thick and there's a tiny pimple on his chin.

Why have I never let myself realize how cute Prince Kalle is? Of course, I knew —all the princes are attractive, even ten-year-old Gunnar with his white-blond hair and mischievous smile—but it's only now that I've let myself see .

Not the best timing, Edie.

"It feels like a big deal," he grumbles. "I drove us into a ditch. There's no way I can get out of this. "

"But I can. Switch spots," I tell him. "I'll get us out and it'll be like nothing happened."

I managed to back the truck out without any more damage, except for the small dent from a shrub that was more the size of a small tree, and get us back on the road. Kalle is even persuaded to carry the turtle across the road—luckily it isn't a snapping turtle.

It also takes a bit of convincing, but Kalle finally agrees to drive back. Get right back on the horse, my father always says. But I can tell he's worried about what his parents, and my father, will say.

It's an easy decision to make. "I'll say I was driving," I announce as we pull up to the castle. "That I was trying to see what the turtle was and hit the shoulder."

"I'm not letting you do that."

"You don't have a choice. It's my father's truck, and he'll believe me. No one will ever know, and you won't have to worry about the king not letting you drive."

Kalle is still arguing when we get out of the truck, but keeps his mouth shut when I confess, except to praise me on how I got the truck out of the ditch.

That afternoon, Kalle stops by Mr. Frosty's with a group of friends and takes me aside to thank me.

The next time I help Dad in the garden, I stop in to say hi.