Something in the Heir (It's Reigning Men, #1) Read Free

wouldn’t do...”
    “That leaves my options wide, wide open,” she said, holding her thumb and pointer finger up in an “L” shape to her chest. “And just to prove you’re not a complete loser, why don’t you grab that cute prince to take home with you?” Always quick with the joke, that one.
    Emma fake-glared at her. “Thanks, but there’s no prince in my future. Though he was pretty easy on the eyes, I will give you that. I’m surprised you didn’t already commandeer that buddy of his.”
    “Yeah, well, once I got finished wiping the drool from my chin, unfortunately he’d disappeared.”
    “No kidding. I think your river of saliva is coursing its way toward the White House as we speak. Just as the sun sets in the west, I know I can count on you to not miss out on the eye candy, whether he’s a mere bartender or a royal footman,” Emma said, pausing to contemplate the thought. “Is that what you call them? Footmen? Do they do something with their feet, or have a creepy foot fetish? Sort of weird name, isn’t it?”
    “Probably more like henchman is my guess. Back in the day his footman would’ve cut off the enemy’s head. Am I right? Ah, well, clearly we weren’t born into that world, so I’m not gonna bother even fantasizing about it, not to mention decipher the terminology.”
    “Yep. Besides, imagine how high maintenance a prince would be. Sheesh!” Emma waved her hand as if dismissing a nuisance gnat. “Spot of tea, Mummy? Oh, royal knave, fetch me my slippers! Pip, pip and all that rot,” she said with an exaggerated accent.
    The two women practically fell over laughing, until Bartender Ben cleared his throat at an elevated volume, trying to rein in his audience.
    “Right, then. Anyhoo...best I can tell, I’ve got no shoots scheduled for the next week, so looks like you can just hole up in the man-cave with Hottie and see where things lead you.”
    Caroline’s eyes grew wide and she mouthed “Shut up!” to Emma, then turned back to her hunk du jour.
    Emma took a final quick glance around the room as she packed up her camera bag. After working more hours than she cared to count, teetering precariously atop a torturous pair of black stilettos, she wanted nothing more than to peel off her floor-length, black satin sheath, lose the strapless bra that was cutting off the circulation too close to her vital organs for comfort, and tug on her favorite oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants. Then she’d finally pour that very full glass of Chianti she’d been craving, and return to her natural slothdom.
    The party was still going strong, but since she was only contracted to do grip-and-grins of Prince Charming, there wasn’t truly a reason to stick around much longer. Hell, she’d likely get pressed into service with the wait staff if she wasn’t careful. Not like she had anyone she could hang around and chat with anyhow, with Caroline being preoccupied. That was the thing about her work world: being a worker bee at the ball wasn’t really much fun, even if the top-tier champagne was flowing freely and the passed canapès probably bore a per-piece price tag that exceeded her daily meal budget.
    For Emma, being an outsider at an insider’s party was losing its luster; she was getting old enough to appreciate that it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. Sure, she got to share proximity with some of the world’s elites, but since she wasn’t a member of that rarified universe, it didn’t rank a whole lot higher than being the one polishing the silver at the palace. It wasn’t as if she could chat up the guests, comparing notes on their winter holidays in Aspen, shared vacations on Necker Island with Sir Richard Branson, or summering on Nantucket. The closest Emma got to summering (and when did that become a verb?) — not counting Caroline’s annual skee-ball smackdown on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland, which didn’t quite elevate vacationing to the next level — was escaping