Striking (Red Lips & White Lies Book 7)

We’re not in Kroydon Hills anymore, Toto.

—Bellamy’s Secret Thoughts

I had every intention of taking a quick shower, but six body sprays, two rain heads, and a shower filled with luxurious vanilla mint shampoo, conditioner, and body wash later, and I decided there was no real need for quick. I traveled to another country for him. I’m pretty sure Rhys won’t be mad if I take a little extra time for me. And maybe for him too.

Time that included shaving, buffing, and moisturizing every inch of my body.

Just in case.

In case of what exactly, I’m not sure.

Okay, that’s a lie. Because whenever I think of our almost kiss . . . any one of them, goosebumps break out over my skin, followed immediately by a sinking feeling and an echoing voice asking me what the hell I think I’m doing here, in Mornea, with a prince.

I am so screwed.

Once my hair is dry, I walk out of the bathroom, with a fluffy, white towel wrapped around me—oh shit—and scream.

Two women sit on my bed with matching amused looks on their faces while they wait patiently for me to calm down, like this is a common occurrence. What the actual fuck? “Who are you?”

Talk about déjà vu. Good thing there aren’t any textbooks close by.

“You must be Rhys’s American.” The tiny blonde with the accent I’m becoming all too familiar with cocks her head to the side appraisingly. “You’re even prettier than the pictures I found online.”

“Pictures?” Oh my God. What?

“Relax. Joss fancies herself a bit of a cyberstalker.” The brunette pulls the blonde’s hair until the blonde looks at her. I guess the blonde is Joss. “You’re freaking the poor girl out, baby.”

At least Joss looks genuinely upset by that. “Sorry. I’m just so excited that Rhys is actually interested enough in someone to bring them around us. I guess I got a little carried away.” She pops up off the bed, and umm . . . I think my towel might cover more than her dress. Not that she doesn’t have the body to pull it off because she absolutely does. She’s gorgeous in a Tinker Bell kind of way—tiny and curvy with a whole lot of attitude. “Let’s do this again. I’m Josselyn, Rhys’s oldest friend in the world, and this gorgeous goddess is Clara.”

“Her girlfriend,” Clara adds with a wink.

“I hate that word,” Joss pouts and narrows her eyes as she glares at Clara. They look like two badass Barbies. Clara, all long legs and dark hair in skintight leather pants and a cropped top, and the other in a tiny green strapless dress that accentuates her hourglass figure and reminds me of an edgy fairy.

Clara laces her fingers with Joss’s, and my head spins as I wonder if they even realize they’re standing in my room while I’m practically naked. “What word would you rather I used?”

“Umm . . . while this is all fascinating, do you think you could give me a few minutes to get some clothes on, please?” I cross my arms over my chest protectively, gripping the top of my towel tightly. I really don’t need to flash these women.

“That’s what we’re here for, silly,” Joss announces like it all makes total sense. “Rhys had a wardrobe delivered for you earlier today. I picked every piece out myself. God, I love shopping with other people’s black cards. Anyhoo . . . we’re going to help you get ready.” She sashays across the room and opens the closet door with a flourish. The one I haven’t even looked in yet, because seriously, in what world do I fly to another country with a freaking prince and have a new wardrobe delivered to a bedroom fit for a princess?

Is this some kind of weird fever dream I’m going to wake up from any minute?

“Just give me a minute,” she calls out as she steps into the closet.

Clara drops back onto the bed and kicks her legs. “Just give her carte blanche, trust me. She’s a stylist. She’ll have you looking like you belong on the prince’s arm in no time.”

Ouch.

I’m not sure Clara even realizes what she said, but I certainly do.

As if I’m not already keenly aware I don’t belong here and definitely don’t belong with Rhys. Maybe coming here was a bad idea . . .

It barely takes Joss a minute before she struts back out with a black, sleeveless, high-neck silk blouse, and a gray, black, and white plaid tweed skirt thrown over her arm. A pair of black Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes dangle from her fingers, and a black and white, tweed Chanel bag is clutched in her other hand.

I may not be a fashion expert, but shoes and bags, I know. And those suckers cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

“Put these on, then we’ll work on your face.” Joss shoves everything at me, and I drop my hands to catch them.

Unfortunately for me, my towel also falls to the ground at the same time.

“Well hell, brother. If I’d known she looked like that, she’d be my American too.”

I whirl around at the unfamiliar voice, mortified to see Rhys standing next to two other men, looking furious, right before he punches the one smiling.

Rhys

“I still can’t believe you punched me,” Atticus bitches like a little girl as we walk into the Seven Swords through their cellar door.

Warm air tinged with stale beer greets us as we step inside, and I breathe it in, relaxing for the first time in a few hours. This place represents a lot of things for a lot of people. For me, it’s freedom, even if just for a few hours.

Dark wood and low ceilings dwarf the small space. So low in some spots, I have to duck under one of the beams, and I fucking love it.

There’s a well-worn feel to this place. The kind a new bar can’t recreate.

It’s evolved naturally. You can feel the history preserved within these walls.

I had my first beer here, and rumors that the king still stops by every now and then still linger around court. Not that the owner would ever confirm that. Joss and Silas’s older brother, Remington, controls everything that happens here.

“A few drinks should dull the pain. Now stop moaning,” Clara croons while the rest of us laugh.

“Maybe don’t comment on any naked women unless they belong to you,” Joss adds as she steps up to the bar, looking for her brother. “Right, Bellamy?”

“I’d say that’s a fair assumption.” My little bee stares right at me as she smiles with a challenge dancing in her warm eyes. “Not that I belong to anyone.”

Fuck, I wish that weren’t true.

This woman can’t belong to me.

Even if the idea of just that is incredibly appealing.

“Remi . . .” Joss calls out to her brother, who ignores her while he talks to someone a few feet away.

“Chill for five minutes,” her brother Silas snaps as he helps himself behind the bar and grabs a bottle of whiskey and six shot glasses. “I’ve got it.”

These people right here—Atticus, Silas, Joss, Clara, Remi—These are my people.

My inner circle.noveldrama

The few people who know me.

Not the next in line for the throne. Just me.

“Is he allowed to do that?” Bellamy whispers as she steadies herself against my arm and climbs up on the stool.

Silas tosses Atticus a makeshift icepack, and my idiot of a brother presses it to his jaw dramatically before focusing on Bellamy. “Joss and Silas’s older brother owns this place. It’s been in their family for so long, no one even knows exactly how old it is. Definitely a few hundred years.”

“At least,” Silas adds and passes out pints of beer. “It’s kind of like a family heirloom passed down to the second son of the Duke of Armstrong. Sort of a consolation prize. You don’t get the dukedom, but you get the Seven Swords. Funny thing is, I’m fairly certain most of us would rather have this place than that title anyway.”

Joss pops the bottle of whiskey and pours a round of shots. “To new friends and old bars.”

We all lift our glasses in the air. “New friends and old bars.”

I slam my empty glass upside down on the bar and lean into Bellamy, inhaling her. Wishing things could be different. “Are you having fun, love?”

She licks her pouty lips. “Well, let’s see. I’m in a new country, with a group of people I don’t really know but who’ve all seen me naked. And I really should be home, studying for the biggest test of my life. What else could possibly go wrong?”