His Royal Quadruplets, page 6
“Honey, you did the right thing,” Nikki says. “So, if you haven’t been at work these past few days, where have you been?”
I hesitate. My sister is my best friend, but even though we’re so close, it’s hard to put into words what I did.
I clear my throat. It suddenly feels parched. I reach for a glass of water.
My sister can read me like a book. She braces her hands against the countertop and eyes me.
“Phoebe… you’re acting weird. Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
I put down the water glass. “Okay. Here it is… right after I decided to quit, I did something sort of impulsive. I saw this report showing how much Derek and the company earned last month, and I decided to reallocate some of it.”
“Reallocate…” Nikki repeats. The true meaning of my words sinks in, and she gasps. “You mean, you stole it?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I transferred one hundred grand to my bank account. I wanted… I wanted to give it to you. I knew Derek wouldn’t miss it. He might have never even noticed that it was gone. You should see how much money goes in and out of his account every month… it’s absurd.” I roll my eyes.
“But Phoebe… that’s illegal,” Nikki says, still stunned.
“I know,” I say, with a sigh. “I freaked out after it was done. I decided that I had to leave the States. I booked a flight to Europe, so if Derek figured out what I did he wouldn’t be able to track me down. But once I was in Europe, I had second thoughts. I realized that what I did was a little bit crazy. That’s why I came back.”
I motion to my laptop. “That’s why I asked you to get my computer. I just transferred the funds back to him. I don’t have the money anymore. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Nikki rounds the counter and approaches me with her arms outstretched. “Phoebe, you don’t have to be sorry! What you did was super brave. You put yourself at risk, to try to help Andy and me.” She hugs me and rubs my back. “You have always been so good to us—putting Andy first, and yourself last. But that was too much. I don’t want you to go to jail for us!”
I feel myself relax as she hugs me. It’s so good to be honest with her.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice muffled by her long brown hair.
She pulls away. “I know we’re pretty desperate,” she says. She looks over at Andy, who is so wrapped up in his show that he’s completely oblivious to our conversation. “His treatments just keep getting more and more expensive. The co-pay on this surgery option is so high… I would love it if we could actually afford to get that surgery for him. But still, there’s no way I would have felt right about accepting stolen money. I’m glad you returned it.”
I stand and gather up my laptop. “Me, too,” I say. I sigh. “I feel bad about quitting like that. I know how much that income helps…” I look around the small apartment, thinking about all of the times I’ve helped my sister to pay her rent.
She seems to read my mind. “We’ll be okay,” she says. “Maybe I can pick up some more data-entry assignments. I could wake up earlier, or stay up later at night. I’m not sure if it’ll be enough, but…” her voice trails off, and she settles her gaze on me. She gives me a loving look as she says, “Everything is going to work out. Okay?”
I nod and stand. “You’re always so optimistic,” I say. “I could learn from you.” I take a minute to give Andy a hug and kiss goodbye, and then gather up my laptop.
Nikki pulls a Tupperware of food from the fridge. She meets me at the door and hands it to me. “I’m sure your fridge is bare, since you’ve been out of town,” she says. “Take this. Zucchini tomato casserole. Mom’s recipe, with the cheese and breadcrumbs on top, just how you like it. I made it last night.”
I smile. “You are the queen of comfort food,” I say.
She smiles, too. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says. “And I can’t believe you’re leaving without telling me all about your trip! But I know you’re tired. I can tell—you have that spaced-out look going on.”
I laugh. “Gee, thanks,” I say.
“Before you go,” Nikki says, “you’ve got to tell me at least one thing that happened. What was your favorite thing about Europe? You know I’ve always wanted to go.”
“I… my favorite part?” My mind turns to Luca.
A draft is coming in through the open door. I don’t want to keep my sister waiting while I go into too much detail about my trip, but seeing as she asked about the highlights, I can at last mention my encounter with Luca.
“I did meet someone,” I say mysteriously.
“Ooh!” Nikki says, clearly intrigued. “Spill, sister!”
I feel myself blush. “He was… a great guy. We met at a cafe and had a magical night together.”
“Magical!” Nikki repeats with a giggle. She wiggles her eyebrows at me.
I feel my blush deepen. “He was amazing, Nikki. Really. He’s always going to be special to me.”
“Are you going to see him again?” Nikki asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Given the circumstances, that’s just not in the cards.”
I think of the television news, showing Luca with his brothers. He’s a prince. My mind still can’t quite process that fact. I keep it to myself, rather than share with Nikki. Maybe I’ll tell her, one day in the future. But for now, I want to keep that detail about Luca to myself.
“Too bad,” Nikki says. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you blush over a guy.” She reaches up and pinches my cheek.
I laugh and pull away, lifting the Tupperware. “Thanks for the food,” I say.
She smiles and gives me one last hug. “Text me when you get home safe.”
“I will,” I promise.
With that, I head home. Though I’m exhausted, my sister’s questions have stirred memories of Luca in my mind. The memories keep me company during the long bus ride back to my little apartment.
Chapter 8
Phoebe
It’s getting dark out by the time I reach my apartment. I snap on a few lights, wash my hands, and then put the leftovers Nikki gave me into the microwave. While they heat up, I browse the small pile of mail that I picked up from my unit’s mailbox.
It’s mostly bills, and I let them fall into a disorganized pile on the countertop. I rest my head in my hands, feeling the full weight of my unemployment for the first time.
My brief visit to my online bank account informed me that I’m short on funds. I live pretty much paycheck to paycheck, besides a meager savings account that I emptied for plane tickets to and from Europe. Now that I’ve quit my job, I won’t have a paycheck coming in. How I am I supposed to handle my regular monthly expenses?
Not only that, but how am I going to help Nikki with Andy’s expenses?
Ding! The microwave chimes. I manage to lift my weary head from my hands, and I shuffle over to the microwave to retrieve my dinner.
I have a few bottles of water in the fridge, and I grab one before heading to the couch with my meal.
As I eat, I mull my situation over in my mind. There’s only one way to fix the situation I’m in, and that’s to get a new job—in a hurry.
But what am I going to do?
I don’t have a college education. I entered college right out of high school and loved my time there. I was in a business program, and I loved all of it… the books, the interesting professors, highlighting notes at the campus café. But when Nikki gave birth to Andy, I pretty much stopped going to my classes.
I remember how alone and scared Nikki was. Her boyfriend at the time, a guy I never liked to begin with, had walked out on my pregnant sister just weeks before she gave birth. Andy was born prematurely, and he lived his first month and a half in Philadelphia General Hospital’s ICU. I was there with Nikki every day, willing little Andy to keep fighting.
Needless to say, I didn’t do well that semester.
I dropped out before the next semester started. The medical bills were already racking up, and Nikki couldn’t work due to the amount of care that little Andy required.
At age twenty, I decided to join the workforce to help my sister pay her bills. I haven’t looked back since.
The way I see it, we’re lucky Andy is alive. He’s a gift. He’s my angel. He gives me more joy than anything else in this life that I’ve ever known. I’d work my fingers to the bone for that boy.
My thoughts about Andy motivate me to pull out my laptop and start hunting for jobs.
Even though I don’t have a college education, I do have valuable work experience. I’ve been the head administrative assistant for the CEO of Philly’s most successful wealth management firm for the past three years.
Though I know Derek won’t give me a recommendation, I can still list the experience. Plus, I did other secretarial jobs before I worked for Derek. I just need to spruce up that old resume, and then fire it off to companies and professionals who are looking for help. There has to be something out there for me.
I polish off the zucchini-and-tomato casserole as I filter through hundreds of job posts online. I save at least a dozen that look promising. Then I spend the next few hours updating my resume and sending it off. It’s nearly midnight by the time I’m done.
I take a shower and then pull on a soft, worn T-shirt from my pajama drawer. I pull on some sleeping shorts and then walk over to my apartment’s lone window. My block, stretched out below me, looks just as it has for the past few years. I’ve looked down at this stretch of street so many times. The streetlights bath the empty sidewalks in light. An occasional pedestrian walks by, some giving their dogs one last late-night walk.
The street looks the same, but I feel different.
Is it because of my trip to Europe?
Is it because of Luca?
Meeting him was so unexpected. I never in a million years thought that I would meet a European prince, let alone connect with him on such a profound level. I remember the way it felt, seeing Luca for the first time. It was like I already knew him.
Is that what love feels like?
I watch a couple walk by, hand in hand on the street below.
The woman is looking up at the man. She laughs at something he says. He puts his arm around her and pulls her closer. They walk in sync, hip to hip, perfectly in step.
I turn away from the window.
No, what I felt with Luca couldn’t have been love. It was too fast to be real love, wasn’t it?
I only spent one night with him, for goodness’ sake—less than twenty-four hours. How could I possibly know him well enough to love him?
I walk to my coffee table and pick up my tomato-stained bowl. I move to the kitchen, place it into the sink with a soft clank, and then lock my door. I head for my bedroom and am almost there when I stop.
I’m exhausted, but there’s one more thing I want to do this evening.
Curiosity draws me to my laptop. I pick it up and perch on my couch as I open it up and click into a web browser. I type Luca’s first name into the search bar. Once I type “Luca, Prince of Westegaard” in as my search criteria, his last name pops up.
“Von Kartmeier,” I whisper aloud, savoring the feel of the words on my tongue.
I see several news articles, but I click over to “images” without reading them. I want to see him again.
I browse the images slowly, opening one after another. The first dozen are modern-day pictures. He looks just as I remember him—extremely fit and handsome, with straight, light brown hair that always seems a bit roughed up, as though he doesn’t own a comb. His eyes, in many photos, are the same smoky-blue color that I remember, though in some photos he wears aviator glasses.
He seems to wear casual clothing when he’s out on his own. I see many pictures of him in faded jeans, T-shirts, and casual jackets. However, there are also some photos of him in formal wear: suits, ties, blazers, and an occasional tux.
Boy, does he look hot in a tux!
Just past the present-day pictures, in about the second or third row of images, I start to see photos that seem to date from years back. Luca looks younger, and a little rougher around the edges. Instead of army-green and khaki jackets, he’s wearing black leather jackets with sharp, silver zippers. Instead of faded jeans, his jeans have holes at the knees.
His face is different, too. He doesn’t look calm, sincere, and kind. He looks edgier—slightly angry, even.
I peer at one photograph, of Luca getting out of the passenger side of a big black SUV. He looks intoxicated. He’s trying to cover up his face, but the person behind the camera clearly took the shot before Luca could hide. In the photo, Luca looks about eighteen.
Intrigued, I click on the image and an article from a gossip magazine opens.
“Bad Boy Prince Luca is at it again! This time, Luca partied all night at Westegaard’s exclusive Rave House, after which he had to be carried out by his friends. This seems to be a week of partying for Luca von Kartmeier. Why can’t he be more like his triplet brothers?”
I click back to the images and start reading more of the captions. I see more of the same; there are dozens of mentions of the “Bad Boy Prince.” Several include details of various run-ins with the law. Luca seemed to be fond of getting in trouble, in his teens. In one instance, he was caught at a pool party. The girl who hosted the party—and served alcohol to all of her teenage friends—was underage. In the photo of Luca fleeing the party that’s being busted up by the cops, Luca is flipping off the paparazzi.
In another shot, he’s pulled off to the side of the road, in a bright red Camaro, being issued a speeding ticket.
After seeing plenty of evidence that Luca was a wild child, I navigate back to a more recent news story about Luca. In the article, the reporter mentions Luca’s outreach centers across Westegaard. I smile softly as I read the paragraph about how passionate Luca is about helping the troubled youth in his country.
I finish the article and then close my computer.
My curiosity is satisfied.
Luca may have been hiding parts of his identity from me. He never mentioned that he was a prince. But at the same time, he was being honest with me about the mistakes from his past. It seems he did go through a dark period in his youth. He came out of it a better person. He said so himself, and now what I’m reading confirms it. He was being honest with me.
Maybe he was being more open with me than I’m giving him credit for.
I get up and walk dreamily into my bedroom. I slip under the covers and let my head rest against my pillow. It feels so good to be back in my own bed. The hours of traveling, plus my job hunt, have drained me.
I close my eyes and feel sleep tugging at the edges of my consciousness. Before it can pull me under, I let myself replay my memories of Luca. My time with him was so short. I’m happy to be home, in my own bed, but part of me wishes I was back in Westegaard. He was opening up to me—now I’m sure of that. But our time together was too short. There’s so much about him that I don’t know.
I wish I’d had the chance to get to know him better.
Chapter 9
Phoebe
Six Weeks Later
The phone rings just as I sit down at my desk, and I answer on the second ring, before I’ve even sat down.
“Marla Griffin’s office, this is Phoebe. How may I help you?”
I let my purse slip off of my shoulder, set my travel mug of coffee down, and then slide into my chair.
The man on the other end of the line is one of Marla’s clients. I take down a message, hang up the phone, and then begin opening up my various accounts on the desktop computer.
After opening up email and Marla’s calendar, I click into a web browser and type in Luca’s name. It’s been six weeks since I arrived back from Europe, and I still can’t get my mind off of him. It’s become a habit to check a few of the Westegaard press sites, to read current news about the royal family.
To be honest, I just love seeing his name in print. I also cherish the photographs that get posted.
At the same time, the sight of him makes my heart ache slightly, though I try to ignore the feeling. I have no right to be heartbroken over Luca von Kartmeier. I knew him for just a night. I can’t be lovesick.
Just as I’m about to browse through an article that looks like it might contain some tidbit of news about Luca, Marla Griffin, my new boss, emerges from her office.
She smiles brightly at me. “Morning, Phoebe! You’re here early!”
Marla is in her early forties and has quickly become a role model for me. She’s beautiful, intelligent, and above all else, kind. Though she’s a successful lawyer, she always acts with humility, and even when she’s busy, she takes the time to ask me how I’m doing. I feel so fortunate that she picked me, out of all of the job applicants she had. I don’t think it hurt that she’d had a few run-ins with Derek Whyte in the past. When I brought up his name in my interview, she merely frowned.
“I don’t blame you for leaving that job,” she said, her voice filled with understanding. “That guy has an ego the size of a football field.”
My lack of a positive recommendation wasn’t a problem. She hired me on the spot, and I’ve been working here ever since.
I smile back at Marla. “I wanted to finish typing up your notes, for the Sheer Case,” I say.
“Ah, that’s right.” She shakes her head. “I can’t wait until it’s all wrapped up. I’d love to be spending more time prepping for Jace Watkins’ trial. But you know how it goes…”
I nod. Marla takes on several high-powered clients each quarter, like Casey Sheer, the son of Philadelphia’s mayor, who was arrested for drunk driving. The high profile clients pay her salary and mine, yet she still has plenty of time to take on pro bono clients who are economically disadvantaged.
I lift the slip of paper that contains the phone message that I took down, just minutes before. I stand and hand it to Marla.
