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She tried to finger-comb her sexy snarled hair, but gave up after a few futile tries. “You never actually told me,” she said. “What were you angry about, exactly? Beyond having to listen to some old guy’s story.”
He sighed. He wasn’t angry anymore, but he still wished she’d told him what she was doing. “He said you were still making profits from your toy company. I thought you’d given that up, Penelope.”
“I actually meant to talk to you about that last night, but then you distracted me. You’re so damn good at distracting me,” she grumbled, then made a wry face. “I know I should have relinquished control of it sooner, but it’s hard to let go, you know? It’s my safety net as well as feeling like part of my identity. I just wish there was a way to keep doing the parts of it I love without anyone calling foul play.”
“What parts do you love, exactly?”
“Designing the toys. Knowing I’m bettering some child’s life with what I’m doing.”
He tilted his head, considering the problem. “We could probably find a way for you to do that without having any influence in the company or material gain. That way you could keep doing what you love without anyone minding. Maybe you could finish the treehouse designs, use that as a test run.”
Penelope practically glowed. “Yes! That’s perfect. I was thinking along those same
lines. What if all the proceeds helped build and find housing for needy families and children?” She turned shy, peering at him from under her eyelashes. “Maybe… you could help me finish the treehouse?”
He grinned and pulled her into his lap, kissing her thoroughly. “I’d love nothing more,” he told her.
12
Penelope sat at the bar in a blonde wig and a straightforward outfit so unlike her it was a costume, and all she could think about was how amazing her husband looked. They were at a rugby bar, having realized how desperately they needed a day of normalcy after their big blowout the day before. The strain of ruling was getting to both of them. Sure, they’d made up in a pretty spectacular fashion after the spat, but a break would do them good. Plainclothes security was sprinkled throughout the bar and the King and Queen both wore disguises so they could pretend for a day that they were a normal couple. A few people had given Penelope sideways glances, probably thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but not a single person had looked twice at Simon.
And she could see why. In a t-shirt, jeans, and baseball cap, he looked completely unlike the stiff Strict Simon she was used to seeing. By now she was certain the man had a serious addiction to button-downs. That was a true shame, though, because in street clothes he was revealed for what he really was: a dressed down, muscle-bound hunk.
Their team scored, and Simon jumped off his seat, shouting and pumping his fist in the air. His intensity was new too, but, she thought, not part of his disguise. Over the last hour or so she’d discovered her mild-mannered King apparently turned into the Hulk when sports were involved. The guys next to them had noticed too, giving him glares every time Simon shouted in victory and yelling their own happy whoops when he was cursing at the screen. They must be cheering for the opposite team. And they were getting progressively drunker, judging from the steady stream of beer delivered to their table and the sloppy sneers they sent Pen and Simon’s way. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t even that late in the afternoon yet.
“No! Fuck, that was a completely illegal kick,” Simon shouted, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. It made Pen’s heart happy to see him cheering the Esconian team, even though there was a Danovian match on the screen over the bar.
“Ugh, seriously?” yelled a man at the table next to theirs. “That kick was totally legal!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon shot back, eyes still on the screen.
“Maybe it’s time to get out of here,” Pen murmured to him. This date was supposed to be fun and relaxing, but if they stayed much longer she was afraid they’d get into a bar fight. Security would step in and stop things before they escalated too far, of course, but the last thing she wanted was for their private escape to be plastered all over the news. She’d made the news enough lately, and if she wanted her country to take her seriously, she needed the next time they saw her face on TV to be for something positive, not a brawl.
“Yeah dude, listen to your sweetheart, time for you to fuck off and let some real rugby fans enjoy the game,” chuckled a man from the other table, overhearing.
Simon tore his eyes away from the TV and stared the man down. “Who are you to define a real fan? People can like whatever the hell they like. I don’t have to prove myself to you.”
She cleared her throat, trying to signal him, but he stubbornly refused to look at her.
The other man took a sloppy swig of his beer and stood up. “I say you do,” he argued.
Apparently Simon’s adrenaline was pumping as much as if he’d been playing in the game himself, because he stood up too. “Yeah? Come over here and make me.”
Two more guys stood up. Pen tugged at Simon’s arm, eyes wide, but he refused to budge. “I swear to God,” she hissed, “if you ruin our date I will make you pay. My chances at normalcy are few and far between now, and I need this one to go well.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging her off. Damn it, why did he have to get all intense now? It was sexy as hell, but the worst timing ever. She glanced around the room, picking out the members of castle security. They were watching carefully, but no one wanted to blow the King and Queen’s cover, so they’d only interfere if absolutely necessary. Which, according to Pen’s best guess, would be in about fifteen seconds when Drunk Dude-Bro Number 1 and his two goons reached their table.
“Simon,” she hissed again.
“Listen to your little lady,” mocked Dude-Bro. “Although she’s way too pretty for you. Are you sure you don’t want to get a drink with me, baby doll?”
The people around them stopped pretending to watch rugby and turned their full attention to the swiftly escalating altercation. Pen stepped forward, disgusted, and started to tell him off—but Simon moved in front of her, pushing the other guy back firmly. That was all the encouragement Dude-Bro needed, and he pulled back his arm to throw the first punch.
Simon easily dodged the fist, picked Pen up around the waist, and carried her out of the bar without a backward glance.
Stunned, she didn’t move until they were already out the door. Through the windows she could see the plainclothes security members wading into the dude-bros along with a bartender, de-escalating the would-be melee into sullen cursing. Pen struggled in Simon’s grip. “Put me down,” she ordered irately, but her feet didn’t touch the ground for another block and a half. “Listen here, you,” she said, poking a finger in his chest when he finally obeyed. “First of all, you should enjoy dates with me, not spend them yelling at a TV screen and starting bar fights. Second, don’t get so angry over rugby. It’s a game, for crying out loud. And third—do not carry me places unless I ask you to lift me off the ground.”
His eyes softened and went molten. His gaze slid down her form and back up. “What are the chances of that happening sometime soon? Because I have to admit, I kind of liked it when your feet were off the ground a few nights ago.”
