Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I cracked my jaw to the side. “My brother has gotten very good at politely insulting me.”
“You are up next, sir. Here’s your passport. Please answer their questions as we practiced,” he directed, stretching out his hand to give me my unofficial passport. My name here was Edgar DeLacour.
Handing him my glasses and hat before taking it, I turned back just as the guard called me forward.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” The man behind the glass asked, bored, as I slid my passport through his little reader.
“A woman,” I answered.
His eyebrow raised, and he looked at me. “A woman?”
“It’s a very long story, sir. But what can I do? I’m a romantic.”
“How long do you intend to stay?” The officer shook his head and looked down at my passport again.
“Until the woman agrees to marry me, or my family disowns me. Either way, it shouldn’t be longer than two months. I’ll be home by Christmas.”
He stared at me for a moment before his next question. “Are you bringing anything into the United States?”
“Just my achy-breaky heart.”
The woman in the booth next to him snorted.
The officer frowned. “Does that fit in a suitcase, sir?”
“With all my clothes? I doubt it.”
He looked me up and down, annoyed, before stamping the first page of my passport. “I pity whoever this woman is.”
“Why? I’m a very good catch,” I replied, taking back the passport.
“Good luck.” The other woman smiled at me.
“Thank you. I’ll need it.”
“Keep moving, Casanova,” the officer said, waving me through.
Nodding, I turned back to see Iskandar. Anyone else would think he was emotionless, but I knew him well enough to see the slight annoyance in his eyes.
“Friend of yours?” I heard the officer ask.
“My boss’s son,” Iskandar replied.
“Tough job.”
Wow, so everyone was out to insult me today. I walked ahead, hoping to enjoy my few minutes of relative privacy. However, the moment I reached the baggage claim, I saw a familiar freckle-faced, blond-haired palace guard already carrying my luggage. He stepped up to me and nodded. “Welcome, Your Highness.”
“You are not to call him that in public, Wolfgang. Sir or Mr. DeLacour is fine,” Iskandar stated, already behind me, giving me back my hat and sunglasses. “Is everything prepared?”
They spoke amongst themselves as if I weren’t here. I felt a similar sense of entrapment come over me. It was like being a puppet, with no control of where you go, how you got there, or what was to happen to you while you were there. You just went. You just did as you were told, and part of me truly wanted to say screw it. Run for the doors. Or at the very least do something...freeing. But as soon as the thought came to mind, the memory of my father yesterday took over.
“Sir?”
“Yes?” I focused back on them.
“We are ready to depart if you are,” Iskandar said, stepping to the side for me to walk past.
“I am. But where are we going? I believe my brother might have told you more than he has told me,” I said as we all headed out. “What time is it?”
“It is six in the evening, Pacific Daylight Time. Ersovia is nine hours ahead of Seattle. Would you like me to adjust your watch?” Iskandar asked, outstretching his hand for it.
“I can manage on my own for that, at least,” I replied, taking off the watch as we exited the terminal only to blasted by frigid air. It went through me instantly. Luckily, or by precision planning on the part of my brother and Iskandar, a large, black Range Rover was already parked and waiting for us. Wolfgang held open the door for me, and the first thing I did was look for the heating vent.
“Hello.”
My head whipped toward the voice of a brown-skinned woman—dressed in pink with light-colored eyes and short, blonde hair—staring at me.
“Jesus Christ!” I panicked, shifting away.
She laughed at me. “Sorry, did I frighten you?”
“Who are you?”
She stared at me with furrowed eyebrows, and I realized I was still speaking in Ersovian and not English. “Sorry, you are going to have to repeat that.”
“I think you are in the wrong car,” I said this time.
“Aww, that accent is to die for,” she replied instead.
“Sir,” Iskandar spoke as he entered the passenger side of the car, and a driver I didn’t recognize took the steering wheel. “This is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith. Ms. Odette Wyntor’s mother.”
I glanced at the very young-looking woman beside me. How in the world did she have a daughter who was older than me? It was only by staring at her that I noticed the similar features from what I had seen in the photograph of her daughter.
“Thank you for meeting us, ma’am,” Iskandar said to her.
My mind took a moment—luckily, it was just a moment—to register. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am—”