rooms were old, poky and unadorned. In other words, perfect. There was a bed with a mattress several decades older than she was, but it was a double and the palace laundry handled washing the sheets, so she couldn’t complain. Then there was this armchair and the coffee table she propped her feet on. All she needed.
Other staff plugged in bar fridges or brought in their own furniture to make their room feel more like home, but Frankie had never owned furniture or a home, and she had no issues grabbing her meals from the dining hall. If she was safe, she was happy.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. Her body sagged into the cushioning.
Her mind remained adamantly awake.
If she didn’t get proper rest soon, her team would strong-arm her into the emergency department with exhaustion. She’d caught the concern on Hanna’s face this week, the grim assessment in Peter’s glances. Frankie wasn’t naïve enough to believe the pair had kept her involvement with Kris a secret, but at least the rest of her team were smart enough to act like they were none the wiser.
She groaned, clamping a hand around the back of her neck and squeezing. Her tension was stockpiling. Kris hadn’t left the palace grounds. Which was good. She’d had time to work, but it also meant she spent every second of the day poised, waiting for word that he was leaving, knowing she’d have to make a run for it so as not to delay a member of the royal family.
She’d then spent each night fixating on the fact that he was avoiding her.
The later the hour, the more foolish her thoughts became.
He hated her.
He never wanted to see her again.
He was going to fire her.
He was going to make her his mistress.
He was in hate-love with her and the next time he saw her, he wouldn’t ask to kiss her, he’d just do it, shoving her against the nearest wall and—
Foolish or not, she’d stick by those thoughts right to the end.
Dropping her hand to her lap, she remembered the times it had been just the two of them—when she’d been too preoccupied by what separated them to soak up the simple pleasure of being alone with him. Walking the ranch with Kris in open-skied isolation, no brothers or neighbors for miles. Half-day road trips for supplies in his farm truck, filling the time by playing conversation games or songs they thought each other would like. Camping in the craggy mountains the few times he’d convinced her to do something so reckless—she’d come dangerously close to surrendering to their attraction on those rough, lonely slopes.
Now, she imagined she had given in.
Met his too-warm gaze over the campfire and held it. Allowed their stare to slide from a question into an unwavering answer. Made room for him as he slowly stood and came over to her, warmth gone from his face, replaced by a careful seriousness. Leaned into his touch as he reached for her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip a moment before his mouth—
Frankie started. Tangled in the ludicrous daydream, she was sure she’d imagined the knock on her door. It was beyond late. No one would come knocking.
Then she imagined it again.
“No,” she called out, just in case.
“It’s Hanna. I, uh—can we talk?”
Grumbling, but with no reason not to let her in, Frankie pushed herself out of the armchair. Ruffling her damp hair, she reached the door and dragged it open with a weary, “Yeah?”
Hanna stood in the middle of the doorway, still dressed up from her night out. Make up bold, blond hair loose. Her expression was peculiar. Uncomfortably apologetic.
“Realized you have the wrong room, Johansson?” Frankie asked dryly.
“No, ma’am,” she answered, standing tall.
Frankie pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose. “Do you want to come in?”
“No, ma’am. I’m really sorry about this.” Hanna’s gaze swung to her left as she spoke. “I understand that it’s highly unprofessional. I would never, you know, except he came in while I was chatting with Gul and overheard—”
Hanna was cut off by a large male hand that reached out from the left of the corridor and cupped over her mouth.
Frankie’s pulse lurched.
She knew that hand—the coarse-haired, muscled arm attached to it.
Hanna spoke again, but the hand muffled her words. It could have been, “I’m sorry.” But could just as easily have been, “Don’t kill me.”
Slowly, Frankie leaned her head out the door, looking to the left. Even expecting