To Kiss a King - NIcole Burnham
Chapter 1
“Good morning, Your Highness. How was your time with Greta this morning?”
King Eduardo diTalora cast a sidelong glance at his longtime personal assistant, Luisa Borelli, as she fell into step beside him. Polished as always, she wore a soft brown skirt and tailored jacket with low heels. Her black hair was twisted into a flawless knot at her nape and tiny gold studs dotted her earlobes.
Luisa was very good at her job. One would never know by looking at her that she was also the devil incarnate.
Eduardo shook his head, then looked forward, his smile encompassing various staff members who lingered in the hallway, waiting for him to arrive at his office. To Luisa, he said, “It wouldn’t be a proper Monday morning if Greta hadn’t spent the weekend plotting new ways to torture me.”
“Precisely which part of the session did you find torturous, Your Highness? The box jumps?”
“No, because she decided to change the box jump portion of the workout to stepping onto the box—”
“Oh, good—”
“While holding a fifteen-kilo medicine ball.”
“Oh.”
“Then she added a series of planks. Apparently, running is insufficient for building core strength. I attempted to convince her otherwise, but she refused to listen to my wisdom.”
“She is stubborn that way. But I daresay that when it comes to matters of health and fitness, Greta is usually right.”
“As is the cousin who referred her and wouldn’t stop nagging me until I hired her.” He raised a brow at Luisa, but buffered it with a smile that she returned.
Eduardo wished one of the guards a good morning as he and Luisa rounded the final corner to his office, then Luisa said, “It’s my duty to ensure you serve the country to the best of your ability. Maintaining a high level of fitness is essential to that task. If it makes you feel better, tomorrow I’ve scheduled a run at six a.m. The weather should be ideal. Mild and clear with low wind.”
Most people would consider a sunrise run torture, but to Eduardo, a crack of dawn jaunt along San Rimini’s waterfront or through the hills above the palace sounded like heaven. He could breathe fresh air, listen to music, and allow his mind to wander. For that single hour, he was responsible to no one but himself, and there was no Greta at his side to insist he could work harder or crank out one more rep.
If he could crank out one more rep, he was the type to do so without being told.
Eduardo greeted a courier who waited near Luisa’s desk, then glanced at his assistant. “I’d be obliged if there are waffles in the dining room following that run tomorrow. Samuel had oatmeal today. Good oatmeal, but still oatmeal.”
“I’ll see what I can do, though Samuel mentioned that he’s planning on baked quinoa with berries.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Perhaps you could pretend it’s a waffle?”
“I shall pretend I didn’t hear that, either. I’ll pretend you said, ‘Yes, Your Highness, I will request waffles and ensure Samuel provides plenty of syrup. Perhaps a few of those berries on the side.’”
Luisa raised a finger to indicate that the courier should wait for her, then she and Eduardo entered his formal office. Eduardo’s chief political advisor, Sergio Ribisi, sat on a sofa beside Eduardo’s press secretary, a burly young man named Zeno Amendola who looked better suited to commanding a rugby team than a press room. The two were hunched over a tablet, reviewing what Eduardo assumed were notes for their morning meeting. Across from them sat Margaret Halaby, his Director of Charities and Patronages. Margaret had her hands in her lap, a pen threaded between her fingers. A notepad lay on the sofa beside her, its top page filled with indiscernible scribbles, bullet points, and arrows. She stared past the two men, lost in thought.
Luisa made a small noise to catch their attention. All three rose in unison and wished Eduardo a good morning. He waved them back into their seats, then asked Luisa to give him a five-minute warning before he needed to leave for his first event of the day.
“How was your session with Greta?” Zeno asked once Luisa closed the door behind her.
He nailed Zeno with a glare. The man had the audacity to grin in return.
“I saw her carrying a medicine ball through the parking garage,” Margaret said. She turned to Zeno. “Ever do squats with one of those? Or throw them at a target? It makes for a fantastic workout.”
“Medicine balls are