The Princess and The Jester - A.D. McCammon Page 0,1

The ones that are cute and sweet but painfully dumb. I can’t imagine what the two of us would even talk about. We have absolutely nothing in common.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t considered it, though. During those really hard times when I was sick of the constant heartache.

“Who cares if he’s not a great conversationalist? That’s what your girlfriends are for. His mouth can serve you in other ways.” Mia laughs as I cringe, and the driver lets out a choking cough.

My face heats, eyes flickering to the driver. He’s looking at his phone, trying desperately to pretend he’s not hearing anything we’re saying.

“Okay, ew,” I hiss in a whisper. “I don’t want his mouth anywhere near me.”

“Fine.” She shrugs, rolling her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be Cory, but you can’t hold on to your V-card forever.”

Guilt knots in my stomach. Mia was oddly proud sophomore year when she was the first of our friends to lose her virginity. She had no clue I’d lost mine the year prior to the boy I loved. If I admitted to having sex, she would’ve wanted to know with whom. And telling her would’ve led to more questions I’m not willing to answer. As bad as it makes me feel keeping something so big from my best friend, it’s just easier to let her go on believing the lie of omission.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and lean over to give her quick a hug. “On that note, I’m going inside.”

She chuckles. “Bye. Call me tomorrow.”

Mia moved to Westbrook at the beginning of our sophomore year and automatically claimed me as her bestie. Like she knew how badly I needed a new buddy at that time. I’d just lost my best friend of nearly ten years, and my heart was broken. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without her the last two years.

Exhaustion sets in as I make my way from the car and into the house. It’s dark and quiet inside. Most parents would worry about their child attending a concert in downtown Nashville, but it’s not all that shocking that mine aren’t here to greet me or make sure I made it home safely.

My mother runs her own ballet school, also in Nashville. That’s her real baby, her pride and joy. And my father is an entertainment lawyer. He literally never stops working.

I pull my shoes off at the bottom of the stairs before beginning the climb, my steps sluggish by the time I reach the top, the promise of a hot shower and the comfort of my bed propelling me forward.

I’m already peeling the dirty clothes from my body as I enter my bedroom, making a beeline for the shower. The delightfully scolding water melts away all the grime from being in a crowd of people, and twenty minutes later, my tired body is wrapped up in a towel.

There isn’t enough energy left in me to even bother with putting on pajamas, so I head straight for bed. A shadowy figure on the top of my mattress catches my eye as I enter my room, and my stomach does a free fall. I freeze, but the fear strangling my throat keeps my scream from escaping.

The shape moves and there’s a click before my lamp lights the room. My lashes flutter as my eyes adjust, my panic increasing once I finally get a good look at what or who is on my bed.

“Welcome home, Princess.”

He looks very comfortable, all sprawled out with his arms folded behind his head and feet crossed. The buttons on his shirt are undone, putting his bare chest and abdomen on display. His sandy blond hair is disheveled in a way that makes him look insanely gorgeous. The jeans he’s wearing rest low on his hips, the top band of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out.

The image is much like the ones I’ve imagined countless times before, and for a brief moment I wonder if this is all a dream. Until I notice the sparkle of mischief in his emerald eyes as his lips curl into a villainous grin.

This is no dream, it’s a nightmare.

Oh god. He knows it was me.

Icy panic floods my veins, my mind scrambling for a plausible excuse or explanation for what I’ve done. I merely wanted to talk to him. Not the exchange of blows that seems to be our normal form of communication these days. A real conversation. Yes, it was deceptive. But it’s not like I intentionally