The Prince's Cinderella Bride. Amalie Berlin

turned and looked at her, left the car door standing open and met her halfway. “What else?”

      “You forgot this.” She pushed the envelope into his hand—the lights in front of the building harsh against the falling darkness.

      No contacts. No freaking real clothes. Hair back. Proof yet again that fate refused to do her any favors.

      Except one thing: no one was really about to notice her eye color, or how closely she resembled the former Princess. No one outside his employ, at least. Five cars parked in front of and behind his. How much security did he need to come to a rehabilitation center for soldiers?

      “It’s literature on the procedure. How it’s done. Case studies. So you can prepare your talk.”

      With Nettle. It was on the tip of her tongue to call the soldier by his last name again—it was a distance tactic she’d been relying on, and had noticed it bothered Quinn—but she couldn’t take a single drop more drama and hostility between them. Not until she had time to think. Until she had time to prepare for the possibility that she could’ve just irresponsibly conceived with her ex.

      Once his hand closed on the envelope, she spun and headed back inside. Shower. Shower first stop. Then get the hell out of there.

      * * *

      When Quinn had agreed to come home, he’d thought it would go a little differently.

      Summer had arrived, so naturally he’d assumed there would be loads of parties to attend where he would meet women. Drinks. Philip would fill his schedule with meetings, dinners, and appearances, telling him what to do, when, where, and what was expected of him. All that.

      All he had so far was news of his grandfather’s terminal illness, a friend who’d tried to kill himself, an ex-wife he couldn’t keep his mind or his damned hands off, and now a tricky emotional situation he was utterly unequipped to deal with.

      And a distinct lack of drinks.

      Slamming the door to his penthouse, Quinn tossed the envelope Anais has shoved at him onto the counter, and made a beeline for the fridge.

      He grabbed a tumbler, threw some ice into it, and turned toward the liquor cabinet, only to stop. That route out of his kitchen had been blocked by large lidded plastic crates. Stuff he was supposed to deal with too. Seven years’ worth of junk that people had just been sticking into crates for him...and he’d been ignoring for every leave.

      But it was better duty than that penis conversation.

      He backtracked and went the other way around the kitchen to reach for the rum, which would at least get the taste of her out of his mouth.

      Instead of kissing her, he should’ve asked how to start this conversation.

      He drained the glass entirely, felt his stomach lurch, and put the glass back down.

      The man knew what parts were malfunctioning. It was his body. They’d told him that he could probably get it fixed. He knew these things already.

      How would Philip handle this task?

      Something heartfelt. Make an appeal to his better nature—whatever that would amount to.

      He poured himself another glass and took another pull on the rum, and put the tumbler down.

      Anais had never approved of drinking, for any reason. No wine with dinner. No beer after an arduous exam. Strip poker was fine, but not with shots. Not for her. And when she’d gone he’d thrown himself into spirits whenever the opportunity presented itself. Boot camp and deployment had probably saved him from becoming an alcoholic that first year.

      He should watch the drinking since she’d strayed back into his life.

      He turned his attention to the first crate, lifting the lid and riffling through its contents.

      At the bottom of the stack of papers requiring his attention was a large yellow envelope, crammed with documents.

      He flipped it over and read: Divorce of Prince Quinton Corlow and Princess Anais Corlow née Hayes.

      Right. Bloody timely. He flung the packet over his shoulder in the vague direction of the sofa, and went back to the crate.

      Gifts.

      Books.

      Things to be looked at later, when he’d not drunk enough rum to make his eyes go blurry.

      A photo album filled with pictures taken during their whirlwind marriage.

      Half a crate’s worth of quasi-attentive sorting painful garbage was enough for one night. There really wasn’t enough rum in his place for further torture.

      Flopping one leg over the edge of the crate, he pushed the remaining material to the far end to make room for what he had to put back in.

      A white-handled gift bag tumbled out of the moving pile of stuff, hit the bottom of the crate and spilled a small unopened package wrapped in pale blue paper and a silver bow onto the floor.

      His heart stopped the moment he saw it.

      It must’ve been the first crate the palace staff started packing for him. Copies of divorce papers. The gift he’d bought Anais for their first anniversary—the one they hadn’t made it to—an engagement ring she’d never gotten before the wedding because they’d impetuously eloped.

      He swallowed, then kicked the small box back to the side. Stuffed into a crate by someone who didn’t know its value. He put it right back there, suddenly too bitter to care about the small fortune buried under papers by his boot.

      Enough of that.

      He began dumping the bits he’d sorted out right back into the crate. Too much. All too much to deal with tonight, when all he really wanted was a shower and some sleep.