Passenger Princess: A Grumpy Sunshine Bodyguard Pageant Queen Romance (Evergreen Park Book 1)

I fucked up by waiting too long to answer.

I also lied when I said I needed to go to the bathroom, which is why I’m pacing outside the entrance to the ballroom, taking deep breaths to try to calm myself down.

I shouldn’t have done it, taking her hand and pulling her to the dance floor, not when she’s been pushing my buttons since I got back from my run, not when she’s wearing that dress that has me fighting a hard-on all night. But I did, some ghost taking over my body when she offered to dance with Beckett.

That same phantom that made me lift her, press her against a wall, and kiss her just days ago. The one that made me buy her ice cream when I should have been doing everything in my power to convince her I wasn’t into her. The one that had me buying cat toys and iced coffees before dawn the exact way she likes it, and books for her to read in the car.

I’m losing my fucking mind.

She’s right. I can’t keep dragging her along, sending mixed messages incessantly when hers are crystal clear.

But the question is, do I have the guts to take her as mine? And if I don’t, do I have the stomach to stand back while she moves on with someone else?

The answer is clear, and it has my feet moving with a new wind back toward the party.

Ava is mine, and it’s time she finds out exactly what that means to me. That’s when I hear a familiar woman’s voice speaking.

“You need to calm down,” the woman’s voice says.

“I can’t calm down because I’m getting fucked, Regina!” a woman responds with a shriek. “She’s wearing my crown! And every day people ask me all these questions, and more articles are calling her the people’s princess like she’s fucking Diana! That’s supposed to be me, Regina! If you don’t fix this, I’m going to have to tell everyone⁠—”

A slap rings in the hall, followed by a whimper that sounds like Anne. Did Regina just hit her?

“You stop your fucking whining. I’m tired of it. You stirring the pot and making her want to stay to prove you wrong isn’t helping. You’re making things more difficult, Anne. Keep doing what you’re doing, and things will be fine. We just need to be patient.” A door opens, and the sound of the party fills the space and drowns out the conversation I’m trying to listen to before it closes, leaving it quiet once again. “But right now, you need to go to the bathroom, clean your fucking face, and play the game. You’ll be Miss Americana sooner than later, but not if you look like shit.” Then heels click away down the hall.

So much just happened, but I can only think of one thing.

Ava.

Ava, Ava, Ava.

I need to get to Ava because something about that is wrong. And because I just need to be by her, talk to her, and fix this mess I made.

Stepping back into the ballroom, my eyes move to our table, and my blood goes cold. Ava is perched on the edge of the white tablecloth, head tipped back, turned toward Wes. His hand is on the table right next to her hip, skin revealed by the dress’s high slit, not touching but close enough. Her feet kick as she giggles, and Wes’s face is tipped up with a smile playing on his lips.

He’s enchanted, the way everyone feels around Ava.

They look like they belong. They look like a couple having a great fucking time like they’ve been together for some time.

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Too fucking comfortable.

Her hand moves, pushing his shoulder as she laughs, and he grabs her wrist, stopping her from slipping off the edge of the table, and I have no clue what happens.

Something in me snaps, and I’m moving—nearly running—people stepping back as I walk quickly past them with no apologies until I’m at our table, grabbing her hand, putting a hand to her waist, and sliding her off the table.

“Come on,” I say once her heels are steady on the floor—those high heels that I’ve thought about having digging into my back all fucking night.

“Jaime—”

“We’re heading out,” I say, putting a hand to her elbow and grabbing the small pink bag Wes hands me with a smug smile.

“Jaime—”

“Do not argue with me, Princess,” I say under my breath.

“What the fuck was that, Jaime?” she shouts once we’re out of the ballroom, following me as I keep a tight hold on her hand, leading her toward the elevators.

“Me? What the fuck was that, Ava?”

“What was what?!”

“You and Wes,’ I say in hissed tones, punching the button for the elevator.

“He was being nice! God forbid, right? We were just talking about the pageant and⁠—”

“That man gave zero fucks about pageants. His eyes were glued to your tits. He wants to fuck you, Ava.”

She throws my hands in the air in irritation. “At least someone wants to!” With her words, my body goes stiff, but Ava ignores it, continuing on. “At least someone wants me, shows interest in me. At least someone is fucking going for it.”

“Ava,” I say, and to my own ears, my voice is low and dangerous as I grab her hand. A chill runs through her, but she shakes her hand out of mine, taking a step closer and poking me in the chest with one white-tipped nail.

“You don’t get to kiss me, fuck with me, tell me how bad you want me one morning, then spend the next few days doing everything in your power to not even brush your arms with me. You don’t get to get jealous when you’ve had all the chances in the world to make me yours and never taken them. You don’t get to keep me on a string, at your beck and call for when you decide you want to take me out of my box and play with me.” She stabs her finger into my chest like she wants it to hurt. ‘I told you in there you needed to make a decision about what you want from this, from me, and you walked away.”

“I needed air,’ I say.

“And I needed an answer, but just like everything else, you’re too much of a fucking coward to do anything about anything.”

A bell dings, the elevator arrives, and the doors slide open. She stomps into the elevator, pressing the button to close the doors before I can step in, but I slap my hand to the doors and step in.

She rolls her eyes and turns to face me, arms crossed on her chest. ‘I’m tired of this, Jaime. Either you want me and you’re willing to say fuck it to all of the rules in your head, or we agree to be amicable, platonic friends for the rest of this tour. I’m tired of the games.’

She’s right.

And because of that, I step into her space until she’s backed up against the wall, my hand on her hip, the other on her jaw, tipping her head to look up at me.

“Fuck it,” I say.