Reluctant Royal: MM Historical Romance by Mickie B. Ashling

Author:Mickie B. Ashling [Ashling, Mickie B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mickie B. Ashling
Published: 2022-05-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Before disembarking, we persuaded Jon to drop a line in the hopes of catching a decent fish we could present to Leyla. This way we could use my newfound enthusiasm for deep-sea fishing as another excuse to go out in a few days. It was understood that the yacht was probably the safest place on earth for us right then. And to my way of thinking, the boat would also provide the perfect means of escape if Kamran changed his mind about going back home.

While we waited for something to bite, Kam listened as I laid out a scenario that was equal parts fantasy and reality.

“What if,” I suggested, “you wake up in the next few weeks and decide you want to leave this all behind. How would you do it?”

“It’s not going to happen, Grady.”

“Humor me, Kam. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, right?”

“Put your Hollywood dreams back in your camera,” he admonished.

Determined to play this out, I continued with my questions. “Could you get to Europe in this thing?”

“How do you think it got here?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked. “Where’s your passport?”

He shook his head. “In my safe at home.”

“Which home?”

Sighing, he grabbed my head between his hands and planted a big wet one. “It’s here in Karachi, but this crazy notion of yours needs to stop, Grady. As soon as you board the plane to New York, I’m going back to Tehran, and I’ll be married within two weeks.”

“What’ll happen to the yacht?”

“We’ll put it in dry dock for the winter, and then Jon and Gus will go home for a much-needed break.”

“Where does it dry dock?”

“Right here at the boat club.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s not there,” I said. “You can’t very well escape if they impound your boat.”

“You should really become a writer instead of a cinematographer,” Kam noted, shaking his head. “What an imagination you have.”

Ignoring him, I asked, “How long is the car ride from Tehran to here?”

“Grady, stop this,” Kam said irritably.

“Answer me.”

“It’s a little under three thousand kilometers door to door. A full day at least, maybe less if we drive straight through.”

“What about gas?”

“What about it?”

“Won’t you need to stop? What if they put some kind of embargo on gasoline?”

“Who’s they?” he asked, voice rising.

“I don’t know,” I spat out. “The king of fucking Siam!” I choked on this last bit and buried my face in my hands. Without warning, I was crying and felt every bit the teenager I was. How could I expect this man to take my advice? I was a child compared to him and a crybaby to boot.

“Hey,” he said softly.

I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d banked his anger. Apparently my tears were far more effective than my logic. I looked up at him, no longer ashamed of my emotional outpouring. I wanted him to know this impending marriage was breaking my heart. I knew I had no right, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to see how much I cared.

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