'Royally Screwed made me grin from beginning to end. or the man who gets to love Olivia forever.

In the end, Nicholas has to decide who he is and, more importantly, who he wants to be: a King.

Nicholas grew up with the whole world watching, and now Marriage Watch is in full force. While they’ve traded in horse drawn carriages for Rolls Royces and haven’t chopped anyone’s head off lately―the royals are far from accepting of this commoner.

Dating a prince isn’t what waitress Olivia Hammond ever imagined it would be.There’s a disapproving queen, a wildly inappropriate spare heir, relentless paparazzi, and brutal public scrutiny. Nicholas wants to find out if she tastes as good as her pie, and this heir apparent is used to getting what he wants. Then, one snowy night in Manhattan, the prince meets a dark haired beauty who doesn’t bow down. royalty is forever.'Passion, pleasure, and princely responsibilities make this sexy fairy tale a real page turner.' -Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Calendar Girl Nicholas Arthur Frederick Edward Pembrook, Crown Prince of Wessco, aka “His Royal Hotness,” is wickedly charming, devastatingly handsome, and unabashedly arrogant―hard not to be when people are constantly bowing down to you. Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty. I was known before I was born and my name will be blazoned in history long after I’m dust in the ground. People get swept up in it, swamped by it, but eventually the notoriety recedes, and the former object of its affection is reduced to someone who used to be someone, but isn’t anymore. Internationally renowned, instantly recognizable, our everyday activities headlines in the making.įame is a strange thing. In the years after, I’d learn just how different my family is. It was the first inkling I’d had that I was-that we were-different. “Nicholas! Nicholas, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Nicholas, over here!” They were drowned out by the roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling my name. I remember my mother’s voice, soothing and constant as I clung to her hand, but I couldn’t make out her words.

Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of my school like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce. I should’ve been used to it-and I think I was. I planned to smear finger paint on the outfit the first chance I got.īut that’s not what stands out most in my mind.īy then, spotting a camera lens pointed my way was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. For some reason, my mother ignored the fact that I was actually a boy and dressed me in God-awful overalls, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues. I was three years old and it was my first day of preschool. My very first memory isn’t all that different from anyone else’s.

Royally screwed by emma chase