Free The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien

is minimal.
    This leaves me with plenty of time to ponder my situation. Three days ago I was sitting alone on a couch in my Aurora trailer park home watching old Sex in the City episodes. Now I’m in a private jet in Aspen with the would-be Crown Prince of Austria. And if I play my cards right I may actually be having sex near a city soon.
    I’m standing on the tarmac when Roman drives a Lexus sedan right up to the plane door. I wait in the car while he folds in the stairs and shuts the door, then throws some wheel chocks behind the tires. I guess it would be a little discouraging to come back to find that your friend’s multi-million dollar plane just sort of rolled away while you were gone.
    Once in the car he flips his wrist to look at his watch. “Right on time,” he says, popping the car into drive. We exit the airport, slowly ascending as we drive through the valley, racing the Roaring Forks River that runs parallel to the highway.
    “So I’ve already figured out that we’re in Aspen,” I say. “It’s getting too late for mountain biking and too early for skiing. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”
    “You’ll see the signs for it as soon as we’re in the city.” he promises.
    Ten minutes later we pass a green sign reading “Aspen City Limits Elev 7908.” I assume we didn’t come all this way to celebrate the altitude of a ski town, so I keep my eyes peeled for something more telling. We spin through a roundabout and Roman slows the car as we enter the town's picturesque Main Street.
    About a quarter of a mile down Main Street, I see the first one: a huge purple banner stretched over the roadway, strung from the street lamps on either side.
    ~Welcome (almost) Royals~
    Roman slides the car into a diagonal parking space in front of a coffee shop. The drive has made me sleepy again, and he clearly notices. “We’ve got to get something to wake you up!” he teases, reaching over and squeezing my hand before getting out.
    This causes my body to dump a gallon of adrenaline into my system, and suddenly I am wide awake. I wonder if he plans to use this type of touch-based adrenaline infusion to keep me awake all day. My door opens, and I realize that Roman is still sticking with his original plan of buying me a bucket of caffeine.
    I hesitate for a second. These types of trendy coffee shops are really not my kind of place. Once making coffee got more complicated than chucking a few tablespoons of Maxwell House into a cup and adding hot water, I got off the train and just started drinking tea. I will never say with any kind of confidence: “Yes, I’d like an énorme ricin berry latte with a squirt of methadone and a splash of yak milk.”
    Also, I’m a supertaster, which means that I have more taste buds attuned to bitter flavors than most people. I personally think that this trait was carefully honed over millions of years of evolution in order to steer me clear of dangerous wild plants such as broccoli and coffee beans.
    With very little enthusiasm I follow Roman into the shop. A line of half-awake people queue up in front of a fancy pastry display case. One of them, a tall, lithe blonde, catches Roman’s entrance in the reflection of the glass. I see her eyes brighten before she unwinds in our direction. At the same time Roman slows to a stop. I look at him just in time to catch a frown before his lips turn up into a hollow smile.
    “Roman!” she calls, breaking out of line and closing the distance between them in two long strides. I take a step backwards as she invades my personal space and wraps him in a big bear hug.
    “Isabella,” he says without a trace of enthusiasm. He leans in and just touches the back of her shoulders before stepping away.
    Isabella glances at me, giving me a quick up-and-down appraisal before dismissing me by turning away. I whither instantly under this kind of catty behavior, and reflexively move towards the pastry case to comfort myself with a blueberry