Free The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien Page A

muffin. I’m stopped by Roman’s hand grabbing mine, pulling me back.
    “Isabella, this is Leigh Fromm,” he says, dropping my hand and sliding his around my waist.
    This move does not go unnoticed, and the frozen smile Isabella bestows on me is not one of friendship. Instead of a “nice to meet you” or “how are you?” she stumps me with this: “I don’t think we’ve met before…which house are you from?”
    I’m about to launch into the details of my high-end double-wide when Roman steps in and rescues me.
    “Isabella’s mother is Queen Margrethe the Second of Denmark of the House of Glücksburg,” he explains. “She’s not a phony like the rest of us.”
    Isabella flashes him a knowing smile. “You know there’s a fix for that, Roman.”
    I have no idea what either of them are talking about, but sense that I am being left out on some private joke. In this case ignorance must be bliss because Roman ignores her comment.
    “Good to see you, Isabella,” he says, leading me towards the comfort of simple carbohydrates, refined sugar and mild stimulants.
    I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that she’s burning a hole in my back. I wait for her to take her place back in the line, but she never reappears. In the reflection of the pastry glass I see her stalk out of the shop, jump into a smart red convertible and drive away.
    “What is the fix for phoniness anyway?” I say, hoping I’m not inserting myself into the middle of some royal squabble.
    Roman rolls his eyes. “Isabella’s my third cousin, four hundred times removed, something like that. We’re all inbred, you know.”
    I almost say “I know,” but am saved by the guy at the counter asking us for our order. Roman rattles off some incomprehensible latté verbiage for himself and a simpler green tea order for me, and we continue edging our way in the line towards the register.
    “Anyway, her mother, Queen Margrethe, wasn’t supposed to be queen because daughters couldn’t inherit the throne back then. Margrethe’s mother didn’t have any sons, so Parliament passed the Act of Succession in the nineteen fifties so she could succeed her father.”
    “Like Queen Elizabeth the Second in England,” I say.
    “Exactly!”
    Roman seems pleased with my knowledge of royal history. He doesn’t know that I’ve just scraped the bottom of my knowledge barrel, but I send a silent thank you out into the universe for People magazine anyway.
    I stare at him, waiting for more, but he’s apparently done talking. I realize I’ve been skillfully diverted with a clever “Act of Succession” red herring, so I gently turn him back to the original question. “How does this fix your imposter status?”
    Roman shifts his weight to his other foot and pretends to peruse the menu board above the counter. “I dated Isabella for awhile. She wanted things to be more serious than I did.”
    He looks to his right, hoping to be saved by the cashier, but there’s some guy there arguing over the temperature of his avocado antibacterial espresso. I wait patiently.
    He sighs. “There was always pressure–from her, from her family–to get married.” His eyes flit to my face and then away. “If I married Isabella I’d become Prince Consort.” He waits a heartbeat to see if this is all coming together for me, but I’m still totally oblivious so he continues. “In which case I would become actual royalty again?”
    This last bit is presented as a question, as in “You’re getting this now, aren’t you? I don’t have to continue this painful conversation for much longer, do I?”
    “Oh,” I say. I get it now. The fashionable, blonde Danish princess with the red convertible wants to institute a little ius primæ noctis on my would-be prince, and churn out a new litter of royals.
    “Anything else for you guys?” asks the cashier as we finally slide up to the register.
    “I’d like to sink my teeth into a Danish tart,” I spit.
    The guy seems