Free Waiting for Prince Harry by Aven Ellis

“After all, you have to get your rest for the big fashion show tomorrow. Laurel will want you looking fresh.”
    Harrison groans as we go back toward the front of the house. “She is hands down one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met. She kept talking at me and talking at me and I kept giving her every non-verbal signal to fucking leave but she didn’t get it!”
    We step outside, and Harrison locks up the house.
    “That’s Laurel,” I say as Harrison removes the key. “Not getting it because the world revolves around her. You couldn’t have possibly wanted her to leave, Harrison.”
    Harrison laughs as we stroll down the sidewalk.
    “So you’ll be there tomorrow to protect me from her?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Like after the show? You’ll make sure she stays away from me?”
    I giggle. “Like your bodyguard?”
    Harrison roars with laughter. “Holy shit, yes. You can be my bodyguard. The mission is yours, if you care to accept it.”
    “Another collaboration?”
    Harrison flashes me another gorgeous smile as we reach his car. “Yes, another collaboration, if you will.”
    “So I’m your home renovation coordinator, now your anti-Laurel bodyguard,” I say, smiling as I get into the passenger seat. “What’s next on the offer table, Mr. Flynn?”
    Suddenly his expression gets serious, and my breath catches in my throat.
    “I think,” Harrison says softly, “we could have endless possibilities , as you say, for future collaborations, Ms. Reed. Starting with tomorrow night.”

Chapter 8
    The Pop Quiz Question: Should you ever Google your crush?

    A) No. Let there be some mystery in getting to know someone.
    B) Yes, and run a credit check and background check as well. Better safe than sorry.
    C) Only if you are prepared to deal with all the information you find . . .
    Loud dance music is pulsating off the walls of Boutique Dallas. Customers are dressed to the nines for the Heat of Summer Fashion Show, picking up hors d’oeuvres off silver trays and sipping Veuve Clicquot champagne. Cameras are in position for the live web feed of the show, and the local media are here to cover the event, too. There is electricity in the air—of anticipation of the show that is to come, and of the local celebrities that will be modeling chic summer fashions for women’s cancer charities.
    I’m scrambling around like a mad woman. I have a nighttime shot of the Dallas skyline projected up on the back wall. The catwalk is ready, which is actually a path we created by moving the entire boutique around today, and I rolled out a white carpet for the models to walk down.
    Some people have already taken their seats and are busy rifling through the swag bags I placed on each chair. I’ve artfully arranged all-white orchids, hydrangeas, and roses in elegant glass vases all over the store in strategic spots. We have an ice sculpture set up at the bar, in the shape of the Dallas Skyline, and the whole boutique reflects the white-hot summer chic vibe.
    I hurry back toward the dressing area, where the models are getting ready.
    Where Harrison is , I think, my heart slamming against my ribs.
    I haven’t even seen him, as the models were ushered in through the back door. And all I can think about is this moment, of finally getting to him. Of how he said we had endless possibilities, starting with tonight—
    “Kylie, how’s the floor?” Laurel hisses into my headset, interrupting my thoughts.
    I pick up the mic and speak into it. “Fantastic, Laurel. Are the models ready?”
    “Getting there,” Laurel says. “You can come back here and tweet some pictures to our followers.”
    What? Tweet? Me?
    “You want me to tweet?” I ask, making my way through the crowd.
    “Obviously not from your account since you have like ten followers,” Laurel snaps. “You’ll use my account for the store and tweet on my behalf for Boutique Dallas, of course. So you’ll provide live coverage of the evening.”
    Awesome. I get