Chapter 8: Chapter Eight
**Leonardo**
My eyes flicked to my phone on the table. I briefly considered texting one of the two women on my travel committee who’d openly flirted with me—maybe one of the guys, too. Heck, maybe all of them, if I was feeling particularly brave or horny. Usually, the idea of hooking up was enough to take my mind off… well, anything. I’ve always been an equal-opportunity kind of guy—why limit myself?
I picked up my phone, thumbing through my contacts in sight. Pictures of one of them—a tall brunette with a killer smile—flickered across my mental slideshow. But the moment I tried to imagine actually going out for drinks, or returning to my room with her, I felt… nothing. Like, zero spark. And that was weird for me.
I tried the second girl. Gorgeous, fun, the type who’d love a spontaneous midnight adventure. Still… a flatline of interest.
*I guess my mind is set on some male attention*. I concluded. And why not? After all, the same genre didn’t always have to be Plan B, right? I mean, I’d spent my whole life surrounded by guys, and they’d always swung both ways equally. I supposed we’d all gone for what was handy at the time—well, not *all* of us. Giovanni, my brother and Mom’s golden boy, thought I had some kind of unhealthy addiction. But for the record, I’d already experimented with my two best buddies, and my manhood was as healthy as it got. Come to think of it, maybe it ran in my stepfather’s family tree. Dante, my second cousin twice removed… in-law… *or something like that*, was the first one to teach me that, after all, a hole was a hole. And he’d demonstrated that to me a few times after that.
*Shit, I could use one of his demonstrations right about now*. He was pretty much my mentor and role model in all things sex, not to mention he’d been rocking a killer six-pack—maybe even better than mine—since high school. Just the thought of that perfectly smooth bubble butt and the seven-and-a-half inches hanging between his legs was usually enough to erase every other thought from my head.
A video call! The next best thing. I searched for his messenger, but as soon as his image came into view, all my enthusiasm deflated, along with my cock, as my traitorous mind had already started comparing him to Charming.
“Seriously?” I groaned, tossing my phone back onto the bed. “Am I broken, or is this just me being hung up on some stiff-necked, annoyingly sexy prince?” I grimaced. “Gross.”
With a frustrated huff, I grabbed my phone again—this time, searching for the one person who always had advice for me, whether it was good or terrible. The call rang twice before a familiar, chaotic voice burst through.
“Leo, babe!” Marta hollered, cranking up the volume on her end. I heard loud music and laughter in the background. “What’s happening? You’re missing an epic night out—there’s a DJ here who’s basically a shirtless Greek god. Well, maybe not Greek, but who cares.”
I laughed, sinking down onto the bed. “Marta, I’m kinda in the middle of a crisis. My mother is about two seconds away from shipping me off to a monastery, and I can’t get the Swedish prince out of my head—yes, that prince from the news.” I clarified before she even asked.
“Oooh,” she crooned. “Spill. Is it love? Lust? Political sabotage? I live for your drama.”
“Try all of the above,” I said dryly. “I trashed him at that summit—like, big time. The headlines are all over me. Mom’s furious. And apparently, so is the entire Swedish monarchy. The worst part is… I’m not exactly thrilled with myself, either.”
Marta hooted. “This is a new side of you, Leo—self-awareness? Kinda hot.” She lowered her voice, sounding more serious. “But for real, don’t stress it too hard. You messed with the guy’s reputation, sure, but it’s not like you planted a bomb. Just be your charming self and fix it.”
“That’s the problem,” I grumbled. “My charming self practically started an international incident. Mom wants me to do whatever it takes for PR cleanup. And you know me—I hate swallowing my pride.”
“Or maybe you love swallowing something else—like a bit of that starchy, aristocratic boy?” Marta’s cackle was ear-splitting.
I snorted. “God, you’re impossible.”
She wasn’t done. “Wait, wait—so you’re actually hung up on the Swedish hottie? Good luck, honey. Did you see the tabloid rumors? Apparently, there’s a thing with Countess Sofia Dahbirch.”
I froze, sitting up straight. “What?” My voice was sharper than I intended. “Who the hell is Countess Sofia The Bitch?”
“Dahbirch! She’s, like, the Scandinavian dream girl or whatever,” Marta said, clearly relishing the gossip. “Aristocratic, blonde, tall, probably loves skiing and charity balls. Basically your polar opposite. But the rumors are just about her showing interest—not him. Yet.”
The *yet* made my stomach churn. “Well, she can keep dreaming,” I snapped, my voice dripping with jealousy. “He’s not interested in some Barbie doll in pearls. And if she so much as looks at him, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Marta interrupted, laughter bubbling through the line. “Challenge her to a duel? Leo, relax. You sound like a jealous boyfriend already, and you’re not even close to scoring a first date.”
“I’m just saying,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m not letting some ice queen swoop in with her ski poles and tiaras.”
“Uh-huh.” Marta was grinning—I could hear it in her voice. “If you’re this wound up already, you should definitely find a way to stay there. Push the limits, Leo. Stick around, make some waves, and see where it takes you. You’re unstoppable when you want something.”
I felt my lips curve into a smirk. “Huh. That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Correction: it’s genius. And you know it.”
We bantered for a few more minutes, Marta regaling me with stories of her night out and making me promise to join her next time. But the seed she’d planted had already taken root: Stay in Sweden. Don’t run back to Italy with my tail between my legs. My mother wanted me to handle damage control, right? So… maybe I’d do exactly that—my way.
Sure, the official channels might want me to apologize and then hightail it home for some quiet reflection. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this was the perfect chance to really dive into the Swedish scene, *maybe get closer to a certain prince*—and either make amends or stir up more trouble. Possibly both.
*Fine*, I thought, mind made up. *I’ll do it. I’ll find a way to stay here. And if that meant signing on to whatever they cooked up as damage control, so be it.*
I hung up with Marta, a wicked grin spreading across my face. Sure, I was flirting with danger. Possibly risking another international fiasco. But oh, this was going to be fun. A wave of anticipation tingled through me—partly nerves, partly that reckless craving for excitement I could never quite quench.
I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed, gazing at the ceiling. Ideas swirled in my head, scenarios forming—apologies and half-apologies, witty lines I might drop if I saw the prince in person, maybe a grand gesture or two. I wasn’t sure yet. But that was half the thrill: improvisation.
*‘Stay in Sweden,*’ Marta had said. *‘Push the limits.’*
I let out a slow breath, that devilish grin still in place. Yes, I’d definitely push the limits. And I knew *just* how I’d do it.