I’m at the coffee shop ten minutes early, since the last thing I want is for my roommates and me to get evicted because of my tardiness.
Grabbing a table outside, I sip my iced latte and look at the passersby.
“Hello,” says a familiar sexy male voice.
I look up and nearly choke on my latte.
It’s Tigger in all of his Most Interesting Man in the World glory. Unbidden, the words of the commercials come to me: “He once had an awkward moment, just to see how it feels. In museums, he is allowed to touch the art. His lovemaking has been detected by a seismograph.”
Actually, he’s even hotter than I remember, probably because he’s dressed much nicer without his dogs around.
His tiger eyes glint deviously. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I jump to my feet and execute a mocking curtsy. “Your Royal Heinie. It’s an honor and a privilege.”
He smirks. “Sounds like I’ve made an impression on you.”
I roll my eyes theatrically. “Easy there, Tigger.”
“See.” The smirk turns cocky. “You’ve asked your sister about me.”
Crap. He’s got me. I blame hormones.
Suddenly feeling thirsty, I take a huge gulp of my latte. Can you get dehydrated if your lady parts produce too much juice? Asking for a friend.
He sits at my table.
“What are you doing?” I ask sternly.
“Joining you. Obviously.”
Unbelievable. “How big is your fucking ego?”
He glances down. “Everything is proportional.”
Great. Now I have the image of His Royal Hardness in my mind’s eye. And my mind’s mouth.
“That seat is taken.”
There. I’m proud of how steady my voice is.
His eyebrow lifts. “By whom?”
I narrow my eyes. “None of your business.”
“Oh, I think it’s very much my business.”
The nerve! “Seriously. Leave.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Where is Waldo?”
I can’t bring myself to get mad this time. If someone gave me a dollar every time I used that exact phrase to tease my friend, rent wouldn’t be a problem. Still, I keep my tone stern. “He’s at home, not that it’s any of your business either. Where are your dogs?”
“Also at home. I don’t take them to business meetings.” He looks at me pointedly.
Business meetings.
My fingers feel icy despite the gloves.
He can’t be.
Can he?
“Ah.” This time, his smirk is self-satisfied—like that of a cat who finally ate an annoying canary. “You’re beginning to catch on.”
My molars grind together. “What’s your real name? It’s not Tigger, obviously.”
“How rude of me.” He extends his hand. “Anatolio Cezaroff, at your service.”
Anatolio. As in the name from the “client’s” email.
In stunned silence, I shake his hand.
Even though there’s a glove between us, a zing spreads through my body, swirls around, and settles in my nether regions.
Damn. If one of those Predator creatures were to look at me with their heat vision, I’d be lit up like a horny Christmas tree.
With great effort, I snatch my hand away. “Why the farce?”
He cocks his head. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you say we’ve met when you emailed me? Do you even have business to discuss, or is this some joke?”
“Oh, I need your unique skills, I assure you,” he says.
Either his poker face is the best I’ve seen, or he’s telling the truth.
“Whatever it is, it had better be magic related.”
His eyes glint. “It is.”
Hmm, okay. “It will cost you… a lot.”
“I told you, money is no object.”
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. If it weren’t for my dire financial situation, I’d dismiss him outright, but as things stand, I need to see if he could actually be a path to avoid eviction. “Okay. If we’re going to be working together, what do I call you? Anatolio? Your Majesty? Assh—”
“You can call me whatever you want… except Nate.”
I grin despite myself. “How about Tony? You know, like the tiger?”
“If that means you’ll work with me, be my guest—though I prefer simply Tigger.” He leans in. “That’s what people close to me call me.”
Oh, yeah. I want to be close to him. In fact, I want to throw myself at him, head first.
No, vagina first.
I swallow my drool. “Tigger works. Now, what is it that you want?”
He looks longingly at my cup.
I heave a sigh. “Do you want to get a coffee first?”
He nods.
“Then go,” I say in an imperious tone before realizing I might sound like his mom.
“You want a refill?” he asks.
When I shake my head, he strides off.
I take my phone out and type “Anatolio Cezaroff” into Google.
Wow. My sister wasn’t kidding.
Besides being a prince, he’s famous for his stunts. There are mentions of racing (motorcycle, car, and speedboat), tightrope walks, rock climbing (with and without gear), extreme surfing, and snowboarding.
Maybe he is the guy from those commercials. Maybe he “once won the Tour-de-France but was disqualified for riding a unicycle.”
He’s coming back with a cup, so I quickly hide my phone.
He gracefully folds his muscular body into his seat and takes a sip as I watch his lips hungrily. “Believe it or not, I came across you online before we met,” he says. “I was searching ‘how to hold my breath for a long time’ and saw your YouTube video. I wasn’t internet-stalking you, specifically.”
I’ll go with not believing that, but I let him keep talking.
“I’m not sure if your sister mentioned it, but I like to do fun excursions from time to time, and my next one is a free dive into Dyrka,” he says. “Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head.
Fun excursion? It is just like in those ads: “He played a game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded magnum, and won.”
“Dyrka is a famous underground lake in my homeland,” he explains. “Scuba gear is forbidden there. Any of this ring a bell?”
I shake my head again. “I only know two things about Ruskovia: my favorite magician lives there, and one of their princes is full of himself.”
His smirk is back. “You’ve met my brother Kaz?”
“No. Why? Is he even more full of himself than you?”
He sips his coffee while I try to be subtle about my fixation on his lips. “Kaz is short for Kazimir,” he says, “which means ‘a great and mighty destroyer of peace.’ Now add in the fact that he owns the biggest chain of hotels in the world and that he’s a prince.”
“What does the name Anatolio mean?” I ask in the snarkiest tone I can manage. “I bet it’s ‘Roses stop to smell him.’”
“No,” he says, and if he realizes I just quoted a Dos Equis ad, he doesn’t show it. “My name means ‘one who comes from the East.’”
“Is that how you got your nickname—Tigger? Lots of tigers in the East.”
“How about we get back to the business at hand,” he says. “In case it wasn’t obvious, I want to free dive in the Dyrka.”
“Free dive. As in ‘dive without breathing gear.’”
“Exactly,” he says. “So you can see why I’ve come to you.”
No. “Yes,” I lie. I have no clue how I’m supposed to help with him with something like that.
Then it hits me.
My video. He saw me hold my breath for twenty minutes and thinks I can teach him how to do that for the free dive.
“I want to hold my breath for ten minutes,” he says, confirming my suspicion. “I want you to be my breathing coach.”
I take a huge gulp of my latte to give myself a chance to gather my thoughts.
There’s a problem.
A big one.
I have no clue how to genuinely hold my breath, at least for any longer than ninety seconds. That video wasn’t real. I mean, I was in the water and all that, but I was merely creating an illusion of not breathing for twenty minutes. I wasn’t hardcore enough to do it for real, like David Blaine claims to have done.
My methodology was similar to the way the Masked Magician did it on his TV show: a breathing tube concealed in the water, a hidden oxygen tank, and a lot of acting. What made my version better was that it didn’t require me to have a creepy mask on, and that I was using my own bathing-suit-clad body as misdirection instead of objectifying an assistant.
It was a stunt to impress Waldo’s newspaper, nothing more. I got the idea while watching Now You See Me—specifically, the scene where Isla Fisher was “eaten by the piranhas.”
I didn’t want to even think about doing that stunt for real because of how dangerous it is. Doing a real stunt is how the wife of Hugh Jackman’s character died in The Prestige. Okay, that’s fiction, but lots of real magicians have died doing water escapes. And I don’t want to die yet.
It’s too sad to drown as a virgin.
“So,” he says. “Will you do it?”
I audibly swallow my drink as my inner magician awakes.
Who cares if you faked it? Let him think you did it for real. That’s fooling him twice. You need rent money, and you’ll be able to brag that a prince is your client.
He gives me a panty-incinerating smile. “Just say yes.”
“Yes,” I parrot, though I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to—teaching him or becoming Mrs. Tigger. No, Princess Tiggress.
“Great,” he says. “How about we have our first lesson at Chelsea Piers Fitness? I’ll get you access.”
“Why?” I ask.
He frowns. “They have a pool.”
I shudder. “A public pool? Why don’t we save ourselves time and just dunk our heads in the nearest toilet?”
His frown deepens. “You have a problem with pools?”
“Not pools. My problem is with cryptosporidium, giardiasis, norovirus, shigellosis, legionella, E—”
“I get the picture,” he says, and I have to give him credit. He looks utterly serious, whereas usually people seem mocking after I (quite reasonably) explain such dangers to them. “How about if the pool were private?”
I shrug. “Provided it had fresh water and proper chlorination, I think I’d be comfortable letting you in it.”
His smirk reappears. “So you’re worried about my well-being?”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I need to keep you alive until I get paid.”
“Yeah. Sure. And it sounds like you’re not going into the water with me?”
Is it possible to both want and dread the exact same scenario? A part of me pictures myself skinny-dipping with him, and that part is seconds away from touching herself under the table. Another, much more sane part pictures myself catching every pool-dwelling bacteria and virus known to science and shudders.
“Not a chance,” I say. “You’d have to fill a pool with sterile water for me to consider getting inside. As soon as anyone—no matter how royal their blood—enters the same water, it’s no longer sterile.”
He nods. “I’ll talk to my brother about this.”
My brows furrow. “What does your brother have to do with anything?”
“I’m staying at Kaz’s hotel. There’s a penthouse next to mine with a small pool. I’m sure he’ll let me move in there, and he’ll refresh the water for us as needed.”
A penthouse in a hotel? But of course, he’s a fucking prince.
My financial prospects are looking better and better.
“What do you say?” he asks, hazel eyes gleaming. “Should we do this?”