Forgive Me

By Avery Katz

There are things I don't tell anyone, especially not after what happened last time. I had the misfortune of falling for a prince who had all the power in the world…and he used all that power to break my heart.
But I'm an artist, and art is about emotion and sacrifice. I'll do anything to succeed, even if it means going back to that cabin in the mountains where it all started to paint the intensest landscape of my career. Yes, remembering everything is painful. He was my first love. My first mistake. And now he's not only my enemy, but the one thing standing between me and my dreams.
Everything's fine until he shows up at the same small cabin I've rented, bringing with him the storm of the century.
Now, the blizzard has trapped me with the one man I truly hate…and the only man I've ever wanted.
He can claim my body, but not my heart.
I will never forgive him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avery Katz
• Release date: Jul 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393418641

Avery Katz

Avery Katz loves tropey romance. Her favorite stories are those that feature characters who learn to be unafraid to be themselves and go after what they want in love and in life.

Book preview

Prologue

Queen Emmeline

Reading between the lines was a talent of mine. I excelled in the art of people watching. Hosting dinner parties was my favorite pastime, mainly because of all the drama that ensued during these soirées. Being Queen was mundane at times, especially with my grandchildren living in different estates and such. That is why I absolutely adored celebratory dinners like this one. They were my way of bringing the family under one roof, so to speak.

Lockridge Palace was decorated with ornamental tulips imported all the way from Holland. My finest china was brought out and polished for the occasion, and my favorite rosé wine was being served to my esteemed guests. Everyone was gathered to celebrate my grandson Gregory’s marriage to a young man named Quin. They were childhood best friends who eventually became lovers. I had five grandsons in total and one fashion-forward granddaughter by the name of Lizzie. They all had blossoming careers and idiosyncratic personalities.

I was accused by other European royal families of being too progressive. I was deemed too modern and too open-minded, which was ironic considering that we lived in the twenty-first century. I paid them no mind. I loved Raplen too much to care about other countries and their homophobic agendas.

My kingdom was built on truth, justice, and pride. It was all-inclusive and tolerant. It was a cultural and historical hub. It was also home to many artists, poets, and musicians, who often visited my court. I even hosted my very own book club. Cousin Esmeralda and I were currently reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck. Edith, my daughter-in-law, found the title to be rather offensive, but she was offended by almost everything, even the nude statues in the west wing. She was rather peculiar and homophobic. I only put up with her because of my late son, may he rest in peace. He loved her dearly.

I watched the sour-faced old woman sashay around the dining hall with a goblet of wine in her hand. She took pleasure in complaining about her son and spreading her negative energy around. I relaxed in my velvet chair and ignored her irritating presence. Fortunately, my favorite violinist and her cello playing husband chased away this negative energy with their melodious music. They entertained my guests with their original compositions while I watched my youngest grandson from afar.

Tommy was an only child whose father passed away when he was only four years old. He was also a temperamental drama queen with terrible etiquette. He waltzed into the dining hall in his stained pants and beret. He greeted his aunts, cousins, and uncle before making his way over to me.

Grandmama, how are you this evening?

Appalled by your choice of attire. I answered. Would it hurt you to change into something crisp and clean? Maybe an ironed shirt for a change?

Pish posh. He dismissed my suggestion with a wave of his hand. There is no one here for me to impress. Besides, you left me no choice but to show up like this.

I left you no choice? Really? You act as if I have been keeping you prisoner in the dungeons?

Aha! So you do admit to having a dungeon in here. His mischievous blue eyes reminded me so much of his late father. Nicholas had a creative yet restless spirit. He was always searching for the next big thing. It took him to dark and interesting places.

Shhh. This is a palace, not a house of horrors. Dungeons are a thing of the past. Now sit your butt down and let me listen to Mario and his captivating cello.

A few minutes into my pleasant soirée, Stefan announced the arrival of Evan Spencer. He was a world-renowned artist from America who also attended the Paris College of Art with Tommy. My grandson gasped in either horror or shock or both, when he saw the handsome young man. Unlike Thomas, he was dressed to the nines in a sharp suit and a matching navy blue tie.

I invited him to the dinner party in an attempt to stir the pot. My grandson predictably marched over to him and grabbed him by the arm. He steered Evan away from Freddy and Ruppy, who followed their rude cousin with curious eyes.

Tommy was never one for conformity. He loved standing out from the crowd. I often fostered his need to be creative and tolerated his mood swings. Therefore, I was both surprised and amused by his reaction to Evan. They argued for a few minutes, then Tommy grabbed a handful of canapés from a passing waiter and stuffed them into his mouth. He spoke with his mouth full, sending crumbs flying all over my Persian carpet. Evan looked him up and down, clearly making fun of his terrible baggy pants. My grandson pulled a large toothpick out of his pocket and pricked him with it.

You imbecile. How dare you show up here?

Ouch. The queen invited me. Nice outfit by the way. You belong to the hobo party across the hall. The dress code is peasant chic.

Are you making fun of me?

No. I’m making conversation.

Smart ass.

Those two had an abundance of chemistry. It was so easy to see. I sat back with my own goblet of wine and watched them bicker for a while. Evan tugged on my grandson’s scarf, clearly teasing him about the bright orange color. Tommy frowned and slapped his hand away. Those fools should get a room and kiss already. I may have been 85 years old but I was not blind. I had perfect eyesight for my age. Evan was attracted to my grandson. Why else would he tolerate such a nutcase?

Tommy huffed and puffed like a petulant child and gave me a betrayed look over his shoulder. He mouthed the word ‘traitor’ and walked away from Evan. I rolled my eyes and watched him complain about me to his cousins. The nerve of that boy! I tutted and decided to take matters into my own hands. Playing cupid was one of my specialties. I had all the necessary ingredients to turn their attraction into a full-blown love affair.

Evan

EARLIER THAT DAY..

I was so excited to be back in Raplen. There was something about winter here that made me come back every year. If I was a poet, I would write sonnets about the country. I usually rented the same furnished apartment overlooking the famous Swan Park. It was chic and modern with arched windows and enough space in the living room for my art supplies.

I arrived just in time to receive a sealed letter from Queen Emmeline. It was personally delivered by one of her young butlers. Her staff were the epitome of politeness. I was considered lucky in the connections department. I knew a lot of people in high places. You could call it vanity or showing off but I was a household name in the art scene. My paintings graced the walls of many Hollywood stars’ homes. Living on the West Coast had its advantages. I was a southern boy at heart but my soul belonged in Los Angeles. I worked my ass off to get to where I was today. With zero support from my family, I learned to be my own cheerleader.

I held my breath and caressed the smooth surface of the envelope. I wondered if the Queen had agreed to my request. She was very woke, to put it in slang terms. She was old but had a youthful spirit. I painted a field of tulips for Her Majesty a couple of years ago. She became one of my favorite clients right away. The reason behind my visit was selfish on my part. I wondered for a brief moment if what I was doing was underhanded.

Seeking the assistance of a queen was not cheating per se, not when it had to do with the most prestigious art show of the year. The Museum of Modern Art in New York announced the theme a week ago. The theme was landscapes. Anyone who knew me was familiar with my hatred of landscapes. It had more to do with my childhood and less to do with my art. My strength lay in the surreal and in the abstract where the worlds I painted were open to interpretation. Where fantasy merged with reality.

I once painted an entire collection with cupcakes as the main theme. They were all lost in a sea of dark chocolate. I mixed actual cocoa powder with the acrylic paint. Naturally, they all sold like hot cakes. That was back when the cupcake trend was alive and well. Nowadays, people were more obsessed with dogs and seascapes. The ever-shifting sands of creativity demanded more sacrifice on my part.

I needed to showcase my work at the exhibition and Raplen was going to be my muse. The Raplen Alps to be precise. The landscape up there was remarkable. Nestled among the trees was a cabin that belonged to Queen Emmeline. I knew about her old hideout from Prince Tommy Lockridge. He took me there once on a stupid dare and we made love for the first time next to the fireplace. It was the stuff of fairytales.

Thinking about our romantic interlude made me quite hot under the collar.

I quickly shrugged it off and opened the envelope. The red seal on the front made me smile. The Raplen coat of arms was stamped into the red wax. It was all very secretive and hush hush. This is why I loved coming here. The country was old and rich with untold tales of mysterious castles and churches.

Lockridge Palace itself was a work of art. Whoever built it was blessed with creativity and imagination. I read somewhere that he was a renaissance architect who competed against a local builder and ended up winning the bid to design Lockridge Palace.

Artists thrived on competition and I was determined to win. I had to conquer the New York art scene and give Damien Blunt the finger. He was a contemporary artist from the Big Apple who declared himself as the painter of his generation. I also wanted to teach Tommy a lesson in humility. He sometimes acted like such an entitled brat. A part of me pushed away the hope that Prince Entitled would come after me when he found out about the cabin. Pushing his buttons was my secret superpower.

I opened the letter and read its contents. Heat rose to my cheeks and my face turned red in response to the handwritten words. I laughed so hard and couldn’t help but imagine the old woman smirking as she wrote it. She really was something else. I tucked the letter under my arm and rang the palace to confirm my acceptance of the queen’s invitation to dinner.

Tommy

Lighting scented candles and putting on blissful yoga music did nothing for me. Absolutely nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I spent all day trying to do portraits for the upcoming flood of exhibitions headed my way. The pressure was on to create something special and original.

I was currently staying in Lockridge Palace, home to terrifying tulips and maze-like corridors. I hated those ugly ass flowers with a passion. They were fucking everywhere. I had nightmares about them in my sleep.

Grandmama had questionable taste in just about everything. My art studio was a fine example of her Georgia O’Keeffe inspired decor. The explosion of oriental poppies on the wallpaper was vertigo-inducing. I often painted next to the windows to avoid staring at the uber feminine walls. I’d been holed up in the studio for more than twelve hours.

I woke up early to watch the sunrise and drink my coffee in peace. The palace staff started their daily duties at six, so I snuck downstairs to the main kitchen and grabbed fresh bread and sandwiches before Chef Antoine took notice of me. He hated it when I stole food from the queen’s tray.

I hated dining with Lady Edith and the rest of the family. Their conversation revolved around boring shit that didn’t concern me. I had better things to do, like work on my stupid painting.

I finished my breakfast before delving into the world of oil paint and turpentine. My nose was used to the smell by now. It never bothered me. Not really. I grabbed my flat brush and went to work. The sound of windchimes and yoga music filled my ears as I moved my brush along the tall canvas. My thoughts drifted elsewhere while I painted. My wild imagination was responsible for most of the weird shit you found in my artwork. My inner muse was Madonna, but sadly she was on vacation. I usually listened to her songs for inspiration. Unfortunately, all of my music was erased during my latest software update. My iPhone was shit. Everything was shit!

I switched off the yoga music and sat down across from the freshly painted canvas.

What in the actual fuck? I scowled, wishing I could just claw my brains out.

Should I be surprised that I had painted yet another portrait of Evan? No. Nothing surprised me anymore. Not even a portrait of Evan’s head on a frog’s body. I rubbed my tired face and imagined setting the whole studio on fire and burning all those Evan canvases along with it. He had been a constant presence in my mind for years now, and it was driving me up the wall! How the fuck was I going to enter the competition if the only thing I could paint were portraits of him?

Evan fucking Spencer still had the power to upset me even after all these years. It was just unbelievable. I wiped my hands with a towel and stared out into the distance. The palace grounds were dimly lit thanks to the new solar-powered lamps the maintenance staff installed last week. The cold winter air swept into the studio, making me shiver as I cleaned my brushes.

Evan’s painfully good-looking face taunted me from its current position. I marched over to the damned portrait and flipped it around. I would rather die than let him win the grand prize at the annual Museum of Modern Art exhibition in New York.

I deserved to be on the Forbes list of hot visual artists under thirty-five, not him.

He was a knockoff Louis Vuitton. I was the real deal.

Your Highness. June, one of the staff members in charge of dinner knocked on my door. Dinner is about to be served in the diamond hall.

Thanks, but I won’t be coming down for dinner, I replied. I will pick something up from the kitchen. Chef Antoine promised to keep the leftovers in the fridge for me.

June stepped into the studio and made a beeline for the windows. She slid them shut and stood