Grand Prize Duke Read online

  Grand Prize Duke

  Phoebe Buck

  Copyright © 2020 Phoebe Buck

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Phoebe Buck

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Want more Ed & Ivy?

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Four Months Ago

  “So, what are you going to do now?” Calla says, holding up a Precious Moment’s figurine my mom bought me before I moved out to LA. Its perpetually sad, black eyes are looking back at me, judging me. The saccharine slogan across the bottom declares, “Hard work turns today’s dreams into tomorrow’s reality.” No matter the subject matter, these ceramic kids always look miserable.

  I shake my head and turn back to my box of hodge-podge items and disorganized belongings. I feel bad throwing out a gift, but I don’t need that kind of pressure from my décor. And there is only so much I can fit in the storage unit, so he’ll have to go.

  I’m moving, again, for what feels like the thousandth time since following Calla out to LA. Actually, it’s only move number four, but it is the most unexpected.

  Fucking Dean.

  No, wait, fucking Dean was what got me into this whole mess to begin with. Or rather, it was loving Dean and Dean fucking other people that led to me packing my stuff into the same well-worn boxes that I had kept with me since I made that long drive from Ohio to California the first time.

  “First, move in with you, just for a little bit. I haven’t quite gotten to part two yet, but I’m working on it.” I mumble the second sentence, not meeting Calla’s eye.

  “Ivy, you know I love you, but remember what happened the last time we lived together? We’re just not meant to be roommates. I am happy to have you crash for a little while, but you need to figure out what you’re going to do afterwards.” I hear the long screech of the packing tape as she finishes another box. I’m the one who’s moving, but I swear she’s out pacing me two to one when it comes to finished boxes.

  Calla is my closest and oldest friend. We grew up two houses apart on a dead-end road just an hour outside of Cincinnati and spent nearly every day together since we first crashed our bikes into each other at nine-years-old. I love her more than I love my own sister but lock us in an apartment together and we become a powder keg.

  “I know and I really appreciate you letting me sleep on the couch. I just don’t even know where to start looking for a place.” That’s mostly the truth. I have technically checked out tons of apartments online, but how do I know what’s a fair price? How do I know if it’s in a good part of town? More importantly, how do I afford a place on my own when every single listing is close to two times my budget?

  I sit back on my heels and sigh, trying not to get overwhelmed again. When I was a kid, I dreamed of what adult life would be like, but now that I’m here, it’s just so hard.

  There’s a long silence as I try to regain some motivation to resume packing and Calla folds up her new box.

  “I have an idea.” Calla sounds tentative, an emotion I wasn’t sure she possessed until now. She is always the confident one. She’s the one who waltzes into the room and takes charge, pulling everyone else along behind her.

  “Please, help me,” I say jokingly, throwing myself back onto the carpet. I’m hoping my dramatic display distracts from the fact that I am 100% serious. If Calla made all my life choices, I would be some high-flying executive or something like that who makes a lot of money and wears Loft suits, not the outlet kind either.

  “You know that new show I’ve been telling you about?”

  “The one with the English Duke who you said is an asshole?”

  “Well, yes, but he’s really not that bad. He’s cute and rich and a fucking Duke, so, you know, he can’t be perfect.”

  “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?” I prop myself up on my elbows, my mouth half-smile, half gaping shock.

  “Just come and audition. You never know, he could be the love of your life.” Calla is using that same tone my mother always used when she was trying to get me to eat my vegetables as a child.

  “I don’t think I’m a Duke’s idea of wife material,” I said, waving my hand in front of my fully sweat suited, slightly pudgy body. I pull myself back up to my knees and wrap another stupid cat figurine in a piece of newspaper before placing it delicately in the box in front of me. Since I was going to be surfing couches, I should be downsizing as much as possible, but I can’t leave my babies behind.

  I want to get rid of them, I do, but I can’t bring myself to toss them away no matter how many times I try. And is it really my fault that they always seem to jump into my cart at the thrift store?

  “Listen. Honey, you know I love you, but you need to hear this.” Calla stops packing and puts her hands on her hips, “You are getting old. Even if you get booted off after the first date, these girls always land on their feet. And the network is already talking spin-offs. So, worst case, you end up on “Royal Island” or some other nonsense getting laid by gorgeous, aristocratic men for a few years before one of them makes an honest woman out of you.”

  Ouch.

  She always knows just what I need to hear, but it’s always painful. At least coming from her I know it’s completely on point and entirely from a place of love. Because despite my constant floundering and missteps, Calla is my constant cheerleader.

  Calla is one of the youngest producers at the network, making a name for herself with reality shows that manage to scratch that itch of live-action romantic fantasy that middle-aged women in the Midwest lap up like milk. Her work has earned her some of the highest ratings in the Fall line-up for the past few years and they have been throwing money at her to get more.

  The latest, “Grand Prize Duke,” is her masterpiece and she’s spent months hand-selecting the perfect group of women to hit all the right stereotypes and tropes that viewers expect to see. I don’t fit into any of them.

  “But I’ve never been on camera before, there’s no way I’ll get picked out of the hundreds of girls I’m sure you have pounding down the door.”

  Unlike most transplants to LA, I never dreamed of being an actress. Honestly, I never dreamed of anything, not really. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did have dreams, I just had too many and lost interest as soon as it looked like I might succeed.

  If it hadn’t been for Calla dragging me out of my
comfort zone, I might still be working at the same grocery store I was at in high school and living in my childhood bedroom. When she announced she was moving to LA after graduation to make a go at the entertainment industry, I decided to tag along just to see what would happen.

  Unfortunately, “what happened” up until this point has been a whole lot of nothing.

  Thankfully, waitressing in LA is more than enough to pay the rent. Or it was, until Dean decided his new co-star was a little more interesting than I was and left me footing the bill for the whole place myself. I managed it, just barely for a few months before I got sick of eating ramen for dinner three nights a week and turned in my notice to the not-too-pleased landlady.

  “Okay, but I’ve seen these shows. All these women are doctors or flight attendants or something else impressive or professional. What is my tag line going to say? An adult child?”

  Calla laughs, “First of all, a flight attendant is just a sky waitress, so you’re not that far off.

  And your tag line will say waitress unless you can think of something else clever or funny. But honestly, don’t worry about that. Yes, viewers like to see the successful women on there, but they are equally if not more charmed by the down-to-earth types like you.”

  I don’t think that was meant to be an insult, but it certainly feels a tiny bit like one.

  “You know that if I want you on this show, you will be on this show. Just say yes.” Calla gently places a neatly folded pile of clothes into a trash bag. At 26-years-old I should have suitcases, but I don’t and if Calla is judging me, she doesn’t show it.

  “I know this is your baby and I just don’t want to mess it up for you.” I fold the lid on the box and lean on it heavily, staring at her and trying to read if she’s doing this despite my lack of reality show ready personality or if she really thinks she can make this work.

  Calla rolls her eyes before giving me a playful glare. “Do you honestly think I would let you ruin my show? If you fuck it up, I’ll just pull you out and say your grandma died or something.”

  “Fine. If you think it’s a good idea, I will give it a try.

  But I’m still not convinced this isn’t just your way of making sure I don’t stay on your couch too long.” I say, taping the box shut and scribbling “kittens” on the side.

  Chapter 1

  Ivy

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Miss Maxwell?” I jump, startled at the stewardess’ sudden appearance. We’re still on the tarmac, but she’s already passing out drinks. I guess there’s perks to being in first-class that you don’t hear about when you’re stuffed in the coach cattle-yard section of the plane.

  “How much?” I say, trying not to meet her eyes without making it obvious. After three months of filming for exactly zero pay, I’m running low on cash and I don’t trust my card to go through. That’s the funny thing about reality shows; all the fame with none of the salary. Sure, there’s endorsement deals and appearance fees that can lead to a pretty comfortable lifestyle for some after filming has ended, but that’s for the lifestyle shows. For that dating show girls like me, the money doesn’t come as easy.

  “Oh, sorry,” The stewardess laughs, but I’m not sure if she is laughing with me or at me. “There’s no charge, ma’am. Everything in first class is complimentary.”

  “So, is there whiskey?” I put on my best shit-eating grin, hoping I’m not embarrassing myself. I’ve never really been a wine girl and since they splashed out for these plush accommodations, I might as well make sure the production company gets its money’s worth. Or was it my fiancé paying for this flight?

  It wouldn’t matter if he was. But maybe it does? To be fair, I don’t know what his financial situation is, but Dukes tend to be rich, right? If he can afford the hefty payment laid out in the contract, he must at least have some money put away.

  “Of course, how do you take it?”

  “Depends on what it is, but to be safe, let’s say with a can of diet.” My face is starting to hurt from holding this too big smile and I am silently begging her to leave so I can drop the act. I don’t want to be rude, but I can feel the sleeping pill Calla gave me already kicking in. I’ve never been on an international flight and so when she pressed it into my hand and told me I should try to sleep for most of the ride, I didn’t question it.

  Calla was always jetting all over and she had never given me bad advice before. I should have asked for clearer instructions, but, like always, I just stupidly smiled and did as I was told.

  Now that my vision is starting to fuzz at the edges and my head is getting cloudy, I wonder if I should have waited until take off to swallow it.

  “Of course, I’ll be right back.” She says with a wink as she saunters back up the aisle.

  I lean back in the oversized airplane seat and readjust the super-soft microfiber neck pillow, my other gift from Calla, and try to take a deep breath, but my chest feels too tight.

  I’m trying to focus and stay in my body, but this still doesn’t feel like reality. At any moment, I’m sure I’ll wake up back on Calla’s couch, late to another double shift at EJ’s Diner where Jim Bob will lean over the counter and try to grab my ass again before I have to swat him away and threaten to ban him for life.

  Little girls always dream of a prince coming and sweeping you off your feet, but it’s not supposed to happen for real. And while William isn’t technically a Prince, him being a Duke still feels just as likely as him being a space alien.

  But it’s not real, remember.

  William is real and really an aristocrat, for what it’s worth. When the show ended, I was still a bit dubious about his real origins, but Calla handed me a 50-page binder she had her favorite PI compile before the show even started. If I could count on my best friend for anything, it was that she is always thorough and, somewhat annoyingly, always right.

  The only trouble is that our engagement, our whole relationship, is fake.

  It didn’t start out that way.

  When I stepped out of the limo, trying not to squint at the studio lighting blasting me in the face, I had every intention of giving it a shot. I was still skeptical that a person could fall in love in 30 days, but for all I knew, he could be my one and only prince charming.

  I assumed William would take one look at my wild mane of red hair and my unpolished nails and turn up his nose in revulsion. Maybe I would be kept around for a week or two to break up the group of stunningly similar-looking blondes, but eventually, my time would come and he would hug me and say something about how I’m great, but not for him.

  I’ve seen these shows.

  Girls like me don’t win.

  And by week two, I didn’t want to win. William was fine. He was charming, and handsome and everything you would expect a British gentleman to be, but that was all. He was just fine.

  So I decided to just ride it out. He would get the hint when I didn’t lean in for the kiss or bat my eyes over dinner. I did hold his hand, but just the once before Courtney W. swooped in with the classic “can I steal you away?” Not that I minded. I was just biding my time, trying to figure out what my next move after the show was.

  By the time we got to week five, there were just ten of us left and I knew it was time to cut and run.

  Every time I got a rose, another girl who might truly be falling for him didn’t and I couldn’t be the reason her dreams were crushed.

  It should have been the end of it when I took William aside on our one on one date and told him I didn’t have feelings for him, but then the cameras stopped rolling for the first time since I stepped foot in that house and he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  The light glitters off the gigantic rock on my finger as I take the glass from the stewardess and I can see her eyes get wide when she sees it. I feel my face go red and desperately try to look anywhere that’s not her eyes. Today is the first day I’ve been allowed out of my contractually mandated seclusion and I’ve already seen that shocked and slightly en
vious look from more than a few people when their eyes happen to land on my hand.

  The ring is amazing and perfect and should be a dream, but the size is obnoxious, and I don’t like the way people look at me when they see it. I wouldn’t have asked for something this large and it feels heavy and foreign on my finger.

  I quickly slip the glass into my other hand and try to bury the ring in my lap, but her eyes follow it.

  “Oh, wow. It’s even bigger in person.” She grabs my hand without asking, coming way too close to the rest of my body for comfort and holding the ring inches from her face, its reflection sparkling back at me in her eyes.

  “So, you’ve seen the show?” I manage to say with very little trace of annoyance in my voice. Calla would be proud of my acting skills. I gently, but firmly, disentangle my hand from hers.

  Shit.

  I wasn’t prepared for fans, not yet. I came directly from Calla’s house to the airport and wore extra-large sunglasses and a baseball cap on my head the whole time up until I got on the plane. It’s the de facto uniform for all celebrities when they are trying to escape the paparazzi. The fact that the paparazzi have pictures of them dressed like that should have clued me in to the fact that it’s not the most effective disguise.

  I did manage to make it out of the airport without anyone coming up to me. A few people stared a little too long, their faces twisted as though they were trying to figure out where they knew me from. I thought I’d be able to relax once I was in my seat, but apparently, not even that was safe.

  “Absolutely! And my girlfriends and I were rooting for you from day one. We are your biggest fans.”

  “Uh, thanks?” I smile, picking up my book as a passive way to end the interaction, but she still just stands and stares at me with crazy wide eyes. I don’t know what she’s waiting for or what she wants me to do, but maybe I should have asked Calla for some lessons in fan management.