Book Title: The Hot Mess Prince
Author and Publisher: Emily Spady
Cover Artist: Morganically Sourced
Release Date: October 13, 2023
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Tropes: royals, prince/assistant, opposites attract, romantic comedy
Themes: redemption, self-acceptance, family
Heat Rating: 3 flames
Length: 57 795 words/ 205 pages
It is a standalone book and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
A sweet, snarky m/m romance with kittens, cheese festivals, royal gossip, and a guaranteed HEA.
Blurb
Neel Batra is good–no, great–at his job. A consummate professional despite all the chaos of managing one of the most notorious party boy royals in Europe, he never lets Prince Thibault get under his skin. Well, almost never. And he certainly doesn’t entertain any thoughts or feelings that are less than professional. Especially after an image rehab campaign sees Neel and the prince working in closer conditions than ever.
Prince Thibault d’Archimbault may be a disaster, but even he knows certain things–and people–are off limits. Even if he can’t help noticing his assistant’s pretty eyes, and how fun it is to annoy him. Can he practice self-control for once in his life and stay out of Neel Batra’s way, even while they work together on cleaning up Thibault’s reputation? Or will things get distinctly … messy?
He was feeling dizzy and a little sick by the time the tour was over, and it didn’t make him feel any better to be crammed back into the elevator with Thibault for the ride back up. Somehow they’d gotten wedged in face-to-face this time, and there was no room to turn away without his shoulder brushing the prince’s.
Neel’s heart was jittering, and he felt almost feverishly hot. From all the caffeine, surely.
“What, Batra?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I, uh.” Neel swallowed. “Chocolate. Just there.” He touched the corner of his own mouth to indicate where it was on Thibault. “You’ve got some on your shirt, too.”
“Hm.” Thibault made no move to wipe it away. “I know what you’re thinking. Poor old Tibs is such a disaster. Can’t even eat chocolate without making a mess of himself.”
“That’s not–” Neel licked his lips. Thibault’s pupils were heavy and huge, and he was so close that Neel could see each individual eyelash, the sweat beading at his hairline, the throb of the pulse in his neck. “Can you–can you not loom so much–”
“Look at you,” Thibault murmured. “Not a hair out of place. Always so put-together.” He had the collar of Neel’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger, and he was stroking the fabric slowly, his gaze drifting from Neel’s face to his neck, and back up again, and there was so little space between the two of them that Neel could practically feel the individual particles in the air. “Don’t you ever just–want someone to make a mess of you?”
“Thibault,” Neel whispered, and couldn’t seem to say anything else. Sentences tumbled through his mind, broke into pieces, until his head was just a jumble of words like legos that didn’t fit together, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted Thibault closer, wanted the weight of him, pressing Neel against the wall of the elevator, or if he wanted to get away, to run.
His body, embarrassingly, knew what it wanted. His cock was half-hard, and thank God his trousers were loose, because if Thibault noticed–
Yes, what if Thibault noticed, a sly little voice whispered in his mind, what then?
The elevator lurched to a stop and the bright ding of its bell sent them scrambling back from each other.
Neel’s hands were still shaking when they got into the limo.
“Well,” Thibault said finally, when the silence between them had turned cold and brittle and Neel’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth. “Get any good pictures?”
Neel let out a short, humorless laugh. “What’s the point of any of this, Thibault? A game? A new way to get under my skin?”
Thibault looked at him like he’d been slapped. “No,” he said slowly. “I’m not–”
“Save it.” He had no right to look so pathetic, so innocent and vulnerable, when Neel knew what an arse he was. “Take your little redemption tour seriously. Or don’t, I don’t bloody care. None of it matters, anyway. Just don’t talk to me, unless it’s about your social media or your schedule or your fucking wardrobe or, you know, anything that’s actually encompassed by my job description.”
Thibault was silent for a moment. Finally, he muttered, “Fine,” and took out his phone.
“Tell me you understand.”
“Sure.” Thibault had scooted as far across the seat as he could, his shoulder pressed against the window opposite Neel. His thumb swiped mechanically across his screen as he said, “I understand, Batra. I won’t bother you.”
Emily Spady lives in the Pacific Northwest of the United States with her husband and cat. This is her first novel.
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