The Heir Affair by Heather Cocks

The Heir Affair

The Heir Affair by Heather Cocks (Royal We #2)
English | 2020| Romance| ePUB | 3.3 MB

Together, Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan created and co-author Go Fug Yourself, one of the Internet’s longest-standing and most popular fashion blogs, and have written two young adult novels: Spoiled, and Messy. Their debut contemporary fiction novel, The Royal We, comes out April 7. She has never done a cleanse.

Making it up the aisle was the easy part: Rebecca “Bex” Porter must survive her own scandals and adjust to royal British life in this “timely and positively delicious” follow-up to The Royal We that’s “just as fun, charming, and delightful as the first” (Taylor Jenkins Reid)

After a scandalous secret turns their fairy-tale wedding into a nightmare, Rebecca “Bex” Porter and her husband Prince Nicholas are in self-imposed exile. The public is angry. The Queen is even angrier. And the press is salivating. Cutting themselves off from friends and family, and escaping the world’s judgmental eyes, feels like the best way to protect their fragile, all-consuming romance.
But when a crisis forces the new Duke and Duchess back to London, the Band-Aid they’d placed over their problems starts to peel at the edges. Now, as old family secrets and new ones threaten to derail her new royal life, Bex has to face the emotional wreckage she and Nick left behind: with the Queen, with the world, and with Nick’s brother Freddie, whose sins may not be so easily forgotten — nor forgiven.

Pardon me, lass, but could you help me with a wee spot of murder?”

I jumped. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the store. The peeling P. G. Wodehouse hardbacks I’d been alphabetizing tumbled onto the floor.

“Absolutely, just one second,” I said over my shoulder. Could I help with murder? Please. It had become my specialty. P. G. could wait.

I knelt, ostensibly to reorganize my pile of books so that I could return to it easily, but mostly to take a stabilizing breath. That had become my pattern: Whenever I had to interact with someone for longer than a moment, I caught myself pausing first, wondering whether that second of anonymity was my last. All it would take to blow my cover was one keen eye or ear. One person whose tabloid habit meant they’d recognize the contours of my face, one person to hear through the shaky upper-crust British accent I’d adopted. Assuming a new identity was thrilling, but the accompanying dread never fully went away.

My customer turned out to be a stooped older gent in a thin beige cotton cardigan, his hand wobbling on a cane, light age spots making a mosaic of his balding pate. Not the archetype of a Hello! addict, though if there’s anything I’ve learned over the last eight years, it’s that you can never tell. But from what I could see through my own (fake) glasses, there was no spark of recognition behind his.

“What precise kind of murder do you fancy?” I asked. “Real, or fictional?”

“I’ve always been a fan of the truth,” he said with a thump of his cane.

“Who isn’t?” I squawked, too loudly. MI6 was missing out on a once-in-a-generation talent. But his face was calm and open. No traces of double meaning. I smiled and added, “Follow me.”

The back of the bookstore was a tight warren of blond-wood shelves, and smelled invitingly of yellowed pages and sixty years of shopkeepers making themselves a cup of tea. Right now, we had ample secondhand Agatha Christies, and I’d spent my first day here working on an intricate window display paying tribute to her lesser works; a day later, after that engendered some buyer interest, I’d enlisted Nick to help me rearrange the whole Mysteries and Crimes section. I’d become an expert in every flavor of murder we had to offer.

“Have you read this?” I said, handing him Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me. “She worked with—”

“Ted Bundy,” he said, scoffing mildly. “Everyone’s read that one, love.”

“So I assume you’ve also read Helter Skelter, and In Cold Blood,” I said, poring through the shelves. We were in the section Nick called Enormously Famous American Murders (Brutal). He’d insisted on reorganizing the books first by where the murder happened, then by exceptionally specific genre, and then alphabetically. It had been a long night that nearly ended in Small-Town Royal Murder (Justified).

“Here’s a good one,” I said, scuttling past Assassinations and into Bloodless Crimes. “The Gardner Heist. No one dies, but there is a massive unsolved art theft.”

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