by Leah Ashton
Ana’s laugh was dry. ‘Today I think I want to go back to being a librarian. To living in my apartment. To knowing what I actually want.’ She sighed. ‘Because right now I have absolutely no idea what that is.’
Her gaze had been roaming aimlessly about his shoulders, mostly avoiding his gaze as she’d been talking. But now, as she contemplated what she wanted, it was impossible not to be drawn back to his eyes.
And then just to look at him. To look at the man who’d just so patiently listened to her share more than she’d ever told another soul.
Although, to be truthful, it wasn’t his listening skills that she found herself admiring now. That she found herself wanting now.
They’d looked at each other like this before. When she’d arrived, on the steps to his house. And again in the doorway of her bedroom.
Both those times he’d eventually shut her out—shut down the connection and doused the heat in his gaze so effectively it was as if it had never existed.
But he hadn’t shut down anything this time.
Something told her that he wouldn’t.
Or he couldn’t.
‘Ana—’ he started, then swallowed. ‘I mean, Your Highness—’
‘You got it right the first time... Rhys,’ Ana said, emphasising his name. She liked the way it sounded on her tongue. Why on earth had she insisted on calling him Mr North?
Distance. That’s right.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ve had a rough few days. You’ve been drinking—’
‘One drink, Rhys. I’m not even tipsy. And, yes, I have had a rough few days, and I know that this probably isn’t a good idea. But then, I’ve known that all year about a variety of things, and where exactly has that got me? At least this bad idea feels pretty good right now—don’t you think?’
Rhys’s gaze was locked on hers, and it didn’t move as he nodded slowly. Oh, so slowly. As if he really didn’t want to but was helpless to do otherwise.
The idea that such a strong man could feel that way because of her was the most delicious sensation.
‘I’m still a reclusive widower who doesn’t like Christmas, Ana,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to be your Prince.’
Ana laughed out loud. ‘A prince is the last thing I want, Rhys,’ she said. ‘Tonight I don’t even want to be a princess.’
At some point they’d moved even closer together. Close enough that it would be so easy to reach out and—
‘Do you realise you’ve never touched me?’ Ana said. ‘It’s been driving me crazy. I—’
‘Yes,’ Rhys said hoarsely, and suddenly his hands were at her hips. His big hands gripped her, his fingers enveloping her waist.
For long, long moments all Ana could do was bask in the sensation of Rhys’s hands against her body. Even through the cotton of her T-shirt and the denim of her jeans his touch was electrifying. All she could think about was the heat of his hands and the way his touch made her insides go liquid in response.
But Rhys’s hands didn’t move. She looked down at the way his thumbs curved at her hips, but they remained frustratingly still.
Ana’s gaze returned to his. ‘Rhys...?’
The way he was looking at her was everything. All need and want and like nothing she’d ever experienced.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
She’d barely mouthed the word ‘yes’ when his mouth covered hers.
His lips were firm and sure—there was not a shred of doubt in his kiss. And there was not a shred of doubt in Ana’s response. Immediately she slid her hands up across his shoulders to tangle in his thick hair and pull him even closer. She slanted her mouth as he tasted her lips, tasting his in return, exploring the shape and touch of his mouth.
It was probably only moments later, but when Rhys’s tongue brushed along her bottom lip she sighed in relief, and with need, as if she’d waited for ever to deepen this kiss.
She needed to deepen this kiss. She needed to be as close to Rhys North as she could be. Maybe he felt the same, because his big hands had shifted at her waist to tangle in the fabric of her shirt, to slip under it and against her skin. He explored no further than her waist, the small of her back, and it was not enough for Ana. Not nearly enough.
As they kissed, their tongues tasting and tangling and exploring, Ana’s hands moved from his hair to his shoulders, and then—more boldly—slid down his back to scrape her nails gently down the valley of his spine.
He liked that, groaning his approval into her mouth—and Ana really liked that response, smiling against his lips.
Rhys smiled back, and they stood like that momentarily, perfectly still but for the mingling of their smiles and their breathing. Then Ana slowly slid her hands around his waist to slide beneath his T-shirt. As her breath grew heavier, she paused at his belt for long, tempting seconds before she explored upwards, her fingers luxuriating in the heat and smoothness of his skin and the gorgeous, masculine, hard abdominal muscles beneath her fingertips.
She’d made it up to his pectorals when he stepped backwards. But before she could protest he’d whipped his shirt off over his head.
Oh. This was better. Amazing, as she’d said earlier—how could it have been only today? She’d said it about the view, but really it had been about him, and that opinion was only enhanced now she had his entire chest available for her perusal.
Not that she got long, as seconds later she was in his arms again and he’d lifted her effortlessly—making her feel light and tiny for the first time in her life—and she was sitting on the granite counter, the cheese platter shoved far out of the way.
He stood between her legs, kissing her again, no longer exploratory or playful. It was as if they’d sized each other up and this was serious now. This was proper, intense, all-consuming kissing—kissing that made it impossible for her to think of anything but him. His lips on her and his hands on her body. His hands beneath her shirt, shoving her bra up and out of the way, all heat and want and need...
And it was glorious. It was what she wanted. He was all she wanted.
He wasn’t her Prince and she wasn’t his Princess.
But they were what each other needed.
Just for tonight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS DARK when Rhys woke.
He lay in Ana’s bed.
Why had they chosen her bed? He couldn’t remember—much of the night had been a blur. A good blur, though. An unexpected blur.
Unexpected?
No. No point lying to himself now. From the moment Princess Ana had arrived at his house the air had crackled between them. He and Ana had chemistry—there was no doubting that.
Last night had felt inevitable. Where he and Ana had always been heading.
He stared up at the ceiling. So, it had happened. He’d slept with a woman after Jess.
No matter how inevitable sleeping with Ana might have felt—how right it had felt at the time and how right it still felt, actually—this was still a big deal.
Ana shifted beside him. Rhys rolled onto his side to watch her sleep.
In their haste they’d left a light on in the kitchen, and enough light spilled down the hallway to illuminate Ana’s shape beneath the sheet. Her hair fanned out across the pillow and her hands lay haphazardly on the mattress between them.
She was beautiful.
He liked her.
Oh.
Something inside him shifted. His subconscious appeared comfortable with admiring her beauty, but not so much her personality.
For the first time, he felt uncomfortable lying in Ana’s bed. Suddenly lying here felt...disloyal.
Which he knew, objectively, was ridiculous.
Even more ridiculous given that he’d had opportunities to sleep with attractive women before but had felt he wanted more. He’d want
ed a connection. He’d wanted something real.
Now he’d had it. Now he’d had an amazing night with a gorgeous woman whom he liked...
He realised he really needed to get out of her bed.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress.
Ana’s hand was suddenly at the small of his back, her nails skimming lightly across his skin.
Rhys looked over his shoulder. She was still sleepy, her lids heavy.
‘Rhys?’ she said.
‘Your Highness?’ he responded.
It was a deliberate decision not to say her name, and one he immediately regretted as he watched Ana’s eyes widen and then hurt flicker in her gaze.
But she instantly understood.
Her hand fell away from his body and she tangled her fingers in the sheets, tugging them up higher. Hiding herself from his view.
Casually, she snuggled back into her pillow. Then, as she rolled so that her back was facing him, and so he could no longer see her face, she spoke.
‘Goodnight, Mr North,’ she said. Very calmly, very politely. Regally, even.
‘Goodnight, Your Highness,’ Rhys said.
Then he left.
* * *
Ana decided to make herself toast for breakfast the next morning.
It was early. Really early, actually. But it had been impossible for her to sleep once she’d realised what she had to do: go home to Vela Ada.
Her little escape to Italy was over.
Ana stood on her tiptoes as she reached for a jar of peanut butter in the pantry. Rhys clearly wasn’t a fan of the spread, as it was stashed away amongst dusty spice jars and miscellanea on a high shelf.
As she grabbed it, her hand brushed against a glass vase stored beside it and the oval-shaped vessel wobbled alarmingly. Peanut butter forgotten, Ana grabbed for the vase—thankfully catching it, but in the same movement knocking a shoebox from the shelf and onto the floor.
Letters—unopened letters—spilled from the box and across Ana’s feet.
Quickly she dropped to a crouch, gathering up the letters—and the occasional postcard—and placing them back in the box.
She didn’t mean to look at them, but it was impossible not to notice that nearly all the stamps were Australian and nearly all the senders had the surname North. She’d guess that most of the envelopes contained cards or invitations—the shadow of Christmas-or birthday-related artwork was visible through some of the envelopes, while at least two were clearly expensive formal wedding invitations. But a few were definitely letters.
Ana hadn’t realised people sent so many actual letters these days.
But not one had been opened.
Ana turned over the very last postcard in her hand before she placed it back in the box—it was a birth announcement, with a black-and-white photograph of a baby on one side, and a scrawled message on the other.
Before she could read past the date—more than two years ago—Ana stuffed it into the shoebox, shoved on the lid and put the box back exactly where she’d found it.
Rhys’s mail was absolutely none of her business. None.
This time she retrieved the peanut butter without issue and a few minutes later was standing at the granite counter—which she’d cleared of all the cheese they’d forgotten about last night—and making herself focus on eating her toast rather than wondering why Rhys was hoarding unread mail.
She was starving, actually. She and Rhys had skipped dinner last night, after all.
The reason for the forgotten cheese and missing dinner made her lips curve into a smile and very effectively distracted her from her accidental shoebox discovery.
Last night had been good.
Great, actually.
Amazing, really.
Unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
If she’d had any lingering doubts about her decision literally to flee from Petar as fast as her wedding heels could carry her, they had been blasted away now.
Last night was what she wanted in her happy-ever-after. That all-encompassing desire, that passion, that connection.
Like an idiot, she hadn’t even slept with Petar, having some misguided idea that she was being old-fashioned and romantic.
How crazy was that? She wasn’t a virgin, but in her crazy princess year she’d attempted to reinvent herself in so many different ways. Waiting for marriage had seemed a sensible idea. It was as if ‘Princess Ana’ was a character she’d been playing.
Well... She’d been Ana Tomasich last night. All weekend, actually. From the moment she’d dropped that bouquet.
‘Good morning,’ Rhys said as he walked into the kitchen.
He ran a hand through his hair as he blinked at her with sleepy eyes, and in T-shirt and low-slung tracksuit pants he still managed to look unbelievably sexy.
‘Good morning, Rhys,’ Ana said.
No more of this formal name nonsense. They’d both made their point last night, when Rhys had gone back to his own bed. They’d formally put distance between each other.
Well, Rhys had put distance between them and she’d gone along with it. Although she would’ve done the same thing. Eventually.
Because putting distance between them was the only thing to do. Last night had been great in so many ways, but it wasn’t as if it was going to happen again.
It wasn’t as if they were going to start dating or anything. How would that even work? A princess and a Castelrotto recluse?
They lived in different countries. She was a princess and Rhys was still grieving his wife’s death. And she’d almost married the wrong man. The last thing she wanted was to leap into another relationship.
So, yes. She was glad Rhys had returned to his own bed.
As she watched, Rhys reached for a coffee mug from an overhead cupboard. The casual, unremarkable action drew Ana’s attention to the heavy muscles of his shoulders and arms, and the sliver of tanned skin where his T-shirt rode up ever so slightly.
Yes. She was mostly glad Rhys had returned to his own bed.
‘I’m going home,’ Ana blurted out suddenly.
She needed to be focusing on logistics, not remembering how that skin and the hard musculature beneath had felt beneath her fingertips.
‘Today,’ she clarified. ‘It’s all organised. I’ve already spoken to Adrian and Dino.’
Rhys turned to face her, coffee mug in hand. He met her gaze, but he was doing that thing he did. Where Ana couldn’t work out what he was thinking.
‘That’s great,’ Rhys said. ‘I’m glad you feel ready.’
‘I’m not going back to Petar,’ Ana said, having no idea why she felt compelled to explain.
‘I know,’ he replied.
She saw something then. A flicker of—what? Amusement?
‘You’re so sure I won’t go back to him after a night with you?’ she said, her tone more tart than teasing. She hadn’t meant it to sound that way.
‘You were never going back to him,’ Rhys said. ‘You don’t love him.’
Ana nodded, then managed to smile about the most significant misstep of the past twelve months. ‘Yes, I suppose I forgot that love is a rather critical part of a successful marriage.’
She had managed the light tone she’d intended that time, but when Rhys replied he was utterly serious.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Make sure you marry for love next time, Ana.’
For long moments that sentence hung between them.
Marry for love.
There was a knock at the door. It was time for her to leave for the airport.
Ana pushed the remainder of her toast away and walked up to Rhys. Close enough she had to tilt her chin upwards to meet that sharp blue-grey gaze.
‘I will,’ Ana said. ‘I promise.’
Then, on tiptoes, she pressed a kiss
to his cheek.
That was supposed to be that, but she found she couldn’t make herself step away. Instead her lips remained a breath away from his skin—and then, after Rhys turned his head ever so slightly, his lips.
Then, somehow, they were kissing.
Had he kissed her? Ana thought he had. But maybe not—and did it really matter?
It was a different kiss from last night. This one wasn’t going anywhere. Not to a bedroom, and not to any tomorrow.
It was just a slow, thorough kiss, where they explored each other’s lips and mouths and touched absolutely nowhere else. This was a kiss that was only about the kiss.
It was intense.
It was probably supposed to be a farewell kiss, but at some point it began to feel different. It began to feel...intimate.
And that was when they both stepped away. But again—like she’d wondered who’d started the kiss—Ana couldn’t say who had been the first to end it.
But, equally, it didn’t matter.
The kiss was over.
This was over.
‘Hvala—thank you for this weekend, Rhys,’ Ana said.
‘Goodbye, Ana,’ Rhys said.
Minutes later Ana was back in the car that had brought her here only two days ago, driving away from Rhys and from Castelrotto.
And Ana knew she would never see Rhys North again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Four weeks later
IT WAS DURING Sunday dinner at Ana’s grandparents’ house—a small cottage a short drive outside of Vela Ada’s capital city—that Ana realised her period was late.
It was just after she’d helped her baba clear the plates from the main course—Baba had made crni rižot, squid ink risotto, and she was standing in the kitchen alone, about to arrange the hrstule she’d made onto a platter for them all to share.
Ana could hear her family chatting away happily in the dining room. Dino was on duty tonight and, as the Tomasichs always did on this traditional, regular Sunday night dinner, they’d invited him to join them. His deep voice mingled easily with her mother’s higher-pitched, modulated tones and the softer voices of her grandparents that both crackled with age.