Xavier steps out of the doorway and right there on the sidewalk, he rips open the brown paper bag in his hand. He grins to himself as he brings the food to his nose for a sniff.
The ravenous look in his eyes as he lifts the lid and peeks into his bucket is really freaking cute. I want to make a gif out of it and watch it on replay all night long.
He reaches in and grabs a juicy piece of meat and now, he's nearly salivating to tear into the crispy drumstick.
I cringe. Poor thing.
I should probably mind my business, just head into the laundry place and wash my dirty clothes as planned but I experience this momentary pang of humanity—a nudge of conscience—where I forget that he's a charming jerk and that being anywhere near him turns me into a ditzy, embarrassing, klutzy shadow of myself. I stand rooted in place.
My heart thumps as he gets closer. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you." I pull my headphones from my ears and shove them into my pocket.
Xavier’s hand freezes midair, fingers clenched around the fried chicken leg. His head snaps up, a lock of his perfectly messy hair falls over his brow and those dark, intense eyes immediately find mine. “Why not?” he challenges, his tone sort of defensive. And now I feel bad for interrupting his meal. He practically has drool hanging from the corner of his lip.
But my stomach roils with revulsion as the unpleasant memory floats back into my head. “Let’s just say that the last time I ate from that place, the bugs didn't start crawling out until I was almost at the bottom of my bucket of chicken tenders…I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone.”
I don’t wait for his reaction. I just turn in the direction of the performers busking outside the laundromat and when I yank open the door, that over-scented laundry detergent smell rushes out to greet me.
I hear Xavier retching loudly from somewhere behind me. He rushes into the stuffy, humid building after me and his box of fast food goes sailing into the trashcan next to the coin machine. “Thanks for the heads up.” I peek over at him and he looks a little green in the cheeks.
I bite back a laugh as I set my laundry basket on the table opposite an empty washer. “Sorry," I say, my choked giggles muffled by the whirr of a washing machine that's already in use. "You looked like you really wanted to eat that.”
He mutters to himself as he goes over to the vending machine in the corner. "Well, chicken tenders are ruined for me. For life. That's for sure."
Though I should be focused on sorting my clothes into piles, I find myself staring at the expanse of his shoulders as he scans his drink options at the vending machine.
I’ve always been a sucker for broad shoulders, wide backs. So strong and masculine. I pride myself on being a tough girl, on not needing anyone but me. Still, there’s a little part of me that romanticizes the idea of a big, strong man who can protect me. A man who can wrap his towering, muscular body around me and make me feel precious, cared for. I guess it's sort of an innate craving, buried layers beneath my hard exterior. Xavier has a way of stirring that silly fantasy to life the way no man ever really has.
This feeling is all kinds of confusing. It's just the way he carries himself, like he has the power to command a damn army, like he expects the world to bend to his will.
I want to be at the mercy of all that masculinity.
Would you look at that? I just discovered a new fetish. I learn something new about myself everyday.
I watch as he pops some change into the machine and two bottles of water roll out. Then, he moves on to the snacks. “Biscuits or crisps, darling?” he calls over his shoulder.
I blink, confused. “Biscuits or crisps?” My gaze moves to the assortment of junk food displayed behind the glass and I laugh. “You mean cookies or chips?”
He turns fully to face me, looking pretty damn annoyed. “Look—I am a starving man. A man who’d had his heart set on having a bloody good box of chicken and chips with a whole lot of catsup and gravy. You’ve robbed me of that pleasure by telling me about the damn bugs. Don’t make my life any harder, Sadie…Biscuits or crisps?”
I laugh because he's sort of adorable now that he's pissed. “Neither.” I dig into my basket and start piling my laundry onto the table. Being around him makes my stomach way too tense to eat.
“You sure? Don’t be shy now.”
“I’m sure,” I tell him as I toss a pair of stained socks onto the white pile. "Sadie Nichols is many things. Shy isn't one of them." That is such an understatement.
“So what’s the problem?” His gaze moves over me, settling on the wide swell of my hips. My stomach flutters at the blatant scrutiny. “Don’t tell me you’re doing keto. Every woman I know is doing keto.”
I lift a brow. “Keto? Is that the diet where you’re supposed to deprive yourself of carbs for a whole thirty days and be expected to not go on a countrywide hangry spree, riding around on a mobility scooter and flinging stale bread and burnt taco shells at unassuming strangers? I wouldn’t be able to handle that. I require frequent consumption of donuts for my sanity. Nope. No keto for me.”
“Oh, thank you for the vivid imagery,” he says with lifted brows. “Never trust a person who willingly gives up carbs.” He flashes another one of those smug half-smiles which does nothing to dull the prominent throb at my apex.
An easy laugh floats past my lips as I try to play it cool. "Agreed."
Xavier strolls across the scuffed linoleum floor, over to my table and slides a bottle of water to me. And it’s completely pathetic that my stomach clenches a little bit at the gesture. But when a girl is used to guys being complete assholes, the smallest acts of chivalry take on undue significance.
He hops up onto the table, perching beside my heap of tighty whities. The loud cracking snap of him uncapping his water bottle fills the room. With his head tipped back slightly, his eyes move over my dirty underwear as he swallows a gulp of water. A cloud of self-consciousness moves over me.
Awkward.
We’re alone in a laundromat. And he's staring at my dirty underwear collection. My body is way too buzzed up to handle this. Because who hasn't fantasized about getting tossed up onto a washing machine and fucked hard during the spin cycle? Or being bent over a dryer, its warmth seeping into your skin as you get pounded from behind?
...Just me? Never mind, then.
Xavier's attention is riveted to what I'm doing. “So you’re separating them by color. Hmmm…That’s an interesting concept." He looks genuinely intrigued, like he thinks I just discovered a new law of physics or something.
I furrow my brows at him. Men can be so clueless. “Well, yeah…I don’t want the colors to bleed into each other.” I pick up a white T-shirt and hold it up to him. “I wouldn’t want this getting a pink tint to it by washing it with this.” I hold up a pair of electric pink leggings in the other hand. “So, I separate them by color. I didn’t come up with the idea.”
Just then, a stern-looking middle-aged guy enters the building. Black button-down. Black pants. Black shoes. He looks pretty good for an old guy. He and I exchange a polite nod in greeting as he heads for the washer that just completed its spin cycle.
Xavier doesn't seem to notice the man because he's completely mystified by what I’m doing. He hums thoughtfully. "I never considered that. Bleeding colors. Is that something that happens often?"
That's when it dawns on me. Seriously? I lean a shoulder against an empty laundry machine. “Wait—have you never done the laundry before?”
He smiles impishly and gives his head a little embarrassed shake. “No.” He shoves a potato chip into his mouth.
An involuntary snort pops out of the man loading his clothes into a dryer. Xavier glares at him for a fraction.
Dread settles in my stomach. There are only three types of men who don't do their own laundry...
“Well, you either have a very committed long-term girlfriend or you’ve been paying your maid very well. Or, worst of all…” (Cobi's face tumbles across my mind) "...you still live
with your mother."
He tosses his head back and mirth flows free from his throat. "Well, my mother hit the hills before I even knew how to wipe my arse. I haven't seen the bitch since I was an infant. So no, I don't live with my mother. "
That bit of information scalds me. I know from personal experience how much that hurts, how the forced laughter and the dry humor are only masks to cover up the pain. "My mother left when I was a baby, too." I don’t laugh when I say it.
Immediately, Xavier's expression grows somber. "Sadie...I'm so sorry, sweetie." He reaches out and his fingers curl around my bare forearm. I can tell the gesture is meant to be comforting but the tingling contact makes me jolt. Damn—this guy really gets to me.
But I don't want this conversation to get heavy. I don't want to be confronted by demons I'm in no mood to face. I deflect the conversation. "So...girlfriend or maid?"
His expression snaps back to playful. His eyes bore into mine. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. “No girlfriend,” he tells me, his accented words rough and deep and rich. Smirking, he gobbles down a few more chips.
No girlfriend. My overeager body likes that news a little too much for my own good.
“So, you have a maid?” I say knowingly.
He just sort of glances away. “Yes, the maid takes care of the laundry.” He almost looks ashamed.
"Hmmm…” I turn my attention back to the pile of laundry in need for sorting.
"What?" he asks, the word tinged with defensiveness and a hint of laughter.
"Nothing," I say and I just keep sorting the blacks from the reds, struggling to maintain a non-judgmental expression.
He’s not gonna just let this go, though. “What?" he insists. He scoots his butt across the table, coming so close that his leg grazes my hip. The tiny hairs on my thighs stand at attention.
My breath catches and my eyes flit to his. The look on his face is perfectly demanding and a confession tumbles from my mouth. "I sort of just knew you were a rich boy. From the moment I met you, I knew it...that's all." I round the table to put some much-needed space between us.
"What does that mean?" He’s trying to look offended with his eyebrow quirked high and his nostrils flared.
"You're pampered." I return. I know I’m provoking him.
The man in the corner grunts ironically. Dude is totally eavesdropping on our convo with no shame. So rude.
Xavier and I exchange a look, then we scoot a couple inches away from the nosy guy. Xavier’s eyes drop to the floor. “That isn’t a totally unfair statement, I suppose.” The words sound hesitant and laced with the slightest amount of shame.
I don’t mean to scoff but I do anyway. “Rich dad, huh? Lemme guess...he's in real estate? Or is it the stock market? You look stock-market-rich.” I titter at his uneasiness.
“It goes much deeper than that,” he says on a humorless laugh.
I grab a dirty pillowcase from the pile and give it a little shake before tossing it onto the red pile. I watch as his discomfort grows. Well, damn. Is he richer than stock-market-rich?! Because stock-market-rich is seriously rich.
He glances over at the eavesdropper before he turns back to me, voice lowered. “Sadie, I wasn’t joking when I said I live in a palace.” I look up and our eyes meet. I want to laugh because there he goes being ridiculous again. The guy’s such a joker. Except, right now, he looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I’m a prince,” he says softly. “I’m the grandson of the queen of Ridgeland.”
I’m trying to figure out whether I should roll my eyes or punch him in the shoulder. He’s obviously pranking me.
A wry smile slowly curves one corner of his mouth. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
I grab the detergent and pour a measure of the pungent blue liquid into the bottle cap. I’m so not falling for this. “You do have an ego of royal proportions,” I say sarcastically, “but that alone doesn’t qualify you to be a prince.”
I hold my breath as he rounds the edge of the counter. Standing in front of me, he takes the bottle of laundry detergent from my hands and watches me solemnly. He doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. “Sadie, I’m not joking. I’m Prince Xavier George Andrew Henry Cambridge of Ridgeland.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Second in line to the throne.”
“You’re being so annoying.”
“Duke of Rochdale.”
“Stop playing around.” My eyes widen a touch. My giggles fade.
“Earl of Dunwich.” How can he say these things with a straight face?
I puff out a shallow breath and whisper. “You are such a liar.”
He shrugs slightly. “Okay, we’ll I’m pretty much out of titles now, so...” Still no signs of levity on his face and I'm starting to consider the possibility that maybe he's telling the truth.
“You’re a prince?” I squeak out.
Laying down his bag of chips, he holds both of my hands in his and nods. “Yes.”
I freeze for a second then pull my hands away from him. "Like a prince prince?”
He tries not to laugh. “Yes.”
I narrow my eyes with suspicion. “But you’re standing in a laundromat. In Copper Heights.”
His eyes dart around the room. He nods. “I am aware of my current surroundings. Yes.”
“Shouldn't you have security? Like some mounties or something?"
Incredulous, he snorts at my ignorance. “The mounties are the Canadian paramilitary police force, darling.”
I wave him away, annoyed. “Oh, I don’t know the technical terms. But you know what I mean.” I plant both fists on my hips.
He smirks in response. “I ditched my security and then skipped the country. Frankly, I’m surprised my grandmother hasn’t sent her bloodhounds to find me as yet.”
"Wow..." I fall back against the edge of the table. This craziness might actually be true.
I'm almost there but I still need a little more convincing.
I thrust a hand out to him. “Pics or it didn’t happen,” I demand.
He scoffs, like he can't believe I'd doubt him. But I don't back down. I hold his fiery gaze even though it makes my heart bounce around in my chest. "Fine," he grumbles like a cranky child giving in to something he'd rather not do.
His massive hand dips into the pocket of his jeans and his phone emerges. While he's tapping around, I get the washer going and dump another load in. When I turn back to him, he stretches the device out to me. It's a selfie of him with a very, very familiar face. All smiles. I gasp. "Me and Mrs. Obama at the American embassy in Ridgeland,” he says pointedly.
Before I can stutter my way into a coherent sentence, he scrolls around again and produces another photo.
"Harry and Meggie have a nice little hideaway tucked into the valley not far from Folkshire Palace where I live."
"Meggie?" is all I'm able to choke out.
He laughs. "The duchess hates when I call her that but sometimes I can't help myself. She looks like such a 'Meggie’. Don't you think?"
I would laugh except I'm still struggling to process all this new information. Meanwhile, Xavier pulls up another photo. This one really blows my mind. It's a wedding portrait. A group of regal-looking people are gathered in front of a purple velvet wall with ornate golden molding and elaborate crystal chandeliers hanging above their heads.
Xavier stands in the back, off to the left side, looking devastatingly handsome in a royal blue ceremonial military uniform. He's scowling. In fact everyone in the photo is frowning aside from the gorgeous bride who is grinning like she just won the lottery and the groom who looks like he can't wait to get their wedding night on and popping. The noticeable bulge at the front of his pants confirms it.
Xavier points at the groom. "My father—Edmund, the Bastard, as I call him—is next in line to the throne. This is wedding number three. "
"God—the bride is gorgeous," I gush.
He clucks his tongue. "She'd better stay that way," he t
ells me snidely. "God knows Edmund has never been shy about trading in for a newer model. My mother learned that the hard way when the first handful of mistresses started popping up.”
And even despite Xavier’s disarming smile and his brash swagger, as he speaks I can see the shadows, the hurt. Something is amiss beneath it all and I'm intrigued to know what it is.
I think he senses that I might ask about it, because he quickly diverts the topic. "This is the Queen, " he says, pointing to the stern-faced, white-haired lady sitting primly in the ornate armchair at the front of the frame. "She is as scary as she looks." He laughs easily. I do, too.
He goes from person to person, pointing out cousins and uncles and aunts. It's finally starting to sink in for me. "Wow, you're a prince..." I don't mean for my voice to sound as dreamy as it does.
His eyes rotate into his head. "Oh, god. Don't look at me like that."
I furrow my nose. "Like what?"
"Like I'm some sort of cut-out ripped straight from a Disney movie." He clasps his hands over his heart and bats his eyelashes like a ridiculous cartoon character.
I guffaw. "You wish. I'm just starting to understand where that epic ego of your comes from." I make the comment sarcastically but there's a grain of truth to it. I've never met a man as confident as he is, a man with this much natural swagger. He's effortlessly dominant. A real alpha male without even trying.
He's a prince. Excuse me but you'd be fascinated, too. At least a little.
But of course, he's gotta go and pop the bubble I'm floating in. "So now can you just acknowledge how cool I am for a second?" He puffs up his chest, fists his hips and angles his chin irreverently, like a valiant knight posing for a portrait following a successful conquest.
But this girl is not one to swoon...openly. I've got to cut him down to size. “You’re not that cool.” I give a tiny shrug as I pop a freshly-washed load into the dryer.
“Not that cool? I’m royalty, Sadie Nichols. What does a bloke have to do to impress you?”
My stomach tingles at the thought that he’d care to impress me. It’s a joke, Sadie. He’s joking around. “Dude, you don't know how to do your own laundry. Doing laundry is, like, the basic tenent of adulting."
The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series Page 86