Waiting for Prince Harry

by Aven Ellis

  Harrison groans as we go back toward the front of the house. “She is hands down one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met. She kept talking at me and talking at me and I kept giving her every non-verbal signal to fucking leave but she didn’t get it!”

  We step outside, and Harrison locks up the house.

  “That’s Laurel,” I say as Harrison removes the key. “Not getting it because the world revolves around her. You couldn’t have possibly wanted her to leave, Harrison.”

  Harrison laughs as we stroll down the sidewalk.

  “So you’ll be there tomorrow to protect me from her?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Like after the show? You’ll make sure she stays away from me?”

  I giggle. “Like your bodyguard?”

  Harrison roars with laughter. “Holy shit, yes. You can be my bodyguard. The mission is yours, if you care to accept it.”

  “Another collaboration?”

  Harrison flashes me another gorgeous smile as we reach his car. “Yes, another collaboration, if you will.”

  “So I’m your home renovation coordinator, now your anti-Laurel bodyguard,” I say, smiling as I get into the passenger seat. “What’s next on the offer table, Mr. Flynn?”

  Suddenly his expression gets serious, and my breath catches in my throat.

  “I think,” Harrison says softly, “we could have endless possibilities, as you say, for future collaborations, Ms. Reed. Starting with tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 8

  The Pop Quiz Question: Should you ever Google your crush?

  A) No. Let there be some mystery in getting to know someone.

  B) Yes, and run a credit check and background check as well. Better safe than sorry.

  C) Only if you are prepared to deal with all the information you find . . .

  Loud dance music is pulsating off the walls of Boutique Dallas. Customers are dressed to the nines for the Heat of Summer Fashion Show, picking up hors d’oeuvres off silver trays and sipping Veuve Clicquot champagne. Cameras are in position for the live web feed of the show, and the local media are here to cover the event, too. There is electricity in the air—of anticipation of the show that is to come, and of the local celebrities that will be modeling chic summer fashions for women’s cancer charities.

  I’m scrambling around like a mad woman. I have a nighttime shot of the Dallas skyline projected up on the back wall. The catwalk is ready, which is actually a path we created by moving the entire boutique around today, and I rolled out a white carpet for the models to walk down.

  Some people have already taken their seats and are busy rifling through the swag bags I placed on each chair. I’ve artfully arranged all-white orchids, hydrangeas, and roses in elegant glass vases all over the store in strategic spots. We have an ice sculpture set up at the bar, in the shape of the Dallas Skyline, and the whole boutique reflects the white-hot summer chic vibe.

  I hurry back toward the dressing area, where the models are getting ready.

  Where Harrison is, I think, my heart slamming against my ribs.

  I haven’t even seen him, as the models were ushered in through the back door. And all I can think about is this moment, of finally getting to him. Of how he said we had endless possibilities, starting with tonight—

  “Kylie, how’s the floor?” Laurel hisses into my headset, interrupting my thoughts.

  I pick up the mic and speak into it. “Fantastic, Laurel. Are the models ready?”

  “Getting there,” Laurel says. “You can come back here and tweet some pictures to our followers.”

  What? Tweet? Me?

  “You want me to tweet?” I ask, making my way through the crowd.

  “Obviously not from your account since you have like ten followers,” Laurel snaps. “You’ll use my account for the store and tweet on my behalf for Boutique Dallas, of course. So you’ll provide live coverage of the evening.”

  Awesome. I get to be Laurel’s Twitter bitch tonight. Maybe if I’m really lucky, she’ll have me update Facebook and Connectivity too!

  But I don’t care. I’m about to see Harrison, and that’s all that matters.

  I slip back to the dressing rooms, which have been sectioned off from the rest of the store. I quickly start looking for Harrison, but the entire area is a blur of makeup artists, hair stylists, wardrobe racks. I see Ashlea Kelly, who is one of our biggest clients and part of Dallas’ elite society. She is young, my age, but well known as a powerful social media publicist.

  “I’m not sure about the fit of this dress,” she says, twirling in front of Laurel and Bradley. “Are you sure it doesn’t make my hips look horrendously big?”

  Oh dear God. Ashlea is a size zero. And her body is perfection in an elegant Nina Ricci black halter gown. Her long, wavy blond hair is being fluffed, and an artist moves around her painting her pouty lower lip a glossy nude color.

  I bite my lip. Actually, it’s the kind of dress I would’ve loved to have worn tonight. However, since I’m working and on headset, I am in skinny jeans, a pair of metallic strappy heels, and a black, fold-over spaghetti strapped top by The Row. I have pulled my hair up into a sleek ponytail, and did a smoky eye for more drama, but I feel like I don’t even compare to how stunning Ashlea Kelly looks right now.

  “Ashlea, you look amazing in this dress,” Laurel says soothingly. “You’re going to look fantastic on Harrison’s arm.”

  Suddenly I feel my stomach roll over. Oh God. Ashlea gets to walk with Harrison?

  A door pops open and Harrison steps out. “Did someone call me?”

  I seriously can’t breathe as I look at him. He’s got his suit pants on and a crisp white dress shirt, which is fucking unbuttoned. I see nothing but ripped abs. My gaze wanders up to his chest, which is absolutely chiseled, and my mouth drops open. Christ, I have never, ever, ever seen a body so strong and muscular in my entire life.

  “Harrison, can I have Kylie get a picture of you as you are now and tweet it to our followers?” Laurel asks.

  Suddenly I lift my eyes to his face, and I realize he’s staring at me. I feel my face instantly grow hot in response.

  “Sure,” Harrison says, his eyes never leaving mine.

  Laurel hands me her iPhone, and I move toward him, feeling embarrassed and excited and, good Lord, how do I not pass out seeing him in a crisp white dress shirt that’s just hanging across that sculpted body?

  “I was wondering where you were,” Harrison says, flashing me a huge grin as I approach him.

  “You’ll see my handiwork when you walk down the catwalk,” I say, smiling at him. “The displays and décor are all mine.”

  “I’m sure it’s perfect then.” His eyes lock in on my face. “You look gorgeous,” Harrison says softly.

  A wave of shock washes over me. He thinks I’m gorgeous. In a room where Ashlea Kelly is perfection in Nina Ricci, Harrison Flynn is telling me I’m the gorgeous one.

  I run my fingers over the ends of my ponytail. “Thank you,” I say happily, feeling nothing but pure elation zipping through every inch of my body.

  “Kylie. Picture. Now!” Laurel snaps into my headset.

  I drop my voice. “Laurel is commanding I take your picture into my headset.”

  Harrison lifts an eyebrow. “Well, since I don’t want you to get into trouble, let’s do it. Here, I’ll adjust my cuffs but look straight ahead.”

  Just like the Esquire photo, I think.

  Harrison pulls on one of his cuffs and looks straight at me. “Good?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  Good? How about drop dead fucking hot?

  I nod and take his picture.

  “Is that all you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you for doing that,” I say honestly. “I know you probably get asked that a lot, so I’m sorr
y to be someone else asking you to do something.”

  Harrison smiles at me. “That was easy. And it was for you.”

  I can’t breathe. I really can’t. And I think my heart is about to leap out of my chest from the way he is smiling at me right now.

  Harrison clears his throat. “I’ve got to finish getting ready, but come back here after the show is over so we can meet up.”

  “Of course I’m coming back here,” I say, grinning. “I’d be one crappy bodyguard if I didn’t.”

  “Oh you’d better be at my side the second this show is over Kylie Reed,” he says, his eyes dancing at me. “Or I’ll have to put you in the penalty box."

  Okay, so I have no idea what a penalty box is, but if it’s with Harrison Flynn, I’m so in.

  “Good luck,” I say, laughing.

  “See you after the show.”

  I turn and leave him to get ready. I take a second to tweet his picture out to the followers of Boutique Dallas. Then I walk around and snap a few more pictures, including one of the stunning Ashlea Kelly, and begin to exit the dressing area.

  But as I look down at Laurel’s phone, I notice her Twitter account is blowing up. I go over and see Harrison’s picture is being retweeted at a rapid rate. I scan through the retweets and comments.

  OH MY GOD FUCK IS HE HOT

  Squee! Abs and Chest!

  WHEN DOES THE LIVE FEED START? OH MY GOD! CANNOT WAIT!

  WHERE ARE MY HANDCUFFS? I’d cuff him to the dressing room door and have my way with him!

  Handcuffs . . . Handcuffs were mentioned on that Flynnbabes page! I look at the Twitter name, and sure enough, it is @BridgetFLYNN22.

  I find my spot near the end of the runway, where I can take good pictures of the models, and although I know I probably shouldn’t do this, I access the Flynnbabes web page while I wait for the show to get started.

  I swallow hard and open it up.

  And holy shit, the page is imploding with the picture I tweeted of Harrison with the open white shirt on.

  I scan down the posts and comments, which are being reloaded at a rapid fire pace:

  I want to LICK that chest

  White Shirt Alert! White Shirt Alert!

  Excuse me, girls, he’s just coming from MY bedroom

  HARRISON FLYNN RUINED ME. NO OTHER MAN EXISTS

  I click out of it, rattled. This is what women say about him. They go psycho when a new picture is released. They would do anything to be in the same air space as him. Harrison Flynn has his pick of any woman he wants, and so many women would give him whatever he wanted, no questions asked.

  I swallow hard. Yet somehow, Harrison is spending time with me. And seeing endless possibilities between us. How’s this even possible? Because from the way he spoke to me the other night when he uttered those words, I don’t think he was thinking endless possibilities as his friend—

  Suddenly the music fades and Laurel steps on to the front of the stage with a microphone.

  “Welcome to the Heat of Summer Fashion Show, benefiting the fight against women’s cancers,” Laurel says, all bright and smiley. A large applause goes up. “As the manager of Boutique Dallas, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight . . .”

  She goes on to thank the owner of Boutique Dallas, Miranda Davis, who comes up to the mic and speaks. Then Laurel goes on to thank all of our sponsors, the stylists, the staff of Boutique Dallas, etc. and finally she says the best words ever.

  “Let’s start the show!”

  A big cheer goes up and the music changes to Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi.” The lights dim and focus on the white carpet.

  And Harrison struts right out in his D&G suit to open the show.

  My hand is shaking as I try to take a picture. I have never seen such perfection in all my life. His red curly hair is jelled and tousled; the suit is smoking hot and fitted exquisitely to his powerful athletic frame; his super sharp black dress shoes finishing out the outfit just right.

  The crowd erupts the second he turns on the platform and faces the crowd. I mean, women of all ages are going crazy the second he turns!

  Ashlea Kelly appears from the other side of the stage, and she links her arm through Harrison’s. They strut down the catwalk, looking hot and glamorous and completely like they were ripped from the page of a Vanity Fair photo shoot.

  When they get toward the end of the runway, Harrison stops and takes off his jacket, and the screams are deafening. Ashlea cocks her head back and rests her hand on his chest, and then they pause and look straight at the cameras.

  As I take a picture to tweet, I realize Harrison is a pro at this. Like he has modeled a gazillion times before and this is natural to him.

  Then they turn and walk back up the stage.

  I instantly tweet that photo out, and I notice our Twitter followers are skyrocketing. Ever since I posted that photo of Harrison, in fact.

  My God. He really does live in a different universe than I do.

  I continue to snap pictures and tweet, but the ones with Harrison are the ones that are getting massive retweets. I anxiously wait for him and Ashlea to appear at the end to close the show.

  Other local celebs glide up and down the catwalk, but none have the impact of Harrison and Ashlea.

  The music changes to “Scream & Shout.” And Harrison appears a second time, much to the delight of every female in the audience, this time in the long-sleeved leather shirt. But instead of wearing the Superman logo shirt underneath, he put on his bridge T-shirt!

  I grin broadly. I love that he did that. He struts again with Ashlea, who has changed into a skimpy, short, black spaghetti-strapped dress.

  They walk to the loudest cheers of the night, and when they get to the end of the runway, the cameras go crazy, the clicking sounds just one after another after another.

  They go back up and exit, and then all the models appear and take one final walk on the catwalk. And of course, Harrison gets the loudest screams of the night.

  I tweet a few more pictures, knowing the girls are going to go insane over the leather shirt and jeans. Then Laurel comes up and closes the show.

  I try to make my way toward Harrison, but I immediately see that he is surrounded by press and giving interviews.

  I watch in the wings for a bit. Suddenly a female reporter brushes past me, and bumps my arm.

  “Could you make way? I need to get up there,” she snaps, tossing her glossy brown hair over one shoulder.

  I furrow my brow, as saying “excuse me” would have worked just as well, but I’m in too good of a mood to let one reporter’s rudeness ruin my night.

  “Um, sure,” I say, stepping aside.

  I watch as she makes a straight line right toward Harrison, her cameraman following right behind her.

  “Harrison!” she yells, sticking up her manicured hand.

  Harrison sees her. I watch as a smile crosses his face.

  Oh God. Seeing him smile like that—at a gorgeous woman—makes me feel queasy.

  “Cynthia,” he says, nodding at her. “Hold on.”

  My chest draws tight. An uneasy wave crashes over me. I watch as Harrison finishes an interview, then goes over to Cynthia, giving her a big hug. He towers over her, as she is petite. Petite, with curves in all the right places and a gorgeous mane of shiny, perfectly highlighted chestnut hair—

  “My phone,” Laurel snaps, interrupting my thoughts.

  I blink and turn to her. She holds out her hand, expectantly, in that ever-annoying way she has.

  I hand it to her.

  “Thanks,” she says. I turn my gaze back to Cynthia and Harrison, feeling rather uneasy as I watch the familiarity between them.

  “Ah, Cynthia Burke,” Laurel says in a knowing voice.

 
“Who’s she?” I ask, turning to Laurel.

  Laurel’s lips curve up in smug smile. “Local sports reporter. And former Miss California. I believe she was third runner up in the Miss USA pageant a few years ago.”

  Oh God.

  I look over at her and Harrison, and she keeps touching his arm, making him laugh, and they appear very comfortable together—and this isn’t even part of the interview. It’s just Harrison talking to Cynthia.

  And seeing how right they look together sends my heart into a tailspin.

  “She was very excited to cover our event once Harrison was added,” Laurel says knowingly. Then she leans toward me to talk in my ear. “Rumor has it that she would like to mix business with pleasure as far as Harrison is concerned.”

  “How would you know that?” I ask honestly.

  Laurel is now focused on her iPhone, scrolling through her Twitter feed. “We’ve almost tripled our followers since you tweeted that photo of Harrison. I need to find Bradley and see how our online sales are going. Oh, but in answer to your question? I’m friends with a girl from the sales department of her station. Cynthia’s made it known that Harrison Flynn is the one she has her eye on.”

  I swallow hard. Now they are shooting a segment. Harrison looks very relaxed, and he’s talking and running his hand over his hair as he speaks to Cynthia.

  “Look at him now,” Laurel says. “He’s interested in her. You can tell by the way he’s flirting with her.”

  “You don’t know that,” I snap impulsively.

  “Kylie, seriously? See the way he’s leaning in to her? Look at his eyes—he’s totally into Cynthia. What man wouldn’t be? She’s the package—gorgeous, smart—she went to Stanford, you know—and a sports fan. Famous in her own right. That’s the kind of woman he wants. Oh, and guess what? Backstage, Ashlea Kelly gave him her phone number. She actually entered it into his iPhone for him. Can you believe that?”