Prince

by Cambria Hebert

  Heading upstairs, unbuttoning my shirt as I went, I peeled off the business clothes with relief, dropping them in the bin for cleaning.

  In the bathroom, I washed my hands and face and ran a brush through my hair. The brush obviously loosened the style I’d had it in all day, taking away the hold of some of the product, but I didn’t care. I wanted the day off me so it would only be me and Fletcher.

  Back in the closet, I pulled on a black pair of jeans and a cream-colored rib-knit Calvin Klein turtleneck sweater with a large black CK in the center.

  Not wanting Fletcher’s food to go cold, I hurried back downstairs, where I found him sitting on a barstool, swinging his feet while staring longingly at his plate.

  “You waited for me?” Fondness saturated my tone.

  “I didn’t have to?” He complained.

  Laughing, I backtracked from my path to the fridge to where he sat, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

  He stilled, and I took the chance to grab the container and flip it over, sliding it under him. “Eat.”

  Not having to be told twice, he grabbed his fork, shoving a huge bite between his lips.

  The sounds he made while chewing appreciatively did nothing to quell the exceptional desire I felt for him.

  “Is it still warm enough?” I asked, turning from inside the open fridge.

  “Yeah,” he said, food stuffing his cheeks.

  Reaching inside, I grabbed a container with the premade chicken salad Jane stocked for me and the container of balsamic vinaigrette to top it.

  Still eating, Fletcher watched me drizzle on the dressing and grab a fork and two waters before sliding onto the stool beside him.

  Leaning over, he glanced into my bowl and made a face. “A salad?” he declared. “That isn’t gonna fill you up. You’re huge.”

  Amused, I tilted the bowl to the side for him to look again. “It will fill me up. It has grilled chicken, avocado, some nuts, vegetables, even some feta cheese.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “You don’t like cold, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I like warm food.”

  It reminded me of the other night when he said love meant someone worrying if he was cold. Did no one ever try and keep you warm?

  “Eat more,” I told him softly, directing him back to his plate.

  We ate in comfortable silence, occasionally mentioning something mundane, until both our containers were empty and he patted the belly he considered squishy.

  “Are you still hungry?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I really appreciate dinner. It was really good, but didn’t you say you wanted to show me something?”

  Smiling, I glanced around to the large wall of windows, noting it was dark. “I think it’s probably about time.”

  Following my gaze, Fletcher frowned. “For what?”

  “Come on,” I said, tossing his container and placing mine in the sink. “Let’s go.”

  At the door, Fletcher stopped to put on his shoes, which he’d adorably took off, placing neatly by the stairs.

  “Hey!” he said, noticing the sneakers I chose. “We match!”

  His foot bumped mine when he put it close, showing off our identical footwear.

  Reaching into a nearby concealed coat closet, I pulled out a couple jackets, draping them over my arm. He was wearing a hoodie today, but it was still cold out.

  “Out we go,” I said, gesturing ahead of me toward the open front door.

  “Don’t you need your car keys?” he asked, pointing at the dish where I’d dropped them earlier.

  “Nope. Don’t need the car where we’re going.”

  “We’re walking?”

  I made a sound, closing the door behind us and heading toward a stairwell on the other side of the elevator.

  “I thought we were on the top floor,” Fletcher remarked, eyes wide when he saw the rising stairs.

  “We are, but there’s something more upstairs.”

  We walked a few flights up, Fletcher asking me with nearly every step what was up here.

  Finally at the top, I pushed open the heavy door, motioning for him to go ahead. Both of us stepped onto the large, flat rooftop, everything in front of us dark but the city beyond alight.

  “Wait there,” I said, moving confidently through the poor lighting to find a small box. Opening it, I flipped the switch, and the area around us illuminated.

  “Whoa,” Fletch whispered with awe. “This is yours?”

  I nodded. “The rooftop space came with the penthouse.”

  Moving forward, he took in the string lights looped around a wide section of space defining a sitting area with a few all-weather couches, chairs, and a large table in the center. A patterned rug decorated the cement floor, and lit-up lanterns in varying sizes sat everywhere.

  “Is that a swing?” Fletcher exclaimed, bypassing all the decorations my designer probably worked hard for to zero in on a partially enclosed hammock swing filled with cushions. It swayed lightly on its chain when Fletcher touched it, eyes turning in question to me.

  “Go ahead.” I encouraged him, completely enchanted by the delight he found in the simplest things.

  With a sound, he climbed in, the entire thing swinging wildly with the way he wiggled around.

  The wicker material it was made of allowed me to see through, making out his frame as he shifted and crawled around.

  “This is cool!” he exclaimed, his hand appearing out of the opening. “Come see.”

  As if I haven’t seen it before.

  I went anyway, bending at the waist to peer in at him. “Having a good time?”

  As he patted the cushion beside him, his eyes were beguiling. “Will you fit too?”

  We would be squished, but that didn’t deter me. If anything, it made me more eager to try.

  The swing bobbed and dipped when I gave it all my weight but recovered nicely to sway slowly back and forth.

  Fletcher had his legs tucked up underneath him, his knees jutting out on either side.

  I tried sitting the same way, but we both wouldn’t fit like that, so instead, I pulled him into my center, settling him between my spread legs.

  “We fit like this,” I murmured against his ear.

  “I bet you come up here a lot.”

  I made a sound, considering. “Not really, actually. It’s usually late when I get home from work and I’m too tired to bother.”

  Sitting up, he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s practically a crime. You have a view like this, and you don’t even enjoy it.” With a little harumph, he turned back, staring out at the glittering city skyline.

  “Another version of the city I haven’t seen before,” he murmured, aptly taking it all in.

  Tucking my arms around his waist, I drew him closer, making a low sound.

  “We’re so high up you can even make out some of the stars you can’t usually see from the ground.”

  Following his gaze, I glanced up. “Make a wish.”

  “Wishes don’t come true,” he said, pulling his chin down to look out across the city once more.

  “Who told you that?” I asked, jostling him a bit. Hearing that kind of pessimism from him made me upset.

  “No one had to tell me. Life taught me.”

  “Fletcher—” I began, only to be rudely interrupted by a sharp, familiar whistle overhead.

  Pop! Pop! Crackle. Shimmer.

  The sudden, loud sounds startled Fletcher, and he cowered back into the swing. Into my embrace. Ducking, his arms came up to shield his head with his hands as small trembles quivered his limbs.

  “Hey.” I spoke quietly, pulling his elbow away from his ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Look up.”

  Slowly, he withdrew, wincing when more loud explosions filled the night.

  “I got you,” I vowed, practically wrapping myself around him. “Look, it’s just fireworks.”

  I felt rather than heard him gasp, face turning up toward the s
ky as the exploding colors lit his features.

  “Whoa!” he yelled, a grin filling the lower half of his face. “They’re so close!” He pointed as red, green, and gold exploded, streaking the sky with shimmering colors.

  “That’s because we’re up so high. It’s why they’re so loud too.” I spoke right in his ear so I didn’t have to yell.

  A particularly large one burst overhead, gold dripping in shimmering streaks, the sound of it crackling and the scent of the powdery sulfur filling the air.

  Eyes fixed ahead, Fletcher watched as more and more fireworks exploded, exclaiming at every new color and wrinkling his nose at the ones he didn’t like.

  “Look!” he yelled. “That one is the best!” His hand found mine, wrapping around the place where I held him.

  My stomach flipped, and my heart stuttered. I could barely think because of the overwhelming emotions rolling over me and the feel of his hand clutching at mine.

  “Ethan, look!” he demanded again, patting my hand impatiently.

  I made a sound. “Awesome.” I agreed, not really seeing. How could I pay attention to anything when he was this close?

  Not even loud, bright explosions in the sky could compare.

  I don’t know how long they went on for. Frankly, I hoped they lasted forever. The more they lit up the night, the more he leaned into me, face upturned, hand still grasping mine.

  The night was cold, but we were warm, the swing swaying slightly as the yearly show captivated the city.

  When the grand finale finally began, the sounds and ferocity seemed to grow too much because he turned his face into the side of my neck, lips brushing over my skin.

  Curling my palm protectively around his head, I held him close, offering him shelter and enjoying the way he fit so perfectly.

  Eventually, the show died down, leaving behind curling smoke, making the sky gray instead of black.

  Tentatively, Fletch pulled away from my neck. “Is it done?”

  “I think so,” I said, smoothing his hair. “Were you scared?”

  He snorted. “No way. It was just really loud.”

  “You don’t like loud noises much, do you?”

  He shrugged.

  Worried he might clam up again, I shifted the subject slightly. “They do this big firework show every year. Have you ever watched it before?”

  Surprised, he glanced over his shoulder. “Every year?”

  I nodded. “Every year on this day, at this time, for over twenty years.”

  His eyes went wide. “Really?”

  “You’ve never seen?”

  He shrugged again. “I mean, I guess I’ve noticed fireworks a few times, but I never knew it was on the same date and every year.”

  I nodded. The Grimms did seem like a world away. Maybe he really hadn’t seen them. “This is what Henry came to remind me about.”

  Stiffening, he pulled out of my embrace, turning slightly between my legs to stare at me in the dim light. “He came to ask you to watch fireworks with him? Why?”

  “He and his wife, Samantha, they’re the ones who sponsor this every year.”

  “All of that?” he asked, pointing toward the sky.

  “All of it. Every year.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s for their son. Today is his birthday.”

  Amazement lit up his face. “Woah. He must really like that.”

  A melancholy feeling stole over me, and familiar sadness I’d known almost my whole life filled me. “I’m not sure if he’s ever seen them.”

  “Did he… did he die?” Fletcher asked, his expression worried, his tone apprehensive.

  “No one really knows what happened to him. He was kidnapped when he was a baby.”

  The swing bobbed with the way Fletch jolted. Turning in a full one-eighty, his back going to the opening of the swing, he faced me completely, eyes wide. “Kidnapped?”

  I nodded. “Stolen right out of his crib while he was sleeping. They say that when Samantha went to check on him and found him gone, her screams filled the entire Upper East Side.”

  “Kidnapping a baby sounds like something that would happen in the Grimms, not here in the rich district.” Hearing his own words, his eyes widened. “Is that why they did it? For money? Did they want ransom?”

  “There was no ransom note. No contact at all when he was taken. I heard—” I stopped. Just because I heard something didn’t make it true.

  “You heard what?” Fletch asked, leaning in.

  “Just rumors,” I murmured, eyes gliding over his features. He had a fine-boned face, wide cheekbones that narrowed into a small chin. “I shouldn’t repeat things that probably aren’t even true.”

  Grabbing hold of my sweater, he tugged the material as if begging. “But I want to hear.”

  Chuckling, I bumped his nose with mine. “Fine, but it’s probably all gossip. I was just a boy when this happened, and I really don’t remember much.”

  “Did you know the baby?”

  “Sure. My family and their family are close.”

  Fletcher’s head bobbed, his eyes asking me to go on.

  “Some people whisper it was a crime of a woman scorned. That someone from Henry’s past was so jealous he chose to marry someone else that she stole away his child to make him as miserable as her.”

  “Is that true?” he demanded, leaning in, completely enthralled by the story.

  I couldn’t help but laugh lightly. “I told you it was a rumor.”

  “Have you ever asked them if it’s true?”

  “I would never.” I admonished easily. “Henry and Samantha were devastated when their son went missing. It was quite a media circus and a huge scandal here. They searched for the baby for years and years. Samantha was completely inconsolable.”

  “But they never found him?” Fletcher asked.

  “They never did. The police think the person who took him left the country.” Gazing over Fletch’s shoulder, I looked into the still smoke-heavy sky. “Samantha was never able to conceive another child, and her only son was gone. Even after all these years, they’ve never given up hope he would be found. They set off fireworks every year on his birthday as a way to honor him, hoping that if by chance he ever saw, he might feel their love.”

  His little sniffle brought me around. Alarmed, I refocused, pushing away the sad tale to see him and only him. “Fletcher? Are you crying?”

  “No,” he whimpered.

  “Puppy,” I whispered, taking his face in my hands.

  His damp eyes lifted to meet mine. “They must really love him a lot to celebrate his birthday when he isn’t even around.”

  The emotion I heard in his tone, the unspoken meaning in his words, made me drop my hands from his face to slip them around his waist. “I don’t think they will ever stop loving him.”

  “He’s lucky, then,” he whispered.

  I frowned. Never once in the last twenty-two years did I ever think of that stolen child as lucky. If anything, I felt sad because he was robbed of the life he was meant to have. His parents were robbed of their child and cursed with a barren nursery. It seemed to me that the love they would always have for that boy was almost worthless because he would never know it.

  But looking at Fletch now, feeling the energy flowing around him, seeing the way he gazed back at the sky almost longingly, and hearing the way he whispered that lost boy was lucky… I saw things from a completely different perspective.

  Perhaps love in any capacity is a gift.

  “When is your birthday?” I asked.

  His eyes lifted, surprise lighting them for a moment. “Me? It’s in February.”

  I made a soft sound. “And how old will you be in February?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Such a puppy,” I said, smiling fondly.

  He rolled his eyes. “Am not.”

  “And how do you celebrate your birthday?”

  A new mood permeated the air the second the question was out. I could a
lmost feel him withdraw, become somehow smaller.

  “Last year, my brothers got me a cake with candles,” he told me, smiling wide. It was an odd contrast to the emotions I felt swirling around us.

  “What kind of cake?” I asked, humoring him.

  “Chocolate!”

  Laughing lightly, I petted his head because, really, I couldn’t help it. “And what about when you were young? How did you celebrate with your parents?”

  That feeling I’d felt? It quadrupled.

  Fletch pulled away from my hand, averting his face. “Birthdays weren’t really a big thing in my house.”

  “So no parties or cake… What about presents?” I asked, already dreading the answer but forcing myself to ask.

  Lips rolling in on themselves, he clasped his hands in his lap. “No. We didn’t do any of that. She said my birthday wasn’t anything to celebrate.”

  I recoiled from his words, forcing myself not to strongly react. “Who told you that?” I demanded, unable to keep the harshness from my words.

  “My mother.”

  Grabbing him by the shoulders, I gave him a light shake. “Are you saying you’ve never celebrated your birthday?”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No, my bothers celebrate it with me. They have for three years now.”

  So he was nineteen when he started living with them.

  With Fletcher, you learned as much from what he said as what he didn’t say, and I was learning very quickly to pay close attention.

  “Tell me what you want for your birthday this year. Name it, anything, and it’s yours.” I promised, wishing I could scoop up the entire world and hand it to him in the palm of my hand.

  His nose wrinkled. “That’s months away.”

  My nose wrinkled. “And?”

  “And by then, I won’t be working for you anymore.”

  My head tilted. Staring at him intently, I asked, “And you think we are here right now, like this, because you work for me?”

  A look of insecurity crossed his features. “We aren’t?”

  “I can assure you I do not kiss any of my other employees.”

  The way his throat bobbed with the force of his swallow drew my eyes and made my heart thud a little heavier than before. “T-then why did you kiss me?”

  “You really don’t know?”