by Imani King
Fortunately, this inexplicable train of thought passes quickly through my head without making any stops along the way and I only stand there, gaping like an idiot, for a second or two before returning the girl’s smile and striding confidently toward her. Some advice for those looking to improve their batting average when hitting on women: be confident. It also helps to be a handsome prince from a small European nation, with a beach house on a Greek island, but I can’t help you with that—some of us were born with the breaks.
“Hi,” I smile and stick out my hand, which the girl takes as the surf washes around our feet.
“Hi.” She smiles that fabulous smile back at me again. “Do I know you?”
I shrug. “I guess you might have seen me around, but... I don’t think so.”
“It’s just... the way you were staring. I wondered if you recognized me.”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. That’s just because you are incredibly beautiful.”
She does one of those shocked half-laugh, half-gasps. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
I shrug again. “What’s the worst that can happen? I’m just telling you the truth. I mean, I’m sure you must be aware how beautiful you are.”
“Yeah,” she shrugs ruefully. “It’s a curse I have to bear—being beautiful.”
“Tell me about it,” I nod.
“You too?” She cocks an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” I know damn well she has noticed how good-looking I am, but she still takes the time to look me critically up and down as if assessing me.
“I guess I can see that. Do you mind if I grab my towel?”
“Depends what you’re going to do with it.”
We stroll back up the beach together. “Are you here by yourself?” I ask, as casually as I can manage. I was taught boxing, wrestling, karate, fencing, shooting, and various other combat sports from a young age, but it’s surprising how angry boyfriends always seem immune to whatever you throw at them—it’s like they have their own martial art.
“At the beach or on Santorini?”
“Either. I guess, both. First one, then the other.”
“Are you afraid my giant wrestler boyfriend is going to jump out and kick your ass like it’s never been kicked?”
“I’d like to see him try,” I lie.
“He’s back at the hotel.”
I shoot her a look and I’m sure I can see the mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’ll take a gamble: you’re lying.”
She meets my gaze for minute, blank-faced, then the facade cracks and she breaks into a fresh grin—damn, this girl can smile. “I’m here alone. And yes, that means I’m single.”
“I’m relieved.”
“And happy that way,” she adds.
“Sworn off men?” People sometimes come to Santorini to forget lost loves and bad breakups.
“That’s a separate question.”
I grin. I would appear to have found a girl after my own heart. Which is to say, a girl who has absolutely no interest in my heart, or anyone else’s heart, or in anything other than fun. That is what I call a “result.”
“I’m Rylan, by the way.”
“Elise.”
“Pretty name.”
“Has a girl ever told you her name and you’ve not told her it was pretty?”
“There was a Bertha once. I thought about saying it, but I didn’t think she’d buy it.”
We arrive at a bright red beach towel with a few belongings strewn about.
“I always worry about leaving stuff lying around here.”
“People are pretty honest,” I say. “There’s so much lying about that there’s a sort of beach-wide amnesty: you don’t touch my stuff I won’t touch yours. What goes around comes around.”
“Good system.” She picks up the towel and begins to towel off her smooth skin. I can’t help staring, but she doesn’t seem to mind, or at least doesn’t mention it. “What are you doing in Santorini?”
“I’ve got a holiday home here.”
As a rule, I don’t tell women I’ve just met that I’m a prince. In fact, I try not to tell them until after I’ve slept with them. This is for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they very seldom believe me and nothing takes the edge off an initial meeting than Googling yourself to prove that you are who you say you are. Secondly, there are girls who want to sleep with a prince and I don’t like that—I’m happy for them to want to sleep with me because I’m handsome and rich, but there I draw the line. I am not a trophy. Thirdly, a girl may be quite happy with a one-night stand when she thinks it’s with a good-looking playboy, but mention the word “prince” and suddenly she gets “Cinderella Syndrome,” and nothing short of a royal wedding can cure that. Not my thing.
All that having been said, if she’s a real stunner and I’m failing to seal the deal for some reason—we all have our off days—then I have been known to play the royalty card. I’m not proud of it but there it is.
“Really?” Elise raises her eyebrows at the mention of a holiday home on a Greek island.
I point up the beach. “That one.”
“Can I see inside it?”
“That’s pretty much been my plan since moment one.”
She laughs. “So you’re actually serious? You didn’t just point at the nearest house to impress me?”
“Men do that?”
“The ones without beach houses.”
“Does it work?” I ask.
“Probably not as well as actually having a beach house.” Now dry, Elise begins to pull on a pair of cut-off denim shorts. “So you’re on holiday?”
“Something like that.”
If I tell her the truth—that I’m taking a break from the stress of everyday life—then she’s going to want to know what I do, which breaks my rule about telling girls that I’m a prince. Also, whenever I explain about the stresses of my everyday life, people tend to look at me as if I have no idea what stress is. People never appreciate how stressful traveling the world, attending big banquets, and social functions can be.
“How about you?” I move the conversation on to her. “Holiday?”
“Mainly,” Elise says from inside the light, button-up blouse she’s pulling over her head. “There’s some Minoan ruins I want to see. The frescos in them are supposed to be fabulous.”
“Archaeologist?”
“Artist.” She shrugs. “Well... trying to be. Got the degree, but the career is a little trickier. Which is stressful. So I thought I’d de-stress with some no-strings fun in the Greek islands, that I can claim has some relevance to work because of the paintings here. Of course, when your stress is financial, then de-stressing with a European vacation may not be the smartest thing to do, but I don’t have to worry about that until I get back. Thank you, credit cards.”
“Fair enough.” I stopped listening when she said “no-strings fun.” The rest of the sentence was a blur to me. “Where are you staying?”
“The Grand Hotel.”
“Nice place.”
“It’ll do if you don’t have your own beach house.”
I go in for the kill. “You know, your financial worries have moved me. I’d like to do my bit to help by buying you lunch.”
Elise pulls an innocent face. “Golly gee, mister, how will I ever be able to repay you?”
“We can talk about that over lunch.”
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More by Imani King:
Kian: Dirty Princes
Dirty Tackle
Linebacker’s Second Chance
Saint: The Corbett B
illionaire Brothers
Rowan: The Corbett Billionaire Brothers
A Bride for One Season
Scandalous: The Senator’s Secret Bride
Her Hollywood Hitman
About the Author:
Imani King is a small town girl with a big imagination. She nurtures a passion for yoga and can often be found in the studio when she's not writing.
In her fantasies, she and her billionaire Mr. Right travel the world, exploring different cultures and each other! These daydreams are the inspiration for her sizzling stories, so what are you waiting for? Give one of them a try and let her know what you think.
Find all of my books at www.amazon.com/author/imaniking.