by Tracy Wolff
“Okay, I lied. It’s all you and this ridiculous restaurant.”
That startles a laugh out of him even as he raises a hand to call for the check. A fawning waiter is at his side within moments.
“Has Your Royal Highness decided on a dessert?” the little man simpers.
“Actually, we’re going to forgo dessert this evening, Pierre.”
I’m impressed, but not surprised, that he remembers the man’s name. I’ve reached the conclusion that Garrett notices, and remembers, everything.
“Yes, of course, sir.” Pierre’s words are perfectly polite—perfectly appropriate—but his tone suggests that Garrett has just murdered his grandmother. Or worse, ordered Pierre to go home and commit the murder himself. “I’ll just…” His voice breaks and I’m pretty sure the poor guy is fighting back tears as he clears his throat once, then again and again. “I’ll have your bill ready momentarily.”
My own throat closes up a little as he backs away, his lower lip trembling just a bit. Who knew a monarch’s refusal of dessert could cause such utter and complete devastation? For the good of the country, I obviously need to suck it up a little here.
“Actually,” I call after poor, sad Pierre, “can we have one of everything to go?”
Garrett’s eyes widen in alarm. One of everything? he mouths, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Considering who he is, I’m pretty sure it’s not the exorbitant prices that have him looking so horrified. Which means he must be as traumatized at the thought of broccoli and peanut butter ice cream as I am.
“Look at it as your public service for the day,” I whisper, making sure to keep my voice down since there are people around me and the last thing we need is for our conversation to end up in Wildemar’s tabloids.
Then again, that’s been the problem with this whole night. Between the bodyguards, the fawning waitstaff, and the other restaurant-goers—all of whom seem shocked and awed to find their prince among them—the night has been one long whisper fest.
Don’t talk too loud, don’t get too animated, don’t bring up anything personal. Going on a public date with Gorgeous Garrett is about as much fun as getting a root canal—in one of those bizarre dentist offices where they leave the blinds open so anyone walking by can see you tipped back with your mouth wide freaking open. So not worth the all-nighter I’m going to have to pull to get my inventory ready for tomorrow morning’s photo shoot—especially since he’s been so busy being the prince that the goofy guy that made me go against my better judgment has completely disappeared.
“I’m not certain my sense of duty extends so far that it encompasses brussels sprout panna cotta,” he responds as he reaches for his wallet. “Public service or not.”
My sense of duty doesn’t extend to brussels sprout anything, but I don’t bother to tell him that. I’m pretty sure he already knows.
As we make our way outside a couple of minutes later—Garrett’s bodyguards leading the way and bringing up the rear, even with their arms full of dessert—Garrett guides me with a hand to the small of my back. And though I’m looking for a graceful way to exit this date as fast as possible, I’d be lying if I said his touch—light but firm, warm but not too hot—doesn’t give me shivers. Because it does, even after that ridiculous excuse for a dinner.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks as we approach the black SUV idling at the curb.
I start to say yes—this date has been distinctly un-fun and I have a shit-ton of work to do tonight—but something about the look in his eyes has my throat closing up all over again. Apparently, one date with Gorgeous Garrett has turned me into a royal pushover.
“Actually, why don’t we walk a little?” I tell him. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Walk?” He looks surprised, like he’s never heard of the concept.
“You know, that activity where you put one foot in front of the other and it propels you in a forward direction?” I snark.
“I am familiar with the concept. Although you’ll have to give me some pointers, as I’m used to being carried everywhere on a palanquin—”
“A what?”
He gives me a superior look that should be obnoxious but is just hot instead. “You shouldn’t snark if you can’t keep up. First rule of being a smart-ass.”
“Oh, I can keep up.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And what do you know about snark anyway? Aren’t you Prince Perfect?”
“You’ve obviously never met my brother if you have to ask what I know about snark. And I prefer Prince Charming. So much less braggadocious than Prince Perfect.”
“Of course you do.” I insert my tongue firmly in my cheek. “Your humility really is your best quality.”
“You only say that because you haven’t yet seen my best quality.”
“Seriously? What is it about men that makes them physically incapable of passing up a chance to publicly proclaim how awesome their dicks are?”
The bodyguard behind me makes a sound like he swallowed a bug, and for a moment I wonder if I’m going to be shipped off to the tower for my insolence.
But Garrett just grins wickedly. “I never mentioned my dick, but glad to know that’s what you’re thinking about. Means I’m definitely making progress.”
As he leans in, I slap a hand on his chest and push firmly to keep him just where he is—partly because I’m not done verbally sparring with him yet and partly because I’m afraid that if his lips touch mine I’m going to be completely and utterly lost. Which is absurd considering the last thing I have the emotional capacity to do right now is to fall for some guy, even if he is a prince. Especially if he’s a prince.
“Slow your roll there, dude. I—”
“Slow my roll?” He looks bewildered, his French accent a little heavier than normal.
I give an exaggerated sigh. “So much to teach you, so little time.”
“I guess we’d better get started, then.” He steps back and holds his elbow out to me, like some old-time gentleman. I think about taking it for about three seconds, but I’m no damsel—in distress or otherwise—and I figure now’s as good a time as any to make sure he knows it.
“Last one to the light pole at the end of the street wins!” I shout over my shoulder as I take off running toward the corner about two hundred yards away.
At first Garrett doesn’t respond, but I’m not stupid enough to waste time looking back when any second now he’ll spring into action.
Sure enough, only a few moments pass before I hear the slap-slap-slap of his dress shoes on the pavement behind me. A few more moments and he’s pulled up beside me, and a couple more after that has him leaving me in the dust. Stupid royals and their stupid exercise programs.
When I finally make it to the light pole, he’s lounging against it, arms folded over his muscular chest and a ridiculously proud grin on his face. “So, what do I win?” he asks when I lean against the nearest building.
“Nobody likes a braggart, you know,” I tell him when I finally catch my breath.
“Nobody likes a sore loser, either.” He reaches for my hair and pinches one of my curls between his thumb and index finger. He pulls it out to its maximum length, then watches with a grin as he lets go and it springs back, slapping me in the face. “I love your hair.”
“Even if it belongs to a sore loser?” He starts to grab onto another curl, but I smack his hands away.
“Haven’t you heard? To the victor go the spoils.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not spoiled, isn’t it?” I push off the wall and hold a hand out to him. “Come on, let’s go.”
He makes no move to take my hand. “Go where?”
“You’re one of those people who hate surprises, aren’t you?”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it. It’s written all over your fa
ce.” I roll my eyes even as I reach over and grab his hand. “Now come on. I’m in the mood for a dessert that doesn’t have a root vegetable in it.”
“How high maintenance of you.”
“Says the prince with the three bodyguards and the Armani suit.” I tug him around the corner and three storefronts up to a little bakery I discovered my first day in town. The fact that I’ve been back twice a day every day since says everything about how fabulous the bakery is and nothing about the size of my sweet tooth.
Really.
“So, what’s good here?” Garrett asks as I drag him inside.
“Everything! But they close in ten minutes, so you’d better choose quickly.”
“Well, then, we’ll take one of everything,” he says, waving a hand at the display case.
“Umm, actually, we’ll take two of the caramel macarons, Sylvie,” I tell the girl behind the counter. Her eyes are wide as she stares from Garrett to me and back again. Not that that’s exactly a surprise—everyone in the restaurant spent the last two hours doing the exact same thing.
I wait for her to ask for a selfie with him, but there must be some obscure Wildemarian law against asking a prince for a pic, because in the end she just reaches for a pastry box and says, “Of course, Your Highness. I mean, Your Royal Highness. I mean—”
“His name’s Garrett,” I tell her. “He’s not big on titles.”
“Oh, umm, of course.” She turns bright red, then ducks her head and gets to work putting one of everything—and two caramel macarons—into the largest pastry box I have ever seen.
I glance up at Garrett then, only to find him staring at me, eyebrow raised. “What?” I demand, suddenly feeling exposed for no good reason.
“How do you know if I stand on ceremony?”
“I don’t. I just figured if we didn’t speed her along, we’d be here all night. And then I wouldn’t get my macarons and let me tell you, they are to die for.”
“Better than chocolate onion rutabaga tart?”
“I’ll never taste it, so I’ll never know. But my guess is oh my God, yes!” I watch Sylvie as we talk. She’s almost done filling the pastry box, and probably would be if she didn’t keep stopping to cast not-so-surreptitious glances at Garrett. Not that I blame her. It’s not every day your prince walks into your bakery. And definitely not every day that your prince is Gorgeous freaking Garrett.
“Can we have two café au laits to go with the pastries?” I ask her as she finally plops the pastry box down on the counter and starts lowering the lid.
“Make that five,” Garrett says, reaching for his wallet.
“Five?” I start to ask, then remember his three bodyguards. To be honest, I’m a little embarrassed that I forgot them. It makes me like Garrett a little more to know that he didn’t.
Once the coffees are in a carrier, Garrett starts to slide his credit card across the counter to Sylvie, but I beat him to it, slapping my hand down in front of his.
“What are you doing?” he asks, eyes practically popping out of his head.
“My idea, my treat. Besides, I did make you pay for those three horrendous desserts at the restaurant, even though I had absolutely no intention of eating them.”
“Yeah, but—”
I pop a hip against the counter and cross my arms as I wait for him to dig a deeper hole for himself. “But what?”
“But I can afford it. And…”
“And…?”
“I asked…you…out?” It comes out sounding very uncertain and very un-Garrett-like. Which is why I let him off the hook. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t say he was the man, which was totally what I expected him to say.
“You did ask me out. And you already bought dessert. Second dessert is on me.” I stop the argument once and for all by placing a wad of cash in Sylvie’s hands. Then I pick up the dessert box and head for the door. “You’d better hurry or I’m eating everything in here by myself.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
Chapter 9
Garrett
Lola is the strangest woman I’ve ever been on a date with, but despite that—or maybe because of it—she is absolutely fascinating. So fascinating that I find myself trailing her out of the patisserie like a lost puppy—with Bastian pulling up the rear—and I don’t even mind. How can I when every second with her is an adventure? I never know what she’s going to do or say next.
Which would be a problem if I were still the Crown Prince, whose every word and action has to be planned out ahead of time. But since I’m just the spare these days, it’s perfectly acceptable. God knows when Kian was the spare, he did way less princely things than go out with an unpredictable woman.
If only Michael could see me now, looking on the bright side of this whole demotion thing. He’d be so proud.
Lola stops right outside the door of the patisserie, where Bryce and Samuel are waiting for us, and pops open the top of the pastry box. “Pick anything you want,” she tells them with a grin. “Except the caramel macarons.”
“But caramel macarons are my favorite,” Bastian teases.
She narrows her eyes at him. “Well, then, you should have made that known inside the bakery.” But she reaches into the box and pulls one out. I’m certain she’s going to hand it to him—and I think he is too—right up until she pops it into her mouth with a grin.
She chews for a few seconds, then covers her mouth with a hand and says around a mouthful of cookie, “Now you can have anything in the box. Including the last caramel macaron.”
“I think I’ll go for the fruit tart instead,” Bastian tells her.
She swallows, then makes a little clicking noise with her mouth. “Smart move, my man. Smart move.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s just so utterly removed from any experience I’ve ever had before that I don’t know what else to do. I’m part awestruck, part spellbound, and surprisingly all in. Maybe Michael was right—maybe finding something that I want besides the throne is exactly what I need to start to heal. Then again, I’d settle for something as simple as being able to sleep for more than an hour at a time…
Lola waits as the others grab their coffees and desserts, then she once again takes off down the street without a word. And, once again, I’m left trailing after her, wondering what the hell she’s up to now. Not that I’m complaining—considering how fantastic her ass looks in her tight black pants, I am more than happy to follow wherever she decides to go.
I catch up with her after a couple of minutes, and we walk in companionable silence for the next six or seven blocks. Despite it being a resort destination, I’ve only been to this town a few times, so I don’t have any real idea of where we’re going. Lola seems to have a purpose, though, so I’m content to let her lead. My whole life I’ve always had to be the one in charge, and there’s something kind of nice about ceding control of this date to her. Something kind of nice about just waiting to see where she will take us.
It turns out she’s taking us to a park at the edge of the town square. The park is closed—it closes at dusk—but that doesn’t stop Lola. Of course it doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Hold this,” and hands me the pastry box. Then she kicks off her heels and throws them over the gate before shimmying after them like a parkour master.
“Here, hand me the pastries,” she says, reaching over the gate for the box. “And the coffees.”
Behind me, one of my detail lets out a choked little sound, and I glance back to see the three of them wearing huge, shit-eating grins. The traitors. I shoot them all a glare, then turn back to Lola. “I’m pretty sure members of the monarchy are supposed to obey all citywide ordinances.”
“This from the man claiming squatter’s rights the other day?”
“That ordinance is still on the books, thank you very much. As is the one closing this par
k at seven tonight.” I point at the sign she is willfully ignoring. “Maybe we could enjoy our dessert back at my villa, or—”
“Your villa? Are you trying to get into my pants?”
“I am…not?” It comes out sounding like a question, so I clear my throat and put a little more conviction into my voice. “I mean, I would certainly like to get into your pants at some point in the not-so-distant future, but right now my only objective is to keep us from being arrested. So…”
More choking noises come from behind me, but I don’t bother turning around to see who it is. Because, seriously, at this point who can blame them? Right now I’m about as far from smooth as I can possibly get. I take a moment to be grateful Kian isn’t here to see this disaster.
“So, what you’re saying is, you’re afraid?” Lola asks.
“Excuse me?”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Are. You. Afraid?”
“Afraid? No. Of course I’m not afraid. I just don’t think it sets a good precedent for the man who is second in line for the throne to go around flouting laws, even if they are just city ordinances. It gives the impression that I think I’m above the law and I don’t. I’m not.”
“Flouting the law? By climbing a park fence?”
“It’s the principle of the matter.”
“Is it really?” She crosses her arms, giving me a look that can only be described as taunting. “Or is it that you don’t know how to climb a fence?”
“Of course I know how to climb a fence! I’m a prince, not an imbecile.”
“You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing…”
“You don’t actually think you can goad me into doing this, do you?”
“I don’t know. Can I?”
“I’m not a child.”
“Hmmmm.” She tilts her head to the side and studies me for a few seconds. “Okay, then.” She grabs the bottom hem of her blouse and pulls it up and off in one clean sweep.
This time it’s not only my security detail making choked noises. “What are you doing?” I demand.