Chapter 18
Lola
When it’s finally over, when our breathing levels out and our bodies stop shaking, we doze a little. It’s actually more like lying pressed against each other in a total stupor, but what can I say? After what just happened, we’re both a little shell-shocked. Or at least, I am.
I mean, sure, I guess I knew—on a purely instinctive level—that being with Garrett would be good. But what just happened wasn’t good. It wasn’t great. It’s so far beyond any superlative I can think of that it’s as if I need a whole new language to describe it.
La petite mort, like the French call it, maybe. The little death. Except it felt a whole lot more like living—really living—than it did like dying. Even if, fifteen minutes later, I still can’t move. Still can’t do anything but lie here and think about how good it feels to have Garrett’s long, lean body pressed against mine from shoulder to hip.
I know I should probably be alarmed at just how good this feels, but right now I’m too wrung out to care. And too satisfied, my body little more than a pile of warm, happy goo.
Garrett recovers before I do. Big surprise there. The man is like a machine—in the best possible Terminator kind of way (but without the intent to wipe out the human race, of course). He rolls over, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me against him. Normally, I’m not a spooning kind of girl, but there’s something about being the little spoon to his big spoon that just feels right.
Because the thought sets off yet another warning blip inside of me, I choose to ignore it. I’m too blissed out right now to worry about the future, or getting in too deep, or any of the other things that would normally send me running for the hills after sleeping with a guy. But no other guy has ever given me four orgasms in an hour, either. And while I enjoyed all four of them while they were happening, they have kind of zapped my will to ever move again.
At least until Garrett’s stomach rumbles. Loudly.
It’s pretty much the most unromantic sound ever, but it turns out to be exactly what we need. We both crack up and the tension I was barely aware of dissolves.
“Can I make you something to eat?” I ask. “And by ‘make,’ I mean assemble a sandwich, as that’s pretty much all I’m equipped to do. Well, that and scramble a couple of eggs.”
“I’ll take the eggs,” he tells me after he drops a long, smacking kiss on my cheek. “But I’ll make them. You stay here and rest.”
“This isn’t the old days, you know. I promise not to have an attack of the vapors at the sight of a naked man in my kitchen.” I shoot him an amused glance over my shoulder.
“I feel like if you were going to have an attack of any kind, it would have been three orgasms ago.” He gives me another kiss—this one more sweet than smacking, and I can’t help melting into it a little. Can’t help melting into him.
“Nobody likes a braggart,” I tell him even as I pull his arm more tightly around my waist and hang on.
“Looks like you do,” he answers. “And, by the way, telling the truth isn’t bragging—one should never be ashamed of excelling.”
“Spoken like a true prince.”
“Better than a fake prince,” he shoots back. His breath is warm against my cheek and he’s tracing small circles on my stomach with his thumb. It somehow feels more intimate than the sex we just had, this easy touching and relaxed pillow talk.
It’s that thought more than any other that gets me up. I sleep with men when I choose to, but I never talk to them. Not like this, with my defenses down and my mind still cloudy from an overload of pleasure.
Rolling out of bed, I grab my robe off the floor and shrug into it. “Two eggs coming up,” I tell him as I tie the belt. “How do you like them?”
He gets up too, rolling out of bed and pulling me into his arms for a long, tender hug that leaves me equal parts melting and alarmed. Then he puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his for a slow, sweet kiss that has my knees trembling in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the shaky, scared feeling deep inside of me.
Damn it. What kind of idiot am I, anyway? I’m the queen of keeping business and pleasure separated and yet here I am, swooning like a fifteen-year-old with her first crush.
I pull away as soon as he lifts his mouth from mine, determined to put a little distance between us. But Garrett isn’t having any of it. Instead of letting me go, he sweeps me into his arms and then carries me into the kitchen. As he does, the fact that he’s warm and hard and still very naked is far from lost on me.
He deposits me on the kitchen counter next to the stove, with a firm, “Don’t move!” Then he’s turning on the old radio on top of the microwave and bopping his way over to the fridge, where he rummages through the remnants of the various meals that I’ve collected in the week I’ve been here.
It’s a surreal sight, Prince Garrett of Wildemar shaking his naked ass to the Chainsmokers’ “Closer” as he assembles ingredients on the counter next to him for what I’m rapidly beginning to fear will be the world’s strangest omelet.
I want a better look—at his beautiful body and what he’s planning on feeding me—so I reach over and turn on the overhead light. We both wince a little, since we’ve been operating on the lights filtering in from the living room and hallway since we woke up. But as my eyes finally adjust to the brightness, I realize that Garrett is doing more than wincing. He’s stiffened, his whole body ramrod straight despite the carton of eggs he’s still holding.
It takes a moment for me to register what I’m seeing, but when I do…when I do, it’s all I can do to keep from crying out. He was wearing a rash guard when I met him at the lake the other day, and combined with his board shorts, the outfit did a good job of covering up the damage three months in captivity wrought on his body.
And oh my God, there is. So. Much. Damage. It makes me want to cry, makes me want to vomit just looking at it. Looking at Garrett and thinking about what he must have endured, what must have been done to him to create scars like these.
I start to say something, to tell him how sorry I am—how can I not?—when my eyes meet his. There’s a vulnerability in their blue depths that has never been there before, a plea I didn’t even know this proud, proud prince of a man was capable of. But it’s there, clear as day, along with a wariness, a resignation, that gets to me even more than the vulnerability does.
And so I stay where I am instead of rushing across the kitchen to pull his brutally battered body against mine. Though I don’t know him well, though this is just an interlude, it’s still one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Long seconds pass, tense and silent, as he waits for me to ask about the scars…and the captivity that caused them. When it finally registers on him that I’m not going to do that, that I’m just going to let him—and that whole horrible mess—be, I can all but see the relief pouring off him in waves.
He turns to the counter that he’s filled with everything from mushrooms and peppers to prosciutto and four kinds of cheese. “So,” he says as he rummages through cupboards looking for a bowl. “I have this theory.”
“Do you?” I concentrate on the beauty of his eyes and cheekbones and razor-sharp jaw, doing anything—doing everything—not to look at the scars below his neck. Not because they disgust me, but because I don’t know if I’m strong enough not to offer comfort. And since he obviously doesn’t want that, I need to find a way to be that strong. “And what exactly is this theory about?”
“Women,” he says with that ridiculous Boy Scout grin of his. “And omelets.”
Now both my brows are up. “You have a theory about women and eggs?” I don’t try to keep the incredulity from my voice.
“Not eggs. Omelets.” He cracks an egg into the bowl for emphasis.
“Excuse me. Omelets.” I wait for him to expand on this so-called theory of his, but he doesn’t. Instead, he concentrates on adding four more eggs to the bowl.
Curiosity gets the best of me—as it always does—and I hop off the counter and cross the kitchen to peer over his shoulder. Or, more precisely, to peer around him, as my head barely reaches his shoulder. Being short bites on a good day. When I’m dating a man who is literally a foot taller than me, it bites way more than usual.
“So, what is so special about this omelet you’re making?” I ask.
“You tell me.”
“What does that mean?”
He reaches for one of the pans hanging on the ceiling rack. “What do you want in your omelet?” He grabs the butter, puts a generous pat in the pan, then sets it on the stove.
I look at the ingredients, but the truth is I can barely concentrate. Not when I’m standing this close to him. Not when I’m dying to trace his scars in some belated and fucked-up effort to take away just a little of his pain. “You choose.”
“Nope.” He pops the P and it sounds so American compared to the perfectly formal English I’m used to getting from him that, for a second, I can’t help but stare. “That’s not how this works. You have to choose.”
“Why?”
“Because those are the rules.”
I start to argue with him—I don’t like rules in general and I really hate them when someone arbitrarily applies them to something stupid. Like making a stupid omelet. Garrett holds up a hand before I can say that, though.
Then he says, “Please?” in such an entreating way that I can’t say no. Not without feeling like a total bitch, anyway. And while normally that doesn’t bother me, tonight I’m going for a softer vibe.
“Fine.” I glance at the ingredients once more, than choose at random. “Onion, pepper, parsley, tomato, Kalamata olives, and cheese.”
“What kind of cheese?”
“All the kinds.” I shoot him a look that says he’s nuts. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he mimics with a grin that is decidedly less Boy Scout than usual.
I watch as he haphazardly tosses everything but the cheese and eggs in the pan and stirs it around. “What can I do to help?”
“There’s a bottle of blanc de blancs in the fridge. Why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses?”
I do as he asked, then pop a couple of pieces of bread under the broiler. By the time they’re done, Garrett’s sliding the halved omelet onto two plates and carrying them to the small café table in the corner.
Seconds later, I carry over the wine and toast. As I slide into a chair, I can’t help saying, “You know, it’s pretty crappy to make a big deal out of your theory and not share it.”
“It’s really not a big deal.”
“So you say. But I still want to know.”
He pauses for a second, like he’s reluctant to get into it. But then he gives a what the hell kind of shrug and says, “I just think you can tell a lot about a woman by the omelet ingredients she chooses.”
“Oh, yeah?” I take a big bite, then try to hide just how much I like it. It comes from years of being taught never to let my father know how I felt about anything because then he would use it against me. “So what do these ingredients tell you about me?”
“That you’re a nontraditionalist.”
I snort. “Didn’t need an omelet to tell you that, buddy.”
He shoots me an admonishing look. “I’m not done yet.”
“Oh, right.” I wave the fork in a “carry on” gesture. “By all means.”
“You’re a hedonist.”
“Umm, pretty sure the four orgasms told you that better than any omelet ever could.”
“I’ll give you that one,” he says with a grin. “Though the cheese is a dead giveaway.”
“Maybe I just like cheese.”
“More like you enjoy coloring outside the lines.”
“It makes a prettier picture,” I tell him with a shrug. “So far, none of this is exactly earth-shattering. I pretty much wear who I am on my sleeve.”
“You do,” he agrees. “The sense of adventure, the willingness to try new things, the fascination with the off-beat. But there’s another side to you—the side that refuses to ever do something the same way twice. Not because you like to experiment or because you like trying new things, but because you don’t trust the status quo. Most people find safety in routine and the familiar, but getting comfortable—being comfortable—is terrifying to you.”
I have to fight to keep my hands relaxed and my smile steady, because holy shit. That last little bit didn’t just hit close to home, it blew home off the fucking map. I don’t like the status quo and I’ve never trusted routine—why should I, when the second you get comfortable it gives someone a chance to come along and yank the rug out from under you. I may not have been a great student when I was young, but that is a lesson I learned often and well. “You got all that from an omelet?” I ask, keeping my voice light because there’s no way I’m going to talk about this with Garrett.
“I got a lot of that from the omelet—and how you chose the ingredients. The rest I got from watching you these last few days.”
I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. “From watching me?”
He laughs. “You don’t have to look so horrified—I didn’t mean that in a creepy way. I just meant that I’ve paid attention in the time we’ve spent together.”
I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that he’s been studying me—or that I’m so transparent to him—so I take my time putting the bite in my mouth and chewing. Slowly.
I go through life working hard not to let anyone get too close, not to let anyone know the real me. It’s easier that way—easier to hide and easier to walk away when the friendship/
“I’m sorry. Did I freak you out?” Garrett reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t freak me out.” It’s only a partial lie and those barely count in the grand scheme of things, right? I mean, this whole “relationship” we’re playing at is the real lie. That’s what I need to focus on. That’s what I need to remember. Well, that and the fact that in real life, away from this idyllic little town, this guy is totally out of my league. “It’s just, you’re a prince. I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“I thought you spent all your time being watched as opposed to the other way around.”
“I do spend an inordinate amount of my life on display,” he says, tilting his head a little ruefully. “But that just gives me more time to observe everyone else.”
“Yes, but why would you want to? Why does it matter?” He’s so different than I thought he was that first day at the lake, so different than I expected him to be.
Still, I expect a flip answer from him. Something quick and easy that doesn’t reveal too much and helps get this romantic interlude—which suddenly feels way heavier than that—back on track. Instead, it’s his turn to take his time chewing and thinking. Finally, he takes a sip of wine and says, “There’s a difference between just being a prince and being the man who will one day be king.”
The light goes on. “Which is why His Royal Hotness the Second was always the playboy and why you were always—”
“The stick-in-the-mud. Yep. Definitely the reason.”
“I was going to say the sexy, responsible one…”
He laughs, but it lacks his usual humor. “Yeah, I bet that was what you were going to say.” He takes another, longer, sip of his wine.
“You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met,” I tell him. “And since my omelet told you everything there is to know about me, you know I don’t give compliments where they aren’t deserved.”
He glances down and I know he’s thinking about his scars, about all the terrible things that were done to his beautiful body. To him. And I want to say something; I really, really do. But I don’t know what to say or how to say it. Don’t know how to tell him that the strength it took to endure that and come out still sane and good on the other side is one of the sexiest, most awe-inspiring things about him.
I settle for bringing his hand to my lips and pressing a kiss in the center of his palm.
“What’s it like?” I finally ask. Then, because I don’t want him to think I’m asking about the torture, I hasten to add, “Living in a fishbowl your whole life, I mean. Growing up knowing that one day you’ll have the responsibility of ruling a country.”
“It is what it is, you know?”
“Actually, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” I snag his gaze with mine and hold it. “And that’s a cop-out answer.”
“No, it’s not.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course it is. It doesn’t say any—”
“It says everything,” he interrupts. “Unlike a kid who grows up thinking maybe he’d like to be a doctor or an astronaut or run for president someday, I knew who and what I was going to become from the time I learned to speak. Being king isn’t a job. It isn’t something you put on in the morning and take off at the end of the day. It’s who you are every second of every minute of every day. So, yeah, it is what it is.”
“And now your father—and members of Parliament—are trying to take all that away from you.” The ugly truth seems to echo off the walls around us. Or maybe it’s just that it’s echoing in my brain, repeating again and again and again as the reality of his situation finally sinks in. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I squeeze his hand in a pathetically ineffective attempt at comfort.
His chair squeaks across the floor as he shoves back from the table—from me—in a hurry. “It is what it is.”
Maybe it is, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the most unfair thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Garrett has given everything to this country his entire life—he was tortured for this country—and now his father is going to snatch it all away from him? Not just the position of being king, but his whole identity? Everything he’s ever been? Everything he’s ever been allowed to be?
It’s one of the most awful things I can imagine. It makes me want to storm the castle and give the King a piece of my mind—and a couple of good, hard punches to the nose. More, it makes me want to pull Garrett close, to hold him tight and promise him that it’s going to be okay. That we’ll find a way to make this ridiculous scheme work.
No wonder Kian and the palace press secretary were willing to jump on the first thing that came along that might pressure the King to do right by his son. Garrett has given his life to Wildemar—would have given his life for Wildemar if that’s what the domestic terrorists who took him had demanded. That kind of sacrifice and loyalty should be rewarded, not shunted aside because he’s damaged freaking goods.
I want to tell him so, but I’m afraid of overstepping my bounds here. I’m just the pretend girlfriend who is barely an hour out of his bed for the first time. It doesn’t exactly give me the right to cast aspersions on his father, no matter how big of a jerk he is.
But I can’t leave him like this, either, jaw clenched and shoulders rigid as he scrapes half his omelet into the trash. As he pours himself another glass of wine and downs it in one long swallow.
So I do the only thing I can, the only thing I know he’ll accept from me. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I pull him close, until my breasts are pressing into his back and my warmth can seep into his suddenly cold skin.
Garrett shudders once, twice, his body going limp against mine.
We stand like that—me giving comfort and Garrett taking it the only way he knows how—for several long minutes. It soothes me as much as it does him, which is strange considering I didn’t know I needed to be soothed.
It feels good, so good that I could stand here like this all night. Just holding him. Just feeling him breathe against me. It’s an odd feeling for a woman who has spent her life perfecting the fuck-and-run, but it’s not an unsafe one. At least not now, when I can hear his heart beating beneath my ear.
I kiss him because I can’t not kiss him, my lips skimming across his back, right below his shoulder blades. It’s one more gesture of comfort for both of us, one more way for me to feel close to him right now.
And maybe it works that way, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. But I do know that it shatters something inside of him—some restraint or control I didn’t even know he was struggling with.
Because, suddenly, he’s turning around and pulling me straight off the ground.
Grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his waist.
Slamming his mouth down on mine.
Ravenously taking what I am suddenly just as desperate to give him.