Chapter 21

Lola

Holy shit. Holyshit. HOLY. SHIT.

I’m trying to play it cool for the cameras, trying to pretend this is no big deal. That I do it every day.

But, honestly, it’s a huge freaking deal. Gigantic. Colossal. Because I’m about to fly to Paris on Wildemar’s equivalent of Air Force One. What the hell has even happened to my life? And how the hell am I supposed to come back from it?

“You doing okay?” Garrett asks, his arm around my waist as we walk through the terminal surrounded by an army of Wildemar’s palace security personnel. Photographers are trailing behind us, snapping pictures and calling out questions from a safe distance, and with every step we take, more people are turning to stare at us. Lifting their phones to take photos or videos. Calling out from the crowd, asking Garrett for a selfie or an autograph.

He waves back often and occasionally calls out an encouraging word or two to his subjects. It’s a whole different world, one I have no idea if I can find a way to fit into. Or even if I want to.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, and it’s not technically a lie. My heart has stopped racing and I can almost feel my toes and fingers again. That has to be a good sign, right?

“I’m really sorry about this. Normally the limo pulls straight onto the tarmac and we get on the plane from there, but Joss thought this little pap walk would do wonders for Garla.”

“Garla?” I ask, baffled.

He grimaces, but there’s an amused light in his eyes when he says, “Apparently, it’s our ship name.”

“Our ship name?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“You know, when fans smash our names together to make one. We’re Garla.”

“Garla?” I repeat, vaguely horrified at the sound of it.

He shrugs. “Could be worse. We could be Gola. Or Larrett. When I was engaged to Felicity we were Ferret.”

“Oh my God!” I slap a hand over my mouth to stop the laughter bubbling inside of me. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I guess I should have figured out the relationship was doomed as soon as they named our ship after a weasel.”

“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. “Just wow.”

He laughs, then tightens his arm around my waist as we approach the final stretch. It’s a straight shot to the gate that will take us out to Garrett’s plane, but reporters, paps, and private citizens line both sides of the walkway we have to take to get there—all of them hoping for a word or a pic of Garrett. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little overwhelming. Or a lot overwhelming.

Sure, to a certain extent I’ve gotten used to being in the limelight during the last few years as Va Voom Vintage really started taking off. But limelight that comes from getting awards from women’s organizations or fielding offers for book deals that want to pay me money to spill my story is a far cry from the kind of attention we’re getting now. This is the kind of attention you get when the whole world is watching your every move.

To our left someone calls out Garrett’s name, along with a low, pitiful “please.” The words are so low, in fact, that I don’t think I would have heard them at all if Garrett didn’t notice.

But he does notice, stopping dead in the middle of our parade or peoplecade or whatever the hell you call what we’re in right now, and turning toward the voice—and the woman it belongs to. And then he heads right toward her.

En masse, we move with him—the entire security detail sweeping me along as they adjust to his unexpected detour. I don’t have any desire to get this close to the fence line—and all the paps gathered there—but it’s not like I’ve exactly got a choice in the matter. Their job is to protect him and that’s what they’re going to do—even if it means trampling me in the process.

As I get moved along in Garrett’s wake, I take a moment to study the woman who attracted his attention. She’s not that old, but she looks worn out, beaten down. Like life has kicked her a few times and then spit on her for good measure. Her hair is streaked with gray, and deep worry lines are carved around the sides of her mouth and between her brows.

Is that what attracted Garrett’s attention? I wonder as I watch him hold out his hands to her. As I watch him bend down so he can hear her over the sounds of a crowd desperate for his attention.

He doesn’t talk to her long, just a few minutes, but with the whole world watching, it feels like forever. Especially when I realize that a lot of the photographers are calling my name and taking pictures of me hiding behind Xavier, who is my brand-new bodyguard, assigned specifically to me.

I start to freak out, blood rushing in my ears and my breath going all choppy. I may not have had a panic attack in over a decade, but I still remember what they feel like. And I am dangerously close to having one if I don’t get out of here, and fast.

Thankfully, Garrett finishes with the woman and walks back to me so we can finish this insane parade route to the plane. “Sorry about that,” he says as he slides an arm around my waist.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I answer with a smile I’m far from feeling.

But just because I’m shaken up doesn’t mean I don’t mean every word. I do. These are his subjects and he is their prince. Asking Garrett not to listen to them would be asking him to change who he is—which is something I couldn’t imagine doing. Because the truth is, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize that he’s a pretty wonderful guy. No wonder the whole world is in love with him.

We finally make it to the gate and, as we approach the passageway that will lead us onto the plane, I can feel myself relaxing, one step at a time. It’s almost over, I tell myself as Garrett pauses beside the exit. Almost over, I repeat as he turns me around and says, “Wave,” out of the corner of his mouth. Almost over, I say silently one more time as I lean into him and do what he asks.

Figuring this is the money shot, I give the biggest, most sincere-looking smile I can manage, then start to pull away, hoping no one will mind if I make a mad dash for the privacy of the plane. But Garrett won’t let me go. Instead, he murmurs, “Not yet,” as he pulls me closer.

I stare up at him, wide-eyed, but he just grins as he lowers his mouth to mine in a soft, lingering kiss that is somehow all for show and incredibly intimate at the same time.

The crowd goes wild.

By the time Garrett pulls back, I’m a little shell-shocked. Not to mention pissed as hell at myself for responding to him even though I know the kiss was for the reporters and not for me.

“Now we can go,” he murmurs, as we finally—finally—disappear from the view of the ravenous crowd.

Once we’re on the plane, it takes only a couple of minutes for us to get settled. Five minutes after that, we’re cruising down the runway on our way to Paris.

As we finally take off—about fifteen minutes before the plane I’d planned on taking even starts to board—I settle back against the wide leather seat with a long, heartfelt sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry about that,” Garrett tells me.

“The kiss or the pap walk?” I ask without bothering to open my eyes.

“The pap walk.” He leans closer, until I can feel his breath against my cheek. “I love kissing you way too much to ever apologize for it.”

Then he presses his lips to mine in another kiss, one that has my toes curling and my heart racing for reasons entirely unrelated to panic. I should pull away, should take the next forty-five minutes to compose myself since—according to the schedule—there will be another pap walk at Charles de Gaulle.

But I can no more pull away when Garrett is kissing me than I can fly under my own power.

Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer. And let him do whatever he wants to me.

What he wants is to kiss me over and over again. To kiss me and kiss me and kiss me, until my lips are tender and swollen and my whole body is on fire. There’s a tiny part of me aware of the fact that there are a dozen people sitting in front of us on this plane, a dozen people who could turn around and catch sight of me all but climbing into their prince’s lap.

I should be mortified. Instead, I’m too caught up in Garrett to care about anyone or anything else.

He pulls away first and I whimper, as I try to keep our mouths locked together for just a little longer.

He groans low in his throat, mutters, “Fuck!” against my lips, then dives back in for a kiss that lights me up from the inside and shakes me to my very core.

This time, I’m the one who pulls away first.

It’s just a publicity stunt, I remind myself as Garrett presses his forehead to mine and we both take deep, gulping breaths. Just a chance for Garrett to get the throne back.

But it doesn’t feel like a publicity stunt. And it sure as hell doesn’t feel fake. Not anymore. Instead, it feels like I’m about to jump out of this airplane with only a 50–50 shot that my parachute will work.

Any rational person would walk away from those odds. But it’s too late for that—I’m all in, whether I want to be or not. Now all I can do is hope the landing is gentler than the fall.