Chapter 7

Lola

“How much is this Yves Saint Laurent dress?” the blond woman in front of me asks.

“The Yves Saint Laurent is marked at two hundred euros,” the executor of the estate sale responds, without looking up from the computer in front of him.

“And the matching coat? How much is that?”

“Three hundred and fifty euros.”

“I’ll take it,” she tells him, reaching into her purse, and I feel my head about to explode. It’s one thing to find a deal because the person selling is too stupid to know what he’s got on his hands. It’s another thing to lie about it altogether.

“That isn’t Yves Saint Laurent,” I say as I crowd closer to the antique table he’s working from. “And neither is the coat. Both pieces are vintage Chanel, and you’ve got them marked at four-fifty and six-fifty respectively. Which is a steal.”

“She’s wrong. They’re definitely YSL,” the woman trills at him. Then she turns to me and hisses under her breath, “Shut up! You’re ruining everything!”

“No shit,” I answer, shaking my head incredulously. “I’m trying to ruin everything. You’re trying to pass off vintage Chanel as ready-to-wear Yves Saint Laurent and that gives all of us a bad name, so…”

“Why is it your business anyway?” she demands, looking me up and down in a way that’s meant to convey just how unimpressed she is with my ripped jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.

“It’s my business because I hate liars almost as much as I hate cheats. And because I’m a big fan of vintage Chanel.” I turn to the man and slap a pile of cash down on the table in front of him. “I’ll give you seven thousand euros for everything in the closet.”

“You can’t do that!” the woman squawks, but I ignore her as I quirk a brow and wait for the sale executor to make up his mind.

“The contents of the closet are currently priced at four times that,” he says, scrolling through what I assume is an itemized list of all the goodies in the big, beautiful wardrobe.

“True,” I acknowledge. “But the estate sale is set to end in an hour. We’re the only people still here and the closest you’ve come to selling any of this stuff is to Barbie over here, who just tried to cheat you.”

“What do you call what you’re doing?” she demands angrily. “What’s in that closet is worth way more than seven thousand euros.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m honest about it. It’s called making a deal versus stealing, honey. You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe I should.” She turns back to the executor with narrowed eyes. “I’ll give you five hundred euros for the Chanel pieces.”

“I’ll give you eight thousand euros for it all—as long as you don’t sell her anything.” I cross my arms over my chest and prop a hip against the table as I wait for him to decide which of us he wants to appease.

It’s obvious he wants to sell to both of us—give her the vintage Chanel and then get the money from me for the rest of it. But that’s not going to happen and, as his eyes meet mine, I make sure he knows it. Then I glance at my watch in an I’m waiting kind of way.

He gets the message.

Reaching for the money I’d dropped in front of him, he says, “Eighty-five hundred euros and it’s yours.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” I all but crow. Then I turn to the woman—excuse me, the very, very, extremely pissed-off woman—and carefully divest her of the dress before her tightly squeezed fists can cause any damage to the fragile material.

“You can’t just do that!” she screeches, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or to me.

Probably both of us, I decide, so I respond, “We already did. Maybe if you hadn’t tried to cheat him, you’d be walking away with this gorgeous piece of vintage couture. But I guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

“There are some lovely antique perfume bottles displayed in the master bath. Perhaps you’ll find something there that suits your needs,” the executor tells her, tongue firmly in cheek. Have I mentioned yet that I’m really starting to like this guy? He drives a decent bargain and has just enough bitchiness in him to put a person in her place.

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t buy from you now if you begged me to!” The woman whirls around and starts to leave, making sure to knock her purse into my side as she does.

“Madam!” The word fairly bristles with indignation as he climbs to his feet. He isn’t very tall, but the three-piece suit and barely contained outrage that he’s wearing make him look more intimidating than he is. Or at least as intimidating as he can be—think baby tiger versus house cat. “You are no longer welcome here—or at any other DuBois events.”

“Like I would ever come to one of your events again,” she says as she storms off, all sour grapes and overripe indignation.

We both watch her go. Then he turns to me and asks, “Are you all right?”

“It’ll take a lot more than a knock-off Coach bag to hurt me,” I tell him.

He snorts. “Hideous, wasn’t it?”

“Completely.”

“But not as bad as the wannabe Manolos.”

I lift a brow. “You do know your fashion, after all.”

“I do. And there wasn’t a chance she was getting out the door with those Chanel pieces at the YSL price, but I appreciate you stepping in, anyway.”

“No, you don’t,” I answer as I study him.

He laughs. “No, I don’t. She comes to every sale and tries that shit. Normally, I have to put up with it as I’ve never been in charge of a sale before. But now that I’ve been promoted, I was really looking forward to kicking her bony ass out of here.”

“Sorry to steal your thunder.”

“No worries.” He fans the cash at me. “Honestly, your way was even better. Though you owe me fifteen hundred euros.”

“Count it,” I tell him with a grin and a little wiggle of my brows. “It’s all there.”

“I thought you put down seven thousand?”

“I offered seven thousand, but I let you drive me up to eighty-five hundred.”

“Tricky girl.” He narrows his eyes. “I like that in an adversary. And a partner in crime.”

“Lucky me.”

He extends his hand. “I’m Willem.”

“And I’m Lola. It’s nice to meet you.” I start back toward the front door. “I’ve got a few wardrobe bags in my car. I’ll go get them, so I can pack up the clothes and get out of your way.”

“To the victor go the spoils.”

“That’s what they say,” I answer with a laugh.

“I have another sale scheduled for Monday,” Willem calls after me. “Just in case you’re interested.”

“I’ve already got it on my calendar. My last event before I blow this pop stand.”

“I’m honored.” He bats his eyes to make sure I know he’s playing with me.

“As you should be. I don’t stick around for just anybody, you know.”

An hour and a half later, I pull up to my rented cottage with seven wardrobe bags filled with amazing clothes in the trunk and the makings of a light picnic supper on the passenger seat beside me. Add that to the fact that a real live prince asked me out this morning—even though I said no—and I made an amazing auction contact this afternoon, and I’d say that, so far, the weekend has been a complete and total success.

Now that he’s popped into my head, I can’t help thinking about Garrett as I carry everything into the cottage. Or, more accurately, fantasizing about him and his big, strong hands, broad shoulders, and too-sexy-for-my-own-good smile. Not to mention the wicked, and self-deprecating, sense of humor he kept giving me glimpses of when I least expected it.

The man is hot with a capital H, no doubt about it. I’ve seen his picture before—of course I have—but in photos he always looks a little too plastic, a little too perfect. Completely untouchable. In real life, with his too-long dark hair and too-serious blue eyes, he’s a lot more real. And a hell of a lot more sexy.

So sexy, in fact, that I can’t help thinking about what would have happened if I’d said yes to his invitation this morning. For a minute there, I really wanted to. Just to have a little fun. Just to see what might happen.

But those kinds of impulses—at least when it comes to men—have gotten me in trouble before, even if I was little more than a kid at the time. They’re sure as hell what got my mother in trouble over and over again. And there’s no way I’m making her mistakes, no way I’m letting my life get derailed the way hers was. Not even for a hot-as-hell prince.

Especially not for a hot-as-hell prince.

I have more than enough issues with relationships already. Why the hell should I go looking for more?

It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to carry in all my loot. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating and gross and all I really want is to take a long, cool shower, where I can think about anything but Garrett and the surprising—and very hot—attraction I felt for him.

So I do, stripping off my clothes and diving into the luxurious shower stall that the cottage owners had put in a few months ago when they remodeled—or so they told me when they were showing me around the place when I got here a couple of days ago.

Ecological guilt is a real thing as I turn on the second showerhead and let it rain down on me along with the first. But life’s all about the little pleasures, so I shut off the guilt and concentrate on the glory. And if I end up rushing the shower to make up for the extra showerhead, that’s nobody’s business but mine.

After slipping into my pj’s and drying my hair, I make my way back out to the cozy family room that is currently piled high with wardrobe bags. Now that I finally feel human again, it’s time to dive in. My stomach’s growling—I’ve barely eaten all day—but right now I’m more interested in getting my hands on the piles of rich, gorgeous fabric that are waiting for me in those bags than I am in taking time to put something in my stomach.

Besides, I’ve got to get all these clothes sorted and cataloged in the next thirty-six hours—along with the ones I picked up at yesterday’s estate sale two villages over. It’s a lot of work, but I’ve got two models booked for the day after tomorrow and I’m not going to waste their time or my money by not being ready for them.

I need to get this stuff up on my site so I can sell it and move on. Getting out of this town, and away from Gorgeous Garrett and all the temptation he poses, is pretty much my first order of business.

Yes, hunger can wait until I have at least an idea of what I’m dealing with here. That way, while I’m eating I can make a plan about everything that needs to be done and how long it will take. I mean, I already have a basic idea because I’m the one who packed everything up at the estate sale, but that was just me shoving things into bags in the most expedient manner possible. This is me getting a look at the stuff, grouping it, then pricing it to move on my website, vavoomvintage.com.

I open the first bag and pull out the grouping of vintage Chanel couture that made me hunt down this estate sale to begin with. A closer inspection reveals that two out of the three pieces are in pristine shape and the third is in very good shape, with only a few loose threads on the back and a tiny spot on the peplum part of the blouse. After marking the spot with a sticker—for further inspection and treatment—I pull up a spreadsheet on my computer and start to log in the pieces. Condition, origin, my best guess at pricing.

An hour and a half later, I’m deep into the second wardrobe bag when a knock sounds at the door. I’m not expecting anyone—I don’t know anyone in this village to expect. I got here four days ago, and save my landlord, who gave me the longest tour imaginable when I rented the place, no one knows where to find me. And I haven’t met anyone who’d be looking, anyway.

The knock comes again and I think about answering it, but I’ve got stuff to do and no time for wild goose chases—my own or anyone else’s. Especially not when I just found a Gaultier skirt that was overlooked in the estate sale’s inventory. The label is missing, so they probably didn’t know what they had—but I’m a huge fan and recognize it from his Spring 2016 collection.

I’m about to try it on—right over my pj shorts because I’m too excited to wait—when a third, louder knock all but shakes the door. Screw this. Dropping the skirt onto the closest pile, I march to the door and fling it open, prepared to tell off whoever is on the other side.

Except I’m stunned pretty close to speechless when I realize that the person on the other side of my threshold is none other than His Royal Highness, Prince Garrett of Wildemar.

Or should I say His Royal Hotness?

No, I think as I look him up and down. Right now he is every inch His Royal Highness. I’d bemoan the loss, except this look might be even better than the one he was sporting at the lake the other day.

Gone are the board shorts and shaggy hair and in their place is a bespoke-suit-wearing, slicked-back-hair-sporting prince. With his intense blue eyes and his cut-glass jaw shaved clean, he pretty much embodies the press’s moniker for him. Gorgeous Garrett is definitely in the house. Or, more precisely, on my porch.

Still, I’m not the type to swoon, no matter what my suddenly trembling knees have to say about it. So instead of inviting him in and jumping him in the middle of my very small (and currently cramped) living room, I lean against the doorframe and—with a cocked brow—ask, “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows go up in response. “You said no to lunch, so I thought I’d give dinner a try.”

“You could have called.”

“I could have. But since it didn’t work out so well the first time, I figured a more hands-on approach was necessary.” His tone, while smooth and well-modulated, still somehow manages to call me on the fact that I didn’t give him a chance.

Which has my spine straightening as I don’t like being reprimanded by anyone, let alone some guy I met once—even if he is a prince. “And you decided stalking me to my Airbnb was the approach you wanted to take? Did it occur to you that perhaps I’m just not interested?”

“It did.” He grins. “But then I figured just the idea was absurd.”

“Wow. Ego much?”

“It’s not ego if it’s true.”

“Is this your normal spiel?” I ask, half amused and half offended. “Because I’ve got to tell you, it’s astonishing to think you can actually get a woman with it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agrees, still grinning. “It’s completely astonishing, isn’t it? To be honest, I was a little nervous about showing up here out of the blue, so I was trying to channel my brother Kian’s vibe—which attracts women by the hordes, by the way—but I just can’t seem to carry it off. It’s totally douchey, right?”

“Totally.” I want to be annoyed, but the truth is I’m totally charmed by his honesty. “What did you have to be nervous about, anyway?”

“You mean besides the fact that I called in Wildemar’s Director of National Intelligence to help me find a woman I met once? A woman who, incidentally, fled from me the second she had the chance and then hung up when I called and asked her for a date?”

“I didn’t exactly flee. More like…”

“Ran away quickly?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. This guy is way smoother than he gives himself credit for. “Maybe. And I didn’t hang up on you. I told you I had a business call and a full day ahead of me.”

For the first time, he glances past me and into my living room. I can tell the moment he catches sight of the clothing explosion because his eyes widen comically. “I can see you were telling the truth. Shopping spree?”

“Business excursion.”

He arches a brow. “You dumped me for a job that required copious amounts of shopping?”

“I think dump is a little harsh, but yes.”

“Haven’t you heard? All work and no play makes Lola a dull girl…or so they say.”

“Isn’t it handy that I’m okay being dull, then? And from what I’ve heard, so is Gorgeous Garrett…”

“My reputation precedes me,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “But never fear—I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Hence the mid-morning sunbathing.”

“Exactly.”

“I gotta admit, that felt more like a whole branch than just a leaf.”

“Did it?” He shrugs, supremely unconcerned. That is as long as I don’t look too closely at his eyes. “Well, they say relaxation is good for the soul.”

“Do they now?”

He nods solemnly. “They absolutely do.”

“Who exactly is this mysterious ‘they’ you speak of?” I can’t help yanking his chain a little more. Some women get turned on by the dark-and-dangerous types, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the gorgeous-and-goofy ones. It’s a soft spot Garrett is exploiting to his advantage right now and I find myself relaxing despite myself. “And why should I care what they have to say anyway?”

For several long seconds, he pretends to ponder the question. Then smiles as he answers, “Now that you mention it, I have absolutely no idea.”

“Kind of stupid to quote them then, isn’t it?”

“It really is.”

We stand there smiling into each other’s eyes for several long seconds, and there’s a weird kind of buzz in the air—like neither of us can believe that we’re standing here having this ridiculous conversation. And enjoying it so much.

Eventually, though, something has to give. We can’t stand on the porch all night, after all. “Would you like to come in?” I ask, stepping back and holding the front door a little wider in invitation.

Before he can answer, there’s a small cough from the sidewalk at the bottom of my steps.

Garrett flushes a little, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the most endearing thing I’d seen in quite a while.

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“You can’t?” I glance from him to the two bodyguards waiting on the sidewalk behind him—the same bodyguards who hassled me at the lake the other day. “Do you need a chaperone?”

“I need to let my security detail search your house. But since that’s just rude, especially on the first date, I was hoping to convince you—”

“Is that what this is? A first date?”

He sighs, a little exasperated. “It will be, if you let me ask you out. And if you say yes.”

This is the worst possible time for a date—first or otherwise. I have a million things to do before tomorrow. And I just told myself that I wasn’t going to spend any more time thinking about Gorgeous Garrett. But that was before he literally showed up on my doorstep and charmed my socks off with his ridiculousness. I’m not looking for a relationship by any stretch of the imagination, but one night out with a guy who is as amusing as he is gorgeous? It’s hard to say anything but “Hell, yes.”

“Hell, yes?” His eyebrows shoot up again. “Hell, yes, I can ask you? Or hell yes, you’ll go out with me? I just want to clarify—”

Figuring we’ll be here all day if I don’t take matters into my own hands, I push onto my tiptoes and plant a kiss right on his open mouth. It shuts him up, as intended, and I pull away, planning to give him a hard time.

But I’m not the only one with initiative, because the next thing I know, his arms are around me and I’m seeing fireworks—of the New-Year’s-Eve-and-Fourth-of-July-all-rolled-into-one variety.

His mouth is just soft enough to have me melting, just hard enough to have me pushing back onto my tiptoes and sinking into the long, lean strength of him. And his hands on my back—strong, sure, secure—feel so, so good.

My head is spinning by the time he pulls away—definitely not my typical modus operandi when it comes to kisses from men, no matter how hot they are. He looks a little dazed himself, his eyes just a bit blurry with the heat generated between us.

“So,” he says after several long seconds. “Dinner.”

“Yes, dinner. Absolutely.” I hate how frazzled I sound. I’m the one who does the frazzling, not the one who gets frazzled. But the longer Gorgeous Garrett stands there staring at me, the more nervous I get.

To solve the problem, I take a big step back. Then another and another, until I can no longer feel his body heat or hear the ragged sound of his breathing.

“I’ll just…go get ready,” I tell him, forcing a breezy smile I’m far from feeling. “Have a seat—if you can find one.”

He glances back at his bodyguards and I realize they probably won’t be too keen on having him walk into a building they haven’t checked out. I should invite them in too, but the idea of four men in my place—three of whom will be snooping around it—doesn’t exactly sit right with me. So I add, “Or you can hang out on the porch. The swing’s pretty comfortable and I promise not to take too long.”

He nods, his eyes going laser sharp again as he registers all the things I’m not saying. “You’re worth the wait.”

It doesn’t sound like a line, not with all the quiet sincerity he’s got going on. That—and his steady, knowing gaze—freaks me out even more than the fireworks did. For a second I think about calling the whole thing off.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hurry back to my bedroom and throw on the first decent thing I come to—a pair of black silk Versace pants and a matching shell. Garrett is in a suit, so I add a Gaultier jacket, partly to dress up the outfit and partly for the intrinsic edge it brings. A quick glance in the mirror shows I look more like the badass stepsister than I do Cinderella—thank God—so I finish the look with winged eyeliner and a sweep of angsty red across my lips. The clock says I’m at five minutes and counting, not bad if I do say so myself, so I take an extra two to try and tame my ridiculous hair into some kind of submission.

The curls aren’t having it, though, so in the end I settle for running a little bit of styling cream through them and letting them spring free—hoping against hope that, for a change of pace, the wind won’t kick up tonight while we’re out. And if it does…well, it’s not like this whole date is any more than wish fulfillment for the seven-year-old Disney princess inside of me.

I’m back on the porch in under ten minutes, locking the door and grinning at Gorgeous Garrett. “Ready?” I ask.

“I am.” He never sat down, so he just holds his arm out to me, elbow bent like in those old-time movies. Which definitely doesn’t make me swoon—not even a little. “Shall we go?”

“We shall.” I take his arm and let him escort me down the path from my front door to my driveway, where two black SUVs are parked. His bodyguards follow silently behind us.

“I’ve got to tell you,” I say as he opens the door to one of them and helps me into the passenger seat. “I haven’t had a chaperone since my Senior Prom.”

“Really?” One imperious and princely brow goes up. “And how did that work out for you?”

I think back to making out with Victor in the posh ladies’ room of the hotel where Prom was held—and the two orgasms he gave me before the dance was even over. They were my first, and while they weren’t my best, they—and Victor—still hold a soft spot in my heart. Especially since our breakup was more about college and lack of proximity than either of us screwing the other over—something that can’t be said of my subsequent relationships.

“Pretty well, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” My thoughts must be written on my face because his eyes suddenly spark with interest. But his words are still as gentlemanly as the rest of him. “Well then, you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

“Oh, I’m not nervous.”

“No?” There’s that eyebrow again. “Well, that makes one of us.”

And just that easily he’s got my attention.