It turns out we couldn’t share the same bed last night so I slept on the lumpy Victorian couch next to the bed.

That’s because the Victorian version of a ‘butler’s bed’ is only the size of a modern double bed, and…hell…I simply couldn’t do it. Last night I’d decided that it didn’t matter how high we built up the pillow fortress. There was no way I could share a bed with Robin after how close she and I became yesterday.

How close my heart feels to hers now, that is.

After running around the maze and sharing possibly too much information about how I feel about her—how she let me hold her hand—how we laughed, and actually played tag like we were little kids. How she got me to this point where it was just me, and her, and the whole outside world seemed erased? That was such a gift.

For hours last night, hell, maybe for the first time since I was about seven which was when I’d started working the TV shows at Newt TV. I had not a care in the world. Not other than the moments Robin and I were living and laughing together inside of that maze. It was like being in this perfect peaceful bubble.

It was humbling, moving and beautiful. And, somehow, yesterday changed me.

Found me.

Thankfully, Robin hadn’t re-hashed the stuff I’d said to her about just ‘why’ I’d agreed to marry her. I think it’s probably because she doesn’t truly believe me, which now that I’ve had some sleep, I think is good. Very good, because had she pressed me on any details last night, I would have had to confirm all that I’d said was true.

Had she pressed me more after playing tag with me and while she was holding my hand, and smiling up at me in the moonlight? I might have fallen on my knees and told her how much I love her. Really, and truly love her.

I’m down with us getting to where we are today—we’ve crossed over into true trust. Into mutual admiration and being able to talk freely with each other. how I think she’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and how I’m happy she’s my friend—but anything further would be me, telling her, that I’m in love with her.

And as honest as we’re being this weekend in this effort to get to know each other better, that honest statement won’t serve my ultimate goal.

The goal of not hurting Robin ever again. Me, declaring my love, or whatever would do just that to her, because if she loves me back…and who wouldn’t wish for that, then I will screw up the course of her future. She may try to stick around which means that dreamy excitement of her living in a dorm and going to art school could easily get derailed. Hell, based on my own life goals and the ones I’d never achieved—it’s possible she’d wind up not going to school at all. Maybe years would pass…and maybe things would be okay, but even with the coolest people and the coolest couples, like my mom and dad were back when, they got divorced.

And after they got divorced, they weren’t even friends anymore.

So for now, probably forever—because not being friends with Robin seems unacceptable to me, then…hell no, and no way are the I-love-you words ever going to tumble out of my mouth in front of her. She and I are now…well and truly, very-good friends. It’s what I wanted, and that is where it stops.

If I can keep myself together—keep my selfishness in check—then I will, in my way, get to keep Robin with me long-term.

Keep her long term, while liking me back, that is.

For our second day of running away and being ‘normal tourists’ I’ve convinced Robin to go see this little church nearby called St. Peter’s before we decide if we’re going to go explore a few old villages or make our retreat back to the London Orb.

I’ve texted Adam to check in, and so far, he says our cover is holding and everyone thinks we’ve gone to Wales to see him. Hunter and Vere say they’ve acted vague as to our whereabouts with my grandmother and uncle, but they did say they thought we’d hopped a train to head to Adam’s place yesterday afternoon.

So…I think we’re good if we want to play this runaway game for another day. After last night, I’m hoping we can come back to our little butler’s quarters for one more night, because this is the best fun I’ve had in a long, long time.

For today’s costume, I’m back into the same pants from yesterday and same hat. I’d shaken out and put on the first shirt I’d worn for only an hour or so before we’d changed outfits on the train. It’s the one with the stripes and the world’s coolest abalone buttons. This morning, because it’s cool outside, I’ve paired it all with the grey suit jacket I’d brought along.

I have to say the whole get up (minus the hat, of course) is so cool that I’ve already vowed to wear this all again.

To stay warm, because the morning is cool and foggy, Robin’s got on the odd, oversized lumpy ‘woolly-jumper’ she’d grabbed last minute from the flea market. It’s this massive navy blue cardigan with its own cool, little shiny buttons. The length is to her knees because it’s a men’s sweater. On her shorter frame, it’s almost as long as the hem of the latest vintage floral dress she’s wearing.

Like my shirt and pants, the dress is real vintage from times gone by. The waist has sewn in pleats and most probably it’s got some sort of puffy slip underneath like yesterday’s dress because the skirt is very 1950’s full. To make the cardigan not look like a ridiculous bathrobe, she’s left it completely unbuttoned, then she’s belted both garments around her waist in this way that makes the cardigan and the dress appear to be one dress that’s supposed to go together.

She’s done her hair up in one loose bun at the nape of her neck, instead of the two she’d done yesterday, and with those wayward curls of hers popping out how they always do, and her face looks so fresh-washed and bright minus any makeup, she’s all but taken my breath away.

It’s amazing to me how this girl never obsesses over the mirror or makeup or blow-dryers. I swear she gets ready faster than I do. As she crosses in front of me I pull in a breath that’s all lavender and her, and my fingers itch to twine into the riot of smaller curls already escaping that sexy bun. I analyze—stare-at—love the long, graceful line of her neck and adore how the old-fashioned dress has a wide oval neckline that allows me to see the upper curve of where her collar bones and neck come together. Girl’s necks…are so sexy.

We lock our door, and head down the butler’s steps, heading for the kitchen which is where the breakfast is to be served.

At the big landing where the servants of the past would have gone into to the main part of the house via the main stairs, or ducked into back staircases leading off to attics, the dining room or the mudroom from last night, I hear the low murmurs of the other guest’s conversations drifting up, as well as the clanking of cutlery and plates. I panic slightly and grab her hand and pull her toward the ornate framed, floor to ceiling mirror that is built into the wall. Probably placed here for the masters of the castle to check their looks before making grand entrances to balls or whatever dinner parties were held in this place.

“We should check our disguises. Hold on.” I try to keep the tension out of my voice and curb the wild look crossing my expression.

Thankfully she doesn’t notice so quickly, I add, “Look at us in these cool outfits, huh?”

Our smiling gazes meet in the reflection. she’s so darn cute, relaxed and happy—happy with me right now that I swear my heart just flipped upside down.

“Look at you, styling in that blazer.” She pulls the glasses I’ve stuffed into my lapel pocket and slides them onto my face, nodding when she’s completed the task. “There.” She drops her voice to a very quiet whisper. “Now you’re the handsome rockstar-gramps you were yesterday. How’s my look?”

“Beautiful,” I blurt out, tearing my eyes off of her and bending fast, pretending that I need to straighten a part of the hem on her dress.. “You’re amazing at putting together outfits. This look—it all could be on any magazine’s ‘hottest-looks-for-fall’ list. We need to wear these for a press conference and I’ll tell everyone you’re the genius behind it all.”

‘You think?” She shakes her head, putting a hand up and self-consciously trying to smooth the curls I love. “That’s not what Clara and her mom tell me. To them, I’m an endless daily dress-up disaster. You’ve seen it and you’ve seen how the clothes on those racks are very cool, they just don’t ever quite fit me.”

I laugh, fixing the lapels on my jacket. “Well…if you’re talking about that red skirt, and I know you are—the size was wrong, right? And they have to dress us in whatever the trends might be, even if those trends suck. I hate most of the stuff, too, but just know their choices are all about money and designers we’ve also promised we’d wear as part of paid deals.”

She fixes the belt at her waist, turning to check if it’s lined up okay in the back. “If only I could wear this kind of stuff daily and not be mocked for it. I would wear this to a press conference.”

“You can.” I blink at her, not understanding what she means. “We’ve talked about this before, but I’ll say it again. Robin, you should wear whatever you want. It’s a free world, you know?”

She blinks up at me. “Is it so free? What do you think the Instagram crowd would say about us right now? Clara and her mom would die of heart attacks if we got photographed together.” She pulls on her granny glasses and scrunches up her face all funny. “Me with these and you in that hat? What if people noticed you didn’t even have lenses in those glasses?” She cracks up. “Truly? Admit it, you’re just being extra nice and optimistic.” She wiggles her glasses up and down, then points at mine. “These babies will never be on any hottest-looks-for fall list.”

“Maybe not the glasses,” I agree, laughing at the funny faces she’s pulling. “But.” I turn her face back toward the mirror. “Look at us, Robin. They’d say we look great together.” I drop my voice to lower. “They’d say you’re absolutely charming and unique, and at least the old-school dresses and shirts with shiny buttons like mine would wind up in every clothing store in the world within a month.”

“Not even—and no way. Even I think this outfit is strange. If people photographed me in it, I’d feel awkward—maybe I’d feel bad or regret it.”

“I didn’t take you as the type to care what anyone thinks or says about your clothes?”

“I’m not, but I’ve recently become someone who does care. And I care a lot.”

“Why? Because of me?” My heart drops with sadness and what feels like remorse when she nods.

“Yes. I mean, not you directly, but, yes.” Her eyes cloud over with confusion and doubt as I start glaring and I can’t quite re-mask my emotions from how I want and I’m really bummed as she continues, “I care because…I don’t want people to say bad things about you because of me. The stylists say I represent you and your brand now. And even more, I’m like a branch on the Guarderobe tree, representing them, as well. I also care because I want to do right by you to make up what you’ve done for me. If I mess up on things like outfits and makeup and hair, the three things I absolutely suck at, besides table manners and swallowing down the fancy-foods, that is.” She laughs but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Then all of the people who are watching us will mock me, but more so, they will mock you for marrying me.”

Her words have hit me like a rain of bullets. Worse, they confirm all of my worst fears—about how me, my life, my world—and all the crazy spotlight shit will change her. Have obviously already changed her, because damn…I don’t want her to worry about this shit. And damn again, this eroding of her confidence—which happens to anyone who’s flung under a microscope, makes me feel so guilty.

When I can’t answer yet, and continue to glower, she shrugs and whispers, “It’s bad enough people think I’m a gold digger and pregnant, right?”

Forget being hit with bullets, I’ve just had a knife in the heart. It’s so bad, I groan out a strangled, “Yeah…I guess.” While all I can think is: Hell yes. Hell yes, it is bad enough that people think this amazing sweet girl is a gold digger and pregnant—and it’s all because of me.

My mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no other words are coming out yet, because Robin’s gone on babbling, and she’s slaying me permanently with her next sad lines of: “Clara says I don’t want articles published with titles like: Royce Devlin and his backwoods bride cause another scene.” She points at us in the mirror. “These outfits and us…dressing up like this, it has been fun but, well, I can only imagine you’re dead wrong about these looks being trend-setting. Instead of the credit you think I’d get, I’d take all kinds of blame for sucking at high fashion again.”

“Okay. Um. No.” Finally I’m able to hide the regrets that I’ve somehow changed her for the worse, and get my thoughts in order. So I’m sure she gets me, I pull the hat off so she can see my eyes. “I think, because you’re an artist you have a better eye than any stylist as to what would look good together. I order you, immediately on our return to the hotel, to send away all racks of clothing sent up to you. From now on we delete Clara and her mom from our lives. We will dress ourselves.”

She laughs and shakes her head, but instead of looking happy, the worry-clouded look crosses back into her expression again. “As tempting as that seems, because I do get annoyed when Clara flirts with you so endlessly, my response to your command is: No way. Not happening.” She crosses her arms over her stomach. ”Royce. After London we go to Paris. As in…Paris.” She puts a hand over her heart and I grin at her anxious frown. “There’s going to be fancy dinners, and press appearances, and the red carpet music show, awards thing is happening there, right?”

“Oh crap. Yes. It is.” I nod, loving how her face is so expressive.

“I’ve never been to one of those. And you will playing or lined up backstage right?”

“So?”

“So I’m going to need all of the advice I can get about what to wear…because…” She blinks wider. “Because it’s Paris! Plus, you and I don’t exactly have time to visit flea market after flea market to get our wardrobes filled with cool—vintage evening wear.” She pauses to make quote marks before adding, ‘And down-dated’ stuff like this. We can wear these again, maybe. But…do not, I repeat, do not cut the stylists loose.” She spins once, making the skirt on her dress go impressively wide before executing a cool curtsey while adding a very formal, “Please.”

I sigh. “Fine. You’re right. We will need you to be perfect for that awards show, I forgot about that. But it’s not about me or any news articles anyone might write. It’s because it is your first and the press is going to gobble you up like you’re free Skittles left in a bowl. You’ll need all of your fashion armor in place, as well as your confidence, so you’re protected. But listen. If you showed up very late on the red carpet wearing only a cardboard box, you’d still look and be amazing inside of it. Got me?”

She laughs saying, “Okay. Yeah. Right. Sure.”

“Yes. You would. Imagine it.” I sweep her closer to the mirror. “You’d be late, because cardboard requires extra fitting.”

She laughs again, this time rolling her eyes and nodding sarcastically. “Oh yes. Who isn’t always late when they do cardboard.”

I grin, nodding. “And so when you walk in, I stop my own interview smack in the middle, because everyone on the entire half-block long red carpet has literally gasped-and sigh and we’ve all turned to crane our necks to see who’s causing the stir.

“Yes. Okay…and of course it’s me.” Her eyes are twinkling bright, imagining it with me.

“Hell yes. And I’d be very proud stalking towards you so I could walk along with you. All of this of course could be read by the paparazzi in my perfectly smoldering expression. We’d stop at the photo screen, and I’d point at you and say, Damn…would you look at my beautiful wife over there wearing that exclusive gown, obviously done by the renowned designer: Card-and-Board.”

“Crystals are Swarovski, though.” Robin calls out. “Earrings and necklace, Tiffany’s!”

“Yes!” I crack up. Acting it out more, I mock my best amazed and adoring face to her in the mirror by making my eyes go all big—yet squinty at the same time. “I’d pull you up close like this.” I turn us to the side so we can both act out my imagined scene in the mirror, then I pull her in, but only half-way. Pausing to do a huge fake smile and talk through my teeth, “Thought you’d never show, honey. Hold still, let them take some good shots of me gazing into your eyes because this cardboard-brown is really popping the summer-sky-blue in your eyes.”

“How’s this?” Her brows shoot up high and she slaps on her own extra giant fake smile as mirth plus laughter dances behind the blue I was just talking about, all while I turn us to face the fake paparazzi line. This time, I pretend to make room for the imaginary box as I put my hand up over her shoulder while I pause and wave at some more fake cameras.

I whisper through my teeth again, this time acting like the fake crowd is actually watching us and I truly don’t want them to hear me, “This box leaves nothing to the imagination. You’re driving me insane.” Then I fake a paparazzi question: “Robin. Robin, can you answer a question. Is that…cardboard…some kind of special blend…like, is it cereal boxes or…shipping boxes, because it moves so well on you.”

As she cracks up, she flutters her lashes like she’s honored to answer the question and hams out her answer: “It’s actually made up of Amazon boxes. Mr. Bezos—Geoff, is a big fan of the band so he donated them.” She spins a little. “The trim is all made up of deconstructed Amazon Prime tape. See?” She does a little spin. “Royce just loves the brown-paper and bubble wrap under slip but only he gets to see that.”

I step back one step, laughing along with her addressing the imaginary press line for myself. “It’s a great look, but the box corners around her neck line are really sharp. Which means I have to…” I glance at her in the mirror.

She’s grinning at me and shaking her head, while biting the left side of her lower lip. “I have to lean way over to kiss her…like this.”

Suddenly I’ve got my lips on the part of her lip she’d been chewing. She gasps slightly but without resisting, she kisses me back.

Laughter and butterflies make up the sensations on my lips as I deepen the kiss, while galloping beats take over my heart. Imaginary boxes and press conferences fade away as I pull her up close.

I swear I can taste a mixture of lavender and her happiness on this kiss, and it’s so addictive. I also note how it is intertwined with my own happiness. It’s honey, it’s sheer sweetness, it’s heat and as she sighs into me it’s suddenly the air I need to breathe in order to live.

I do that thing I’ve been trying not to do. I start to long for things, permanent things that do not belong to me. I try to pull back, but the way her face moves toward mine, and how she’s opened her mouth and is pressing her tongue so tentatively into my mouth—like she’s taking the lead but is terrified I’m going to reject her, almost brings me to my knees. How can I stop kissing her now?

Though she and I have logged hundreds of public pecks with people looking on, this kiss is something different. Equally as passionate as the one we shared in the closet the time I tricked her into kissing me back in Orlando—because the attraction we’ve always shared between us has always been real—but this is more than attraction and kissing and the white hot desire that always consumes me when we’re doing this.

This is…everything.

It’s friendship and respect. It’s trembling and tentative. It’s pressing and it’s hot, and mostly it is me falling so far in love with this girl right now, that I’m sure this moment with her lips on mine, has got to feel like what the last seconds of dying might feel like. At least…if you are lucky enough to get to go to heaven, that is.

And heaven? Dying like this? It’s perfect.

I want to call this kiss, our first real kiss because to me, now that I know her and she really knows me, it means so much more than any of the others.

Involuntarily, as she’s pressing in again, I’m pressing back, and my lips coax her half open lips wide as my hands go around the narrowest part of her back. Her hands twine around my neck, and I love how her fingers go into the hair at the base of my neck, something I’m realizing she will always do when she kisses me.

I can feel her body completely relax next to mine, and I glance in the mirror sideways, loving how her curves melt against my chest and seem to fill up the space between us perfectly. This girl is so hot…

I slant my kiss deeper, admiring her flushed face as I take in how her long lashes create soft brush-shadows below her eyes.

When her bun comes undone, I’m struck again by our reflection in the mirror. Struck by how hot she looks with her head going back and her hair tangling between us as my hands are moving through it and up her spine.

I groan, because I’m unable to control how hard I’m throbbing against her lower belly. When she moans against my mouth and pushes into that hardness like she’s fully aware of what’s going on down there, it feels like the landing is suddenly spinning beneath my feet.

I want to scoop this girl up into my arms and take her back upstairs to our room. I want to make love to her in the amazing, carved, two-hundred-year-old bed. I want to burn her sleep-hoodie in the Victorian fireplace, and tell her straight up that I’m in love with her. And then I want to beg—beg her to love me back and throw away her whole life so she can stay with me.

Suddenly afraid of this speeding train that’s become me, my heart, my thoughts and my suck-ass, selfish as hell impulses, I pull away from her fast.

Too fast, because she nearly stumbles.

I’m afraid to touch her again or help right her balance, so she has to catch herself by quickly gripping the edge of the wall next to the mirror.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. I suck,” I’m panting, staring down at her and watching as her rosy cheeks flip to bright red. “I’m so sorry,” I add, waiting for her to come to her senses. “I guess I got out of hand there.” I force a chuckle. “That was an inappropriate and misplaced kiss with zero cameras rolling. Very sorry and wrong of me how that just happened…and yeah…I think I just took advantage of you, and. I’m an asshole, okay? That’s what I am—to my core. Won’t do it again. Don’t hate me for crossing the line?”

“What? No.” Like she doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror or something, she simply stares at herself for a second before shaking her head. It’s as though she’s trying to clear it as she starts roughly dragging her fingers through her tangled hair.

I swallow, watching her…thinking: hair I tangled.

Then, as though she’s shocked by how she looks in the mirror, she starts pressing her hands against her bright-red cheeks, then the back of one hand presses against her kiss-swollen lips.

This has me wondering: Did I bruise those lips…do they hurt? Because…shit…they look like they might actually hurt…

Of course I don’t ask those questions, because my throbbing boner has got to hurt way more than whatever her lips are doing, and I need to stop looking at her mouth altogether while getting myself to calm the hell down, because there’s no cold shower anywhere near this landing!

She steps back from the mirror and creates a larger distance to separate us like she understands the need to cool the heat that won’t stop pulsing between us.

After some long breaths she says, “I could never hate you at this point. And don’t say sorry for that kiss, considering I was participating fully… a-a-and yeah…it is fun to kiss you back. I guess maybe the line we’ve crossed is that we’re now getting too comfortable with each other?”

“Yeah. Right. I guess,” I bluff out some short laughter again, still pulling in deep breaths.

She nods again, unable to meet my gaze as her cheeks pile on a new layer of flushing. “That was really out of control, though, huh? Oops on my part, too. Okay?”

She tries to match my forced chuckle, but hers has come out as shaky as the backs of my knees still feel.

She turns her back to me and drags her hands back through her curls again, then deftly winds the entire mass back into the bun. When that’s solid, she finally meets my gaze in the mirror. “We were simply swept away in your imaginary, paparazzi moment. That’s all. Funny…” Her shrug and her smile are not at all convincing, but to her credit the next laugh she gets out does sound rather solid.

“Yes. Well. You in cardboard. Who knew the effect it would have on me?” Again, I’m unable to tear my eyes off those damn lips of hers—she needs to stop licking them like that.

And…all control below my waist is surging again! Crap. What this girl does to me. My body and soul—gone forever.

“Swept away,” I parrot her words next, because I can’t think of any of my own right now, managing another laugh through the throbbing that is my head, my temples and everything else.

I step really close to the mirror, pretending to comb my fingers through my own hair for a long moment, and then, needing more time, I mutter, “I uh…did my buttons wrong. Hang on,” I lie, thus giving me the excuse to unbutton every single button on my shirt—and then slowly I re-button them. I then pause to tuck in the tails. This of course is a front for me to make careful adjustments to parts of me that are still throbbing and in the way. And, when I’m as ready as my frustrated self will ever be, I turn back, avoiding looking at her face completely while I point down the stairs, hoping I can at least walk and say, “Let’s get some breakfast?”

“Okay. Yes.” I can tell her eyes are flick over me, up and down, then down and up as she adds, “But…don’t forget to put together your—stuff first.”

I panic inside. Hell. Did I fail at fixing the boner? Is that what she means?

Can she see it? Sucks to be the guy.

Sucks!

Thankfully, she points at my head—the one attached to my neck. “Your glasses and hat?”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I search around, finding that both of those things somehow had hit the floor during our kiss.

She nods stiffly, recovering her own glasses out of the tangle that’s still on top of her head before adding her own garden hat over the golden mess. “I need—coffee. Don’t you? But first I need the restroom.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll take the one in the kitchen, you head back up to the one in the room”

“What?” I ask.

“Meet you in the dining area,” She says, but this time her voice is cracking. Before I can even panic about her leaving me alone—and before I can panic about her being alone without me, she all but bolts down the steps away from me.

Still in a daze, I pause to glance in the mirror and note that I hardly recognize myself underneath an expression that is very much me…lost and in love. I note that my mouth might be just as swollen and as burning as hers looked, and that I do need to go clean myself up some. “Is that what she was staring at? Is that why she ran?” I mutter, laughing at myself, adding. “Damn, Dude. Who are you right now?”