Princess Arabelle

In front of the last door at the end of the west wing on the second floor, I stop. “This is your room.”

“How did you know that?” he asks, his voice much more seductive when we’re alone. Or maybe it’s always that way, but I’m starting to fall under his spell again. God, those lips. I want to kiss them, and I want them to kiss me, and—“Ally?”

I let my gaze slide above those full lips that I’ve sucked on and look right into the eyes that frequent my dreams. “Yes,” I reply, my throat dry and my breath coming less easy.

“How did you know this was my room?”

“You told me your room is white with blue pillows.”

“And you knew which room it was based on that?”

I nod. “I have them all memorized. This was our playground, our hide-and-go-seek wonderland. The winters are cold, and when we weren’t allowed outside, we played inside. Each room has a different color scheme, and your room is one of my favorites, decorated in yellow. I used to sneak off and sleep in there. The most beautiful sunrises can be seen through those windows.”

“Did you know I was coming?”

“No.” I hold out my hand. “Key please.”

He hands it to me, and I unlock the room, wanting to see it again. He remains outside the door and looks back down the hall. “Is this allowed? I’m not going to be beheaded, am I?”

“Don’t be silly. We haven’t done that in thirty years.”

“What?”

“The look of horror on your face was worth the joke.” I roll my eyes and wave him inside. “We never believed in death as punishment, but then again, we aren’t a country of high crime, so I don’t think it was ever necessary.”

There’s a hesitation to his steps, discomfort as if he’s breaking an unspoken rule. “It’s okay. No one will see us. We can even leave the door open if you don’t want to be alone with me. I understand.”

With distance still between us, he says, “You don’t understand. I’m not afraid of being caught with you. I’m afraid of being alone with you.”

“Why?” I hate the way my voice betrays me, dipping into seduction from one word spoken. I have no control around him. He stimulates my mind and tempts my body with ease. He doesn’t treat me like a doll that is easily broken or like a woman here for his pleasure. My pleasure is his pleasure, and his pleasure is mine.

He would never choose a pretty face over insightful conversation. But most of all, he would never expect me to be quiet.

Hutton looks out the door as if debating, but when he turns back to me, his mind is made up. “That last night together in Austin was the first time I realized what you meant to me. It had been so simple to keep things casual when we were living in different cities, but when I saw you, I knew what I wanted.”

“You wanted me?”

“I still do, Ally.”

The name warms me like a wool blanket in winter. “I missed that name. I missed you saying it. I missed so much.” I laugh lightly, looking down, almost embarrassed by my silly confession. Almost. But he never makes me feel awkward or uncomfortable sharing my feelings. I peek back up, and his interest is set in the depths of his soulful eyes.

“Then why did you leave suddenly? Why are we here pretending we don’t know each other better than anyone else?”

“I’ll be queen one day, and I can’t rule my own country from Austin, Texas.”

“I understand that, but what I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t allowed.” I turn away from him, not wanting his eyes dissecting my lies. I can’t tell him I was escaping a past of my own doing, and that I almost lost my chance at the throne because of my bad decisions. I can’t tell him that loving him would hurt me in the end. I can’t put that burden on him to carry. So I’ll carry it instead. “It’s complicated, Hutton.”

When I turn around, he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking drop-dead debonair in his tuxedo. “Clearly, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“It’s late. I should go before the rumors start.”

“Let them—”

“No. I’ve traveled that route before. I’ll take the less scenic way this time.” I move to pass him, but he reaches out, catching me by the waist. I’m slow to allow myself this last look to indulge, but weak to this man, I do and angle my chin up. The tiara begins to slip, but he catches it. “You wouldn’t want to lose that.”

“What’s a few jewels when I’ve lost so much more already?”

“Speaking in riddles won’t get us anywhere but lost again.”

“That’s where I’m best when it comes to you.” I take a step just out of his reach but turn back, and whisper, “No one can know about us.”

“What happens if they find out?”

His tone isn’t bitter, but more curious. “I lose everything.” I walk to the door and take the knob in hand. Just before I close it, I add, “Good night, Hutton.”

“Good night, Ally.”

I take the cozy name and shut his door, and then carry it in my heart all the way to my room on the third floor. By the time I’m climbing in bed, my mind is whirling with thoughts of tonight, my heart both full and confused, and my belly hungry. Watching my sister and Hutton hit it off like a house on fire at dinner caused me to lose my appetite, so I’m actually starving.

Tossing and turning for more than two hours leaves me depleted, so I take matters into my own hands. I flip the covers off and slip on sleep shorts before I grab my Crow Brothers T-shirt to wear downstairs since I’m traveling down memory lane already. I take the back stairs and halls, tiptoeing in bare feet, boxer shorts, and my shirt with no bra. My hair is twisted on top of my head and my face free of makeup.

I don’t worry about seeing anyone or running into the staff. Everyone’s been asleep for at least an hour. Slipping into the kitchen, I’m met by the light of one of the refrigerators and a dark silhouette rummaging through the food inside. “Hello?”

When he leans back, I recognize that body—broad shoulders, carved biceps made of steel, hair that is short enough to look professional but long enough to mess up during sex. And that ass . . .

I could write poetry about Hutton Everest’s ass.

As a matter of fact, I have.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I want to bite his ass and squeeze it too.

I didn’t say it was good poetry. Just an ode to sort of thing.

“Is that you, Ally?”

As much as it pains me to say, I have to. “You need to stop calling me that.”

He sets a block of cheese and a jar of mustard on the steel countertop and grabs a knife from the butcher block. His lack of response has my reactions going into overdrive. I know he heard me, but he pulls a cutting board from the stack in the corner as though he didn’t. As he digs the knife into the cheese, he pauses and looks my way. “I like it.”

Deep.

Husky.

His voice fits the night and the sneaking around we’re both doing. The dulcet tones strike straight to my core. I grip the counter, the cold metal steeling my shaken willpower. “I’m a princess, and one day, I’ll be queen.” I hate how whiny I sound as if my saying it makes it real for him. It doesn’t. I’m still Ally from Austin in his eyes. The thought makes me smile, but I can’t, or he’ll never see me for who I am now. “Acknowledging my title is a sign of respect.”

“Respect is an interesting word, isn’t it? One could argue that you didn’t respect what we had. Someone else, maybe yourself, could argue that you respected me enough to let me go. So respect seems to be relative to the person using the term. What do you think?” The blade of the knife hits the cutting board with a thud.

What do I think? “I think this is too deep for one thirty in the morning.”

“Let’s go with something less philosophical. Mustard or mayo? I don’t know which one you prefer. Weird, right?”

“Mustard.”

“A girl after my own heart.”

Hutton’s made himself at home, working around the kitchen with such comfort and helping himself as if he owns the place. To my annoyance, it also comforts me. He’s so sure of himself, so utterly sexy and cocky Hutton. Grrr . . . Seeing him make sandwiches shirtless has me after something, but at this moment, it’s not his heart. “Are one of those sandwiches for me?”

His eyes find mine through the moonlight, and a smirk appears. Damn him. He never did play fair. He uses everything he’s got to get what he wants. I’m just not sure if it’s that sandwich or me he’s vying for, though. I move to his side and pull the bread from the sealed container. He takes a bread knife and slices the loaf, then lays the pieces on the board. Like a pastry chef, he leans over his creation, spooning the mustard on the four slices.

He’s so close that I’m warmed from the heat emanating off him. I move against him, the side of my chest pressed to his arm and then rest my cheek against his bicep. Hutton stills and stays. “What are you doing, princess?”

I know he’s not calling me by my title but how he called me by the nickname he used to use. His rebellious ways speak to me on such a personal level that I lose my train of thought. “I don’t know.”

That rogue smile appears again, but this time, he turns my way, putting the slightest of distances between our bodies. “At dinner, all I wanted was to ask you a million questions just to hear your voice speaking only to me again. Despite the answers, I would have taken the hit to have your undivided attention. When you were in my room, all I wanted to do was kiss you. I felt you near before I saw you here. Do you know how hard it is not to touch you? Not to bend you over this surface and do what I’ve been craving for months?”

Breathless, I ask, “Months?”

“Months. Tell me, Ally. Tell me you can’t let go of me like I haven’t been able to let go of you.” He’s so much stronger than I am. His emotions come on the wings of a confession, but his body stays just far enough away from mine to make me miss his heat.

“What do you want me to say, Hutton? Because what I want and what I can tell you aren’t the same things.” I look down, my heart hurting. “I can’t be with you.”

“Why?”

Raising my eyes along with my chin, I reply, “I’ve told you. I’ll lose everything. This country and the throne are rightfully mine. What do you want me to do? Toss that away like it means nothing.”

“So you’ll toss me away instead? Princess?” The difference in his usage is apparent as his defenses go up. He puts cheese on one of the sandwiches and then tops it with bread.

“You don’t want me to answer.” And I don’t want to say the words either. I’ve craved his touch, his kisses, lying in his arms in the early morning hours when the rest of the world is sleeping. Being so close to him now, feeling the coarse hairs rub against my skin, is breaking my heart. I need to be stronger than this . . . and he deserves a better answer than I can give him. He deserves not to be taunted because I can’t give him anything.

“You’re right. I want a sandwich, and then I’m going to bed. The meetings should only take a few days. I appreciate the hospitality your country has shown me.” With his eyes staring into mine, he takes a bite of the sandwich, and with a full mouth, I’m sure just to bother me, he says, “Good night, princess,” and walks into the dark.

The swinging door is the only sound heard, and I turn, resting my palms on the metal counter, hoping it can cool me down. When I look down, I see his creation. I read what is written in mustard on one piece of bread, “We once said,” and then read the other, “I love you.”

We did, and I meant those words.

I’m not allowed to mean them anymore, but as much as I want to deny tasting the words on my tongue, I can’t suppress the feelings I have for him inside.

“Oh, Hutton.” I sigh, then slap cheese on the bread and take a bite of the sandwich, forever hiding the truth inside.