I was at the pub, having drinks with a few friends and gossiping about my odd meeting with the Prince of Rhenland, when my phone rang and flashed up an 'Unknown' message on the screen.

Jane, the nosiest of the bunch, widened her eyes at me when I held up the phone to show them the message.

"Oh my God! Is it him?"

"I don't know," I replied, my stomach flipping a little at the mere possibility that it could be. Surely not. The Prince of Rhenland? Yes, he'd asked for my number. Yes, he'd seemed genuinely interested in getting it. But – me? I held the phone in my hand, staring down at it, frozen with indecision.

"Should I answer it?" I asked, only to be bombarded with a loud, collective 'yessss!' What if it wasn't him? What if it was him? I'd done a pretty good job of maintaining my composure earlier that day, when we'd met in the middle of Cambridge Street. Prince Killian was even better looking in person than he was in the newspapers. Tall and broad shouldered, with piercing blue eyes and an angular, aristocratic face that could have landed him modeling jobs had he not been from a family where something as vulgar as working for a living was frowned upon. I knew all that, though. I knew the Prince of Rhenland was rich and gorgeous and charming because that's all anyone ever said about him. What I didn't know was what it felt like to be face to face with a man like that, right in front of him as he flashed that billion dollar smile. It felt amazing. It also felt dangerous.

As the phone rang on, Jane took matters into her own hands, grabbing it out of my hand, accepting the call and handing it right back to me. I held it gingerly up to my ear and took a deep breath.

"Hello?"

"Eva?"

It was him. There was no mistaking that deep, accented voice – or the effect it had on me. On the one hand, I couldn't believe it, it was ridiculous. Prince Killian – the man I'd drooled over photos of a hundred times – he was calling me? No, not possible. On the other hand – it was happening. And I had to say something – anything – before he assumed I'd suddenly gone mute.

"Yes, it's me," I said, speaking slowly so I wouldn't trip over my words. Jane was beside herself, bouncing around in her chair silently and mouthing 'oh my God' over and over.

"Eva! I hope I'm not interrupting anything." I liked the way he spoke. It sounds a bit silly, doesn't it, to say that? But I did. It wasn't just the tone of his voice, it was his manner, the total lack of hesitation or doubt.

"I'm just at the pub," I told him, "with some friends."

"Ah, the pub. I wish I was at the pub right now. Instead I'm just here playing FIFA on my own. Do you have any post-pub plans?"

It was the most surreal conversation I've ever had. The Prince of Rhenland was playing FIFA? On his own? Like a normal man? I couldn't help but laugh.

"You're – you're playing FIFA?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

"Sure am. Why – what did you think I was doing? Dining on endangered animals? Chopping off the heads of my enemies? I'm sorry to disappoint you if that's the case, but I'm actually quite boring."

I doubted that. I doubted it very much. The Prince was flirting with me – I could hear it in his voice. And damn, it felt wonderful. I suppressed a giggle and steeled myself. I've never been one of those giggling girls, and I was damned if I was going to start then.

"So," he continued, "are you busy after the pub?"

Christine reached out and touched my arm, looking at me pointedly and shaking her head. I got the message. She was right, too. No part of me was interested in becoming just another anonymous girl on Prince Killian's famously extensive fuck list.

"Actually, I am," I said, not quite believing the words were coming out of my own mouth but determined not to give in as easily as I knew most women did. "I have to work very early tomorrow morning so I need to get to bed at a reasonable time."

There was a pause. I wondered how often Prince Killian got turned down – probably not often!

"Oh," he replied. "Early night, I understand. How about Friday, then? How do you fancy coming to a party with me? It's in the country but you can come with me in my car, if you like."

My co-workers were all leaned in very close, hanging on every word of the conversation. And all three of them started nodding vigorously when they heard Killian invite me to a party. I toyed with the idea of pretending I needed to check my schedule but decided not to push my luck – it's not like he had any shortage of women who would claw each other's eyes out to go to a party with him.

"Friday? Sure, I would like that. I don't know if I have anything to wear –"

"It doesn't matter what you wear, Eva."

We made arrangements for Friday evening and hung-up. I wanted to keep talking to him but I couldn't do it – not with Jane, Lily and Christine eyeballing me and my own heart racing so fast I could hardly think.

"Holy shit!" Jane screeched, grabbing my arm excitedly. "You weren't kidding. That was him. That was actually him! Ugh, I'm gonna die!"

Christine stared at me. "Are you kidding me right now?! That was Killian fucking Chatham-Hayes, Eva! That was the PRINCE OF RHENLAND! Why do you look so calm?"

I grabbed my pint and took a sip, willing myself to at least try calming down a little. "Because," I started. "Look at us. Look at me. I can hardly breathe. I'm not even kidding, he's even hotter in real life."

A series of smitten sighs arose around me but I wasn't finished. "And that's not good! Come on, we all know his reputation, don't we? And no matter how hot he is, would you be willing to just offer yourself up to be another notch on his bedpost? I can't even have casual sex with normal men without it getting messy. Why would I think I could do it with him?"

Jane sat back in her seat, thinking. "I hear you, Eva. But, truth? I'd be willing to be another notch. Come on. He's so hot. So what if it's just that one night? I'd do it just for the experience, you know?"

I was about to protest when Lily, the quietest of our little group, piped up: "I don't know about that. I don't think she should sleep with him."

"Why?!" Jane demanded, as if it was the most ridiculous statement she'd ever heard. "Eva, if you don't plan on sleeping with him, do the right thing and let me go in your place. I can't let that kind of hotness go to waste, girl!"

"Why not?" I asked Lily, ignoring Jane's outburst.

"Well if you're not the casual sex type, stuff like that can really mess with you, you know? I had a one night stand with a guy in college – someone I was really into – and it screwed me up pretty bad when he wasn't interested in anything else."

"Oh please," Jane interjected, waving a dismissive hand at our more cautious pal. "She doesn't even know him. How can she be 'into' him?"

"But that's just it," I said, leaning in to emphasize my point. "I am into him. He was so – ugh, I don't know. So charming. So hot. So... perfect."

"Don't sleep with him then," Christine said. "Go on the date, but don't sleep with him. He may be a Prince, but he's a man, isn't he? And we all know what men are like. Make him wait."

Make him wait. If we'd been talking about anyone else, I wouldn't have had a problem. But the Prince? He wasn't the type who had to wait. If one girl said no, there would be ten more women right there who wouldn't.

"I'm over-thinking it," I sighed. "I always do this."

Jane nodded. "You are. Go to the party with him. If you don't want to have sex, don't. I mean, I think that's insane but I'm not you. At the very least you'll get a good story out of it. And hey, if he turns out to be a jerk you can just sell the story to the Daily News and make some money."

I laughed. "Yeah, right."

* * *

I spent the rest of the week in a state of barely-controlled internal chaos. Work helped in that regard – I was a make-up artist, apprenticed to Elsa Banbridge, a huge name in the industry, and that meant I was constantly busy. On the Thursday, the day before the party, Elsa herself walked into the room where I was tidying up after an afternoon class on color theory.

"So I hear you have a date tomorrow night?" She enquired, helping me gather stray tubes of lipstick and palettes of contour.

Elsa was in her mid-forties and still beautiful. She worked us hard and didn't attempt to conceal the fact that she had the highest possible expectations of everybody who joined her team. She worked even harder than we did, though, and her expectations of herself were at least as high as they were of us. I was more than a little in awe of her – just getting the job as her apprentice had been more than I ever could have hoped for. It had taken me less than five seconds to decide to leave Michigan for Rhenland when I got the call confirming that the apprenticeship was mine if I wanted it.

"Um, yes." I replied. "I do."

My boss, catching the tone in my voice, kept tidying for a few moments before speaking again. "I'm sorry, Eva, is that too personal? We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I've worked with the Prince's sister before, Charlotte. She's lovely."

"I'm sorry." I apologized. "I just – I feel like everyone's talking about me."

Elsa smiled. "Well, they are. The whole office is positively abuzz with it. Don't take it the wrong way, it's natural for people to be interested in the Prince – he's the most eligible bachelor in Rhenland. Probably the world. You're a smart young woman. Just keep your wits about you and I'm sure it will be a night to remember."

I looked over at my boss, hearing something knowing in her voice when she advised me to keep my wits about me. She must have seen the expression on my face. "I just mean don't let yourself get dazzled. He's rich and gorgeous. He's also almost ten years older than you – and I suspect he's lived a much faster life than you have. I'm just saying to keep all that in mind. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

It dawned on me then that Elsa, my hard-assed but brilliant boss, was being motherly. It made sense, she had two daughters who were only a few years younger than me. Sometimes they came into the office after school was out and amused themselves trying out all the new products.

"Oh I know," I responded, a little too quickly. "I mean, you're right. I won't do anything I don't feel comfortable with."

Elsa put her arm around my shoulder. "Prince Killian likes the party girls, Eva. It doesn't mean you have to be one of them – it'll be an experience in itself just to go to spend an evening with that crowd. You're young. Enjoy it, drink their champagne, take it all in and consider it a tale for the grandchildren. Just remember who he is."

A couple of hours later I was sitting in the backseat of a BMW, zooming through the dusk-shrouded streets of the Capital as Killian's driver took me to the party. I watched the people on the sidewalk, going home with bags of groceries in their hands, pre-occupied with their own lives. For once, I didn't feel like one of them. I wasn't going home to my scruffy apartment and a dinner of pasta and jarred spaghetti sauce. Not that I had a problem with doing that, of course. But for that one night, I got to be Cinderella. Well – maybe a modified, modern version of Cinderella, anyway.

Soon, the crowded, bustling city streets gave way to tree-lined suburban lanes and then, finally, the Rhennish countryside. When we arrived and I stepped out of the car, the air smelled different. Fresher, laced with the scent of vegetation at night. For a moment, it made me think of home.

Prince Killian was right there, waiting for me. He smiled, put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. "Look at you, Eva. You look gorgeous." Then he leaned in and for a split second I had the crazy idea he was going to kiss me. He did, but it was on one cheek and then the other, like the French do. I wasn't used to greetings like that and it flustered me a little, gave me a hint that I was entering a world where things were done differently.

On the day we'd met, Prince Killian had been wearing a dark blue suit, the kind of thing I was used to seeing him in (because, strange as it was, I was used to seeing him – in tabloids, online – just not in real life). That evening he was dressed more casually, in a button down shirt and dress pants. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, making it look like he could have just come from fixing his car or some other normal-person activity. He was tall – it had struck me standing beside him on Cambridge Street and it struck me again in the courtyard as I found myself having to tilt my head up to look him in the eyes. Oh, yeah. His eyes. The kind of deep blue eyes that the word 'piercing' was invented for, the kind you had to force yourself to look away from. He was built well, too – another fact I already knew from the media but that had a much different impact in person. It was an aristocratic look – the height, the broad shoulders and chest, the long muscles of his thighs that the dress pants seemed to have been tailored perfectly for. Which, come to think of it, they must have been.

The Prince was one of those men. One of those men who could have had billions or nothing, who could be a member of royalty or a mechanic or a soldier, because the thing about him wasn't the external titles or the bank balance – it was him. He had the easy masculinity and natural presence of a man who doesn't have to work at it. He was royalty – he could have been ugly or cruel or boorish and still have had women lining up. But he wasn't any of those things and oh, I was so aware of it. When he offered me his arm and I slipped my hand through it, it was all I could do not to openly swoon.

I was nervous already, concentrating hard on not stumbling over my words – or my own feet – as we walked over the crunchy gravel. When the house itself came into view my mouth fell open. It took some effort to close it again.

"That's where the party is?" I asked, awed. I say 'house' but it wasn't a house – not to me. It was more of a palace. Three stories of grand, grey stone that looked like it had been there since the beginning of time. Thick, soaring columns lined the facade – I even spotted a few ornate gargoyles guarding the upper corners. The impression was one of permanence and grace and I was immediately captivated – not to mention a little intimidated.

Killian was watching me take it all in. "Yes, this is where the party is. Don't be too impressed, it isn't my place, it belongs to an old school friend of mine. A little grand, I admit, but it's out here in the middle of nowhere and the hedges are nice and high, so it keeps prying eyes away."

As we walked up the stone steps to the front door the sounds of a party drifted out towards us – people talking, laughing, the sound of glasses clinking. Part of me wanted to run away. What could I possibly have to say to the kind of people who lived in a place like that? What could they possibly have to say to me?

"Why do you look so worried?" Killian asked, squeezing my hand. "You don't have to worry, Eva. We're all regular people, just like you."

"I doubt that," I responded, instantly regretting the words as soon as they'd left my mouth. I don't like showing weakness, never have.

"Do you?" he asked. "Why's that?"

I looked up at him and then away again instantly, because it was difficult to look at him without wanting to play with my hair and smile and behave in all the ways I was afraid of behaving in. "Why's that?" I repeated back to him. "Are you serious? I grew up in a two bedroom house in a small town near Detroit. I went to public school. I'm training to become a make-up artist."

Killian was still looking right at me, trying to figure out my mildly defensive tone. "You're right," he conceded. "Most of the people I know grew up in places like this. Most of us knew we were never going to get jobs – at least not the kind that most people have. But so what? Does it matter?"

He was so infused with confidence, so sure of himself. It had an effect on me. Maybe he was right? Maybe none of that stuff mattered? "I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just – this is a new thing for me, you know? I bet you'd feel a little out of place if I invited you to a football game in Oshwego."

The Prince laughed and I found I liked the sound of his laughter very much. "True, true. Oshwego, huh? Is that where you're from? I have such a romantic idea of small town America. I imagine you all going to football games and drinking milkshakes in diners."

"Ha! Well I don't know about the diner part but we certainly love our football."

We were still standing on the stairs outside the front door, neither of us seemingly eager to go inside. I would have been happy to stay there all night, talking to him. He was one of those men you were just happy to be with, no matter what was going on.

"Come on then, let's go inside. Everyone's very interested in my new American friend."

That comment had my ears perking up. "You told people about me?"

"Of course I did. It's not every day you nearly run down a beautiful woman in the street and then manage to convince her to come to a party with you, is it?"

Beautiful. That word coming out of Killian's mouth shouldn't have made me giddy, but it did and there was no pretending otherwise. Did he even mean it or was it just something he said to all the girls?

We went inside together and were immediately greeted by a tall, slightly chubby man with very red cheeks. He came bowling up to us and spread his arms wide in greeting.

"Killian! Thought you'd frozen to death in the courtyard, mate. So, is this the lovely lady?"

Killian rolled his eyes at me. "This is Tristan. As you can see, he's a little drunk. Pay absolutely no attention to anything he says – unless it's about how to get a drink." Then he turned to his friend and clapped him on the back. "Christ, Tristan, it's not even eight yet. But yes, this is the lovely Eva from America. From Oshwego, actually."

"Osh-what-go?" Tristan cackled. "No matter, she's here now –" he turned to me – "aren't you my dear? And what brought you to Rhenland? Trying to land yourself a Prince? I don't know if –"

At that moment a very tall (what the hell, were all these people giants?) blonde physically inserted herself into the conversation, pushing Tristan aside before he could finish questioning me.

"Ignore my idiot brother," she instructed, giving Tristan a stern look. "He fell off his horse during a polo match when he was fifteen – ever since then he's had the social skills of a mosquito. Come with me, dear, I'll introduce you to everyone."

I looked to the Prince, unsure as to what I should do. He gave me a reassuring nod. "Go with Millie, get yourself a drink. I'll be right here, don't worry."

So I let the statuesque blonde lead me out of the foyer. "Don't take anything my brother says seriously," she said kindly. "He's jealous of all Killian's girlfriends. I think he knows he's going to have to grow up sooner or later, and the longer Killian stays single the longer he can put it off himself, you know? I'm Camille, by the way. Call me Millie. And you're Eva, right?"

Damn, Killian really had told them about me. I liked Millie right away. She had a strange face, a kind of Roman-nosed patrician beauty that made her look older – although not in a bad way – than I suspected she was. And she was warm and funny, guiding me around the room and introducing me to various people with long, strange names that I knew I'd never manage to remember. She soon ushered me into a cavernous, design magazine-worthy kitchen afterwards and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. "There, now you've met that pack of idiots, how about some champagne?"

"Yes," I replied, exhaling. "That would be – yes, please, I'd like some champagne."

I watched as Millie opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle and casually used a butter knife to pop the cork – a gesture only someone very familiar with opening champagne bottles could pull off so smoothly. The cork hit the ceiling and we both dodged out of its way, laughing.

"Here," she said, after pouring me a glass. "I know this is probably strange for you. Killian doesn't usually bring his girlfriends into the inner circle this quickly, but he hasn't shut up about you for days."

I sipped my champagne. It was the second time Millie had used the word 'girlfriend' to refer to me. But I wasn't Killian's girlfriend – I was just someone he'd happened to meet, and now I was at a party with him.

"We only just met," I told her, taking another sip. "I'm not his girlfriend."

"Oh!" Millie replied abruptly. "I'm sorry, I'm being careless. I don't mean it like that. I just mean you're a new friend of Killian's, and you're a girl. You know?"

I nodded, even as a surprising pang of disappointment washed over me. The talk soon turned to work, and I told Millie what I was doing in Rhenland. When I mentioned Elsa Banbridge she lit up.

"Oh, Elsa! You're working for her? My God, I love that woman. She usually does my face on big nights, or for events or things like that. How is she? How are her girls?"

It made sense that Millie would know Elsa on a first name basis. But my relationship with my boss was definitely more employer-employee than personal friend. "She's fine," I responded, "always busy."

We were interrupted at that point by a very pretty brunette. She and Millie did the cheek-kissing that Killian had done to me earlier and then she glanced at me briefly, raising a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow in my direction. "So you must be Killian's latest conquest, then?"

I opened my mouth to respond, and, when I found I didn't have a response – other than to take an instant dislike to the pretty snob – Millie jumped in. "Now, Pinky, be nice. This is Eva, the one Killian's motorcade almost ran down on Cambridge Street. She works for Elsa Banbridge – you know, the make-up artist?"

"I know who Elsa Banbridge is," Pinky stated coolly, turning and offering me her limp, pale hand to shake.

Killian chose that awkward moment to walk in on. "Oh good," he said, addressing me directly. "Here you are. I thought Millie had dragged you off somewhere." Then he turned to Pinky and nodded. "Hey. I thought you were in Switzerland – did you come back with your brother?"

Pinky's sour expression transformed into a girlish smile with such haste it was all I could do not to roll my eyes. "No, he's still there. I was bored. Now I'm back here and I'm still bored."

Instead of continuing the small talk, Killian turned back to me and reached out his hand. "Come with me, Eva. I want to show you something."

I looked at Millie, slightly wary of causing trouble, but she just nodded. "Go on, Eva. It was nice meeting you!"

So I went, Killian's big hand wrapped around my smaller one, and followed him through several long hallways and out onto an enormous lawn. Several clusters of partygoers were scattered across it, clutching champagne flutes and chattering animatedly.

"Was Pinky rude?" Killian asked, as the moonlight caught his hair and edged it with silver. "I hope she wasn't, I was trying to keep her away from you."

"Why?"

"Because she hates any woman I so much as stand next to, that's why. She's only twenty, she'll grow out of it. She's had a bit of a rough time these past few years and her family is very close to mine, so it wouldn't be appropriate to exclude her, really."

I nodded. "Oh. OK. I'm only twenty-two, you know."

"Are you?" Killian asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes," I told him, slightly insulted. "Why, how old did you think I was?"

He realized his mistake immediately. "Oh, it's not that. You don't look older. You just – I don't know, you seem older than that. More serious, maybe? I don't know, it's possible I spend too much time with spoiled girls."

I laughed and caught his eye. "Are you sure it's just the girls who are spoiled?"

"Shush," Killian responded, leading me across the lawn until my feet were damp with dew. There aren't many men I would let openly shush me, but he was just so playful about it that I couldn't help but smile to myself in the darkness. Besides, I had kind of been making fun of him.

We arrived at a little wooden door set into a stone wall. "This is the walled garden – a walled garden used to be quite the thing to have, about a hundred and fifty years ago. This one had fallen out of use but Tristan's father has been letting me play around with it."

Nothing about the garden, once we were inside, looked run-down or unused. Rows of neatly placed planting beds lay in a grid pattern, with little pathways leading between them. Killian's hand was on the small of my back, though, and it was difficult to concentrate on talk of historical garden trends. He was going to kiss me. Was he going to kiss me? Did I even want him to? I did. Very much. Just the feeling of his hand on my body had my temperature rising. But when I looked up at him he was gesturing out over the garden beds.

"Over there I planted purple carrots. Did you know all carrots used to be purple? Well, purple and white, anyway. Part of my degree involved learning about all the old varietals."

"You –" I started. "You have a degree in... carrots?"

Killian laughed out loud. Yes, I loved that sound. I loved that I had made him laugh.

"No, I don't have a degree in carrots, silly. I have a degree in agriculture."

"You do?" I asked, genuinely curious. "I didn't know you even had a degree."

"I know, nobody does" Killian said, making an exaggerated sad face. "Poor me, everybody thinks all I do is party. I took a short break from that to go to Camford. They designed the degree specifically for me – I needed a very specialized program."

Camford. I didn't know much about universities but even I had heard of Camford – ancient and venerable, the name alone conjuring up images of looming spires, mist and libraries filled with ancient, dusty tomes.

"In agriculture?" I asked, confused. I knew people back home with degrees in agriculture. They all came from farming families. "Are you planning on becoming a farmer?"

Killian took a step back and looked at me, amused. "No, Eva, I am not planning on becoming a farmer. But you know where my family's wealth comes from, don't you?"

"Umm –" I began, before realizing that actually I had no idea where the royal family's money came from. "Actually, I don't. Where?"

"Land," Killian pronounced, as if that explained everything. "Lots and lots of land. It's been royal property for hundreds of years – we probably own about twenty-five percent of the land and buildings in the Capital, but most of it is in the countryside. When my parents pass away, my sister and I will inherit all of it. And since she'll be busy being Queen, it's going to fall to me to take care of it. It's a complicated business."

"But what does that have to do with purple carrots?" I asked.

"You," Killian said, suddenly sweeping me up in his arms and spinning me around, "are a very cheeky girl, do you know that?"

It was only a moment, just a little twirl. But when he put me down something in the air had changed. For one thing, we were standing much closer to each other. I could hear him breathing, I could feel the warmth of his body. Neither of us said anything for a few moments, and then Killian leaned in and whispered in my ear:

"I promised myself I was going to be good tonight, you know. And you're making it very difficult for me to keep that promise."

I was burning for him by then, my heart racing, my lips ever so slightly parted in anticipation of the kiss I so badly wanted. But I had made a promise to myself, too.

"So did I." I said quietly. "Make a promise I mean, to myself. That I wasn't just going to be another notch on your bedpost."

Killian ran both his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "Well then. Maybe we should both try and keep our promises?"

I didn't want to keep anything – not then, not when he was right there, so tantalizingly close that I could almost feel his mouth on my lips, his hands on my waist. But – he had made a promise, too? That made me extremely curious.

"Wait," I said. "What did you promise?"

Killian looked up at the sky and sighed, shaking his head. "Basically the same thing you did – but from the other side. I don't know what you think of me, but I'm not unaware of my reputation. I'm not unaware of my age, either. I'll be thirty in less than a year, and being a thirty year old playboy prince isn't quite the same thing as being a twenty year old playboy prince, is it? Even my parents are starting to get nervous."

It was funny hearing Killian referring casually to his parents – the King and Queen of Rhenland – as if they were just another middle-aged couple bemoaning a reluctant-to-settle son. Which I suppose they were, in a way, after you stripped away the titles and the wealth. I tried to choose my words carefully, sensing we were talking about a sensitive subject. "I don't think anything of you," I started. "I mean, I obviously know who you are, I'm aware of your public persona. But I don't want you to think I'm judging –"

"Then why the comment about being another notch on my bedpost?" Killian interrupted.

I couldn't help but chuckle a little over that. "Oh, are you denying the accuracy of that part of your reputation?"

Killian turned to face me, then, a serious look on his face. "No, Eva. I'm not denying it at all. I'm just saying, ugh, you know what? I don't even know what the hell I'm saying. I've got this problem with you where I seem to care about what you think of me. It's making me awkward and boring."

That couldn't have been further from the truth. I could have told him as much but I didn't. No matter what I was feeling, no matter how well Killian's famous magnetism was working on me – and, oh, it was – I wasn't going to give in to it. Not yet, anyway. Not when I barely knew him beyond a tabloid caricature. So instead of spilling my guts I asked him about the carrots again, about why he was growing them.

"Oh," he replied, grinning. "The carrots. Yes. It's not just the carrots, Eva. It's the blackcurrants, too. And the strawberries. I've developed a bit of a strange mania for traditional Rhennish produce. It's actually quite fascinating, a lot of these varietals are dying out because they don't hold up to transport or they're too finicky to grow on a large scale. When people sit down with a bowl of strawberries and cream these days they don't realize that what they're eating doesn't taste anything like what people would have been eating just seventy or eighty years ago." He paused and looked at me. "I'm sorry, this has sort of become my pet project, I don't mean to be tiresome. I just think these things are part of our history, our culture. It's important to preserve them."

"You're not being tiresome," I told him. "I would never have guessed that the Prince of Rhenland was so concerned with fruits and vegetables. I'm actually kind of impressed."

Killian laughed skeptically. "Oh are you?"

"Yeah, I am. Is there anything I can try right now? I mean, growing here?"

Killian lit up. And when he lit up, I lit up, in spite of my efforts to remain cool and aloof. "Yes! Here, come with me."

He took my hand and led me through the garden to a tree that was set almost right in the center. "Here we go, the Queen Charlotte pears. After all my droning on about rarity I must admit these actually aren't very rare – but they're traditional and they're delicious. They were named after my great-great-great grandmother."

I watched as Killian picked a golden-skinned pear and handed it to me, followed by one for himself. "Go on, try it. It doesn't need to be washed, everything here is organic."

So I bit into the fruit as he watched, obviously anticipating a response. Maybe it was the mood I was in, maybe it was the build-up, but damn if that pear didn't taste delicious. It was very juicy, too. I wiped the back of my wrist against my chin and smiled.

"Oh my God, you're right. This is amazing. This is – I think this is the pear-iest pear I've ever tasted. Who did you say this was named after? Your sister?"

Killian beamed. "No, not my sister – although she was named after the same ancestor as the fruit. I've never thought about it like that before. That's what you get if you're royalty, I suppose. A lot of descendants and a lot of plants named after you. I think there are about twenty kinds of roses with some variety of 'Charlotte' in their name, too."

I took another bite of the sweet, slightly tart pear. "Is there anything named after you? A carrot maybe?"

"Ha, no, not that I know of. It's mostly the women who get that kind of privilege. It's all rather sexist, isn't it? Maybe I should complain to the court, demand to have a carrot or a cabbage named after me?"

"A cabbage," I giggled. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

After the plum, Killian decided I needed to try some peas, which he plucked from their velvety pods and deposited into my hand with endearing reverence. After the peas there was a kind of tiny, purple berry that looked like a miniature blackberry. I was actually quite full by the time the tour of the garden ended. We'd both been so engrossed in it – and I'd been so engrossed in Killian – that it suddenly felt quite late. I couldn't hear the voices of other party-goers anymore, and the moon was slipping down towards the horizon.

"How long have we been here?" Killian asked suddenly, obviously thinking the same thing I was. I took out my phone to check the time and gasped.

"We've been out here for almost three hours!"

"Jesus, have we?! Three hours? You should have said something, Eva, I'm not trying to bore you to death."

"I'm not bored," I told him, truthfully. "I love it when people with interesting hobbies tell me about them. I didn't even think I liked peas until you made me try the ones you're growing here!"

"Really?" Killian asked, eying me a little suspiciously. "I kind of just assume everyone else isn't amused by my weird little hobby. Even my tutors at Camford would start nodding off at times, when I'd go off on a rant about this or that heirloom apple variety. It's not all frivolous, you know. When I inherit the Camberlee Estate I'll have over twenty-thousand acres to manage. Why not put that land to use?"

"What's that?" I asked. "The Camberlee Estate, I mean?"

"It's one of the royal estates, I'll inherit it upon marriage – or my father's death, whichever comes first. The Rhennish parliament changed the rules when my older sister was born. My mother had a difficult pregnancy and no one was sure if there would be any more babies after Charlotte, so they changed things so women could inherit. The Camberlee Estate is governed differently, though, it's always inherited by a male heir. If my father had had no sons, it would have gone to one of my cousins, not my sister."

I watched Killian's face as he talked about things that were alien to me. He sounded very matter of fact, even discussing the prospect of his own father's death. He must have seen the hint of discomfort in my expression.

"Not to be morbid or anything, but when you're in the royal family death comes up a lot. There are all sorts of regulations and plans that need to be adhered to."

"Yeah," I told him. "I understand." I didn't understand, not really. But I was just enjoying being with Killian so much that I didn't want to ruin it by making him talk about unpleasant things. We were sitting on a heavy wooden bench in the garden, close enough for our legs to be touching, and I was so aware of him there beside me that it was taking a surprising amount of concentration to maintain my side of the conversation.

"I'm enjoying this, you know," I said at one point, looking up at him. "I thought tonight might be awkward, but all my friends said I should go anyway, just for the story. But it isn't awkward at all."

"Just for the story, huh?" Killian asked ruefully.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. But come on, you must know how curious people are about you. If you'd thrown some kind of spoiled brat hissy fit over the champagne being too warm I could have dined out on that story for years."

"Well there's still time," Killian replied. "I could probably manage a hissy fit, if that's the only reason you're here."

He was joking – at least his tone was light-hearted. But there was an edge of something else there, too. It hit me then, all at once, that for all my assumptions about him, he probably had some about me. He'd gone through life, from the day he was born, being photographed and talked about, having the most intimate details of his life publicly speculated upon. I was immediately remorseful.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, Killian. That was such a dumb thing to say. I didn't mean that – I don't want you to think I just came here tonight to observe you like a zoo animal."

He leaned back on the bench and stretched. He really was very broad – it was hard to stop thinking about how nice it would feel to lean over and just press my face into his chest. "Oh, it's OK," he replied. "I'm used to it, believe me. At least you admit it, that's more than most people do."

As soon as he said that I was seized with the urge to protest. "No," I told him. "It's not like that. Maybe it was a few days ago, but it isn't now. I didn't – I didn't think you were going to be so, um, nice. I thought you were going to, uh –"

"You thought I was going to try and get into your pants at the first opportunity, didn't you?"

I couldn't help a little, guilty laugh. "Yes, I did kind of think that. But then you took me out here and fed me pears and peas and now I realize you're just some weirdo with a fancy name."

Killian looked over at me. "Well I am a weirdo with a fancy name, that's fair. And I do want to get into your pants, Eva..." he trailed off.

I waited for him to keep going, it sounded like he was going to, but he didn't and his words just hung in the air between us.

"Do you?" I finally asked, unable to stand the tension.

"Of course I do. I reckon every man who meets you wants that. But I – I don't know. I want to. I definitely want to. But I don't, uh, I don't – oh fuck it!"

It took me a few seconds to realize Killian was embarrassed. The Prince of Rhenland? Embarrassed around me? The very idea of it seemed absurd.

"Look what you've done!" he exclaimed suddenly, standing up and pulling me along with him. "Listen to me. Jesus, I sound like a schoolboy with a crush. I need a drink. And it's getting cold out here – are you cold? I should have brought a jacket for you."

I was a little cold, and I told Killian as much. I was also – and this part I didn't mention to him – smitten. Utterly, completely smitten. I'd spent days telling myself the party was no big deal, that he was going to try to sleep with me, that I was going to refuse, and then we were both going to move on with our separate lives. But it wasn't happening that way. He was all of the things I'd expected – charming, well-spoken, sexy as hell. But he was also, and this part shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did, a real person.

We walked back to the house arm in arm. There was something just a little bit old-fashioned about Killian. He was solicitous and gentlemanly without making a show of it. I felt protected – not that there was anything for him to protect me from. It was just a series of subtle gestures – gently leading me around a small patch of muddy ground without interrupting the conversation, standing back and letting me go up the steps ahead of him – that all added up to me feeling like the belle of the damn ball. Was that what people meant when they described a person as 'well-bred?'

When we got back to the party Tristan spotted us immediately, yelling over the tops of everyone's heads in our direction.

"Oh no! He didn't take you to see the garden, did he?"

I felt the attention in the room slowly focus on Killian and I. People were waiting for an actual answer.

"Um, yes," I said self-consciously. "He did."

"NO!" Tristan boomed, lurching over to us. "Killian, you showed her the garden?" Killian stayed right where he was, looking like he was entirely used to his friend's antics. Tristan then turned to me. "I hope you understand what a privilege it is to see the garden, young lady. He's obsessed with that thing, I expect we'll be receiving news of an engagement soon!"

My cheeks prickled with heat. Tristan's voice was so loud, I knew everyone in the room could hear him. And, worst of all, I heard an audible snicker at the crack about an engagement. I don't like being made fun of at the best of times. I especially don't like being made fun of by drunken, aristocratic idiots. I fixed Tristan with a cold smile, nodded, and pushed my way past him, headed for the kitchen – where the champagne was. I heard Killian's voice behind me, admonishing his friend.

"You jackass. Put down the drink for five seconds and get a hold of yourself."

I had about five seconds to myself in the kitchen before Millie came in, shaking her head at me. "Eva, please don't pay Tristan any mind. If you can believe this, he's actually going easy on you."

"Is he?" I asked coolly, not willing to admit how bothered I was.

"Yes, he is. You're new, you're not used to him yet. He's not a bad person, he just has a big mouth. He doesn't mean any harm."

Millie poured a glass of champagne and handed it to me apologetically, and then Killian walked in looking angry. "I'm sorry about that, Eva. Tristan's a little... well, he's not very good at thinking before he speaks. Or before he yells, which is his primary means of communication."

"It's OK," I lied. "I think I'm just a little bit tired. It was a busy week at work."

Killian saw through my attempts to appear unruffled, sliding one strong arm around my waist and leading me out into the entrance hall at the front of the house. He turned back at the last second and spoke exasperatedly to Millie:

"Please make some coffee for that idiot brother of yours – and make sure he drinks it."

"Ugh, it's fine," I whispered as we walked down the hall. "I'm not usually this over-sensitive. I just – it's a little intimidating, you know? I'm already nervous around people like this, people I don't know. I don't want to embarrass myself by saying the wrong thing."

"Eva, everyone in that room knows Tristan is a fuckwit. Believe me."

I'm not usually one to be comforted, mostly because it tends not to work, but for some reason I found myself instantly calmed by Killian's words. I glanced up at one of the ornate chandeliers over my head and smiled. It didn't matter if one drunk jerk had tried to embarrass me. I was at a party in a beautiful house with the gorgeous Prince of Rhenland's attention focused intently on me. It was a night to remember already.

The hardwood under my feet was glossy with the sheen of hundreds of years worth of footsteps. I slid one foot out in front of me experimentally, as an idea formed in my head. Then I slipped my shoes off, one after the other.

"What are you up to?" Killian asked, curious. I didn't answer. Instead, I took a short run down the deserted hall and came to a sliding stop. When I turned around and ran back towards him, gliding to an expert stop inches in front of him. A wide smile spread across his face. "Are you mad, woman?"

"No," I responded, "not mad. Didn't you ever do this when you were a kid? When your parents cleaned the floors – well, I suppose your parents didn't clean floors – but whenever they were freshly polished? I used to drive my mom crazy doing this. I actually broke my arm when I was six, right after my mother had told me to stop. Just lost my footing and slammed right into our dinner table. Come on. Take off your shoes."

Killian shook his head, laughing. "No. Absolutely not."

But he was tempted, I could hear it in my voice. I took another run down the hallway away from him and kept going, until I was almost at the opposite end. "Come on!" I yelled. "It's fun!"

He was too far away to see his face but I saw him shrug and then bend down, untying his shoelaces. When he was just in his socks he shouted to me. "If I break my leg, there's going to be hell to pay, Eva! The King and Queen don't take kindly to impertinent little Americans trying to force their son into bad behavior!"

In response, I called out a single word: "Chicken!"

That did it. Killian took a run towards me and came to wobbly halt. And then another and another. One the fourth one he tipped over, losing his footing like a cartoon character and landing right on his ass. I ran towards him, torn between laughing and concern.

"It's OK," he said, holding up one arm to prove he wasn't broken. "I'm fine. Obviously a little rusty at my floor-surfing, but fine!"

When I reached him I was giggling so hard I collapsed onto the floor next to him, reaching for his hand. "Are you – oh my God – oh Killian, you should have seen your... your legs! They flew up!"

Killian raised an eyebrow at me from his spot on the floor, waiting until I'd caught my breath enough to speak again.

"Are you quite finished?" He asked, mock-offended. "I see how it is, Eva. I see what kind of girl you are. Laughing at my pain. Very nice."

The sounds of the party at the other end of the house were almost inaudible from where we were sitting. I was leaning against him, very conscious of how warm and solid he felt next to me, and the only sound was the two of us catching our breath. When he looked at me, blue eyes shining with mirth, it struck me once again just how handsome Killian was. His face was all masculine angles – high, prominent cheekbones and a broad, straight jaw line that on that night sported a layer of auburn stubble. As much as I tried, I could not prevent myself from imagining what it would be like to feel that roughness against my cheek when he kissed me. The expression on his face was knowing, too, like he knew exactly what I was thinking...