I arrived back in the Capital at just past three in the morning, all mixed up inside, like someone had sprinkled fairy-dust on my life and there was no telling how long it was going to last. My tiny little apartment seemed less shabby somehow, the cracks in the bathroom mirror strangely charming rather than depressing.

There was a warm heaviness in my belly. I knew what it meant. My panties, when I took them off, were slick with what Prince Killian had done to me. Thinking about it just made it worse. I lay down on my bed and slid one hand down over my breasts, my stomach. And then I put my fingers between my legs and pictured his intense blue eyes, the way he'd looked at me when he pulled away from that kiss in the hallway, how obvious what he wanted had been.

It didn't take long. And it was his name I gasped into the pillow when the white hot bliss carried me away. It was his face in my mind's eye, his deep voice in my ear, his strong, fit body opening my own. I lay there afterwards for a long time – breathless, limp with the release I'd needed so much, refusing to think about all the obstacles part of me already sensed were in the way.

* * *

The next day – Saturday – I had a gig in the afternoon. It was fall, there were a lot of society weddings going on and a lot of brides who wanted the best of the best doing their make-up. I walked into the hotel where the wedding was taking place with a sense of trepidation, knowing I was going to be grilled about my date with the Prince. My friends played it cool at first, shooting me knowing little smiles as we got set up, not asking any direct questions. But as it got closer to go-time, and knowing that Elsa viewed gossiping in front of a client as deeply unprofessional, Jane was the first to crack.

"Oh my God, Eva! How long are you going to make us wait? Tell us what happened!"

I looked up from the table where I was arranging palettes and organizing brushes and saw three very curious faces staring right back at me. "I didn't sleep with him, if that's what you're all wondering. And I know it is. So I'm sorry to disappoint but I don't have any detailed reports on that particular front."

There was a collective eye-roll and a series of dramatic sighs of disappointment.

"Really?" I asked. "Would you have slept with him? Knowing – or suspecting, anyway – that you were never going to see him again?"

The collective silence gave me my answer.

"Sooo..." Jane started. "You're saying you are going to see him again?"

I laughed. "I don't know – I mean, I think so. He said he wanted to do something this week."

I was immediately swarmed. "Are you serious? What does he want to do?" "Oh my God, Eva! Did he text you? Can we see it?" "Holy shit! This is insane!"

"Calm down!" I exclaimed, eager to take the focus – which wasn't entirely welcome – off me. It's true I'd only spent the evening with Killian, but it had been enough to get a feel for him, to get a sense of how tormented he was by the ravenous public interest in his private life. It didn't feel quite right talking about him in the way my three over-eager friends wanted me to. "If I do see him again, I have no idea what's going to happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. I don't know what to tell you guys. I went to the party – it was at a really beautiful old house out in the country – and we talked, he showed me his garden, I drank some champagne. There's really not much to tell."

The 'not much to tell' part was a lie. But I wasn't going to tell them about the kissing. The secrecy wasn't pre-planned, it just felt like the right thing to do. Thankfully for me, our client showed up before it could go any further and we all snapped into 'work' mode.

Our bride was in her late thirties, the daughter of a Lord and very particular about what she wanted. Before I had even finished applying moisturizer she was complaining that it was 'sticky,' requesting that we start again. We'd already had two appointments with her, to try out looks and plan the logistics of the big day, but I could sense that it was going to be a long afternoon. It was her wedding day, though, and if she didn't like the moisturizer then damnit, I would use a different one. My phone buzzed as I was wiping the offending cream off my client's face and my heart skipped a beat. Lily was close enough to hear it.

"Do you need to take that?" she asked sweetly, even though we both knew damn well she wouldn't have made such an offer in the middle of a job without the possibility of it being juicy. Not that Lily's reasoning mattered, because I immediately took her up on her offer and left the room, pulling my phone out of my pocket before I was even out the door. A rush of excitement ran the length of my body, all the way down to my toes, as I read the message.

It was only upon reading his brief-but-sweet text that I could acknowledge just how doubtful I'd been that it would come. Ever since I'd left the party the possibility had been there in my mind that maybe he was just being polite. Maybe I was delusional, reading genuine interest into manners? But no, there it was, the message I'd been waiting for. Part of me was almost annoyed at being so relieved – why did I care so much? But another part knew there was no point in trying to fool myself. I liked Killian Chatham-Hayes. I liked him very, very much.

I started to type up a response but deleted it a couple of sentences in, not happy with the tone. Then I tried again and deleted again. A few more attempts and I was utterly flustered. And what do I do when I'm flustered? I go for the joke, the wisecrack, anything to ease the tension. So instead of sending the Prince of Rhenland a normal-person response, telling him that I, too, had had a wonderful time and that yes, I was available on Wednesday, I composed an e-mail. Subject line: 'HOT NUDEZ.' I attached a photo of some freshly-picked carrots, giggling quietly at my own silly joke, and sent the e-mail off, realizing too late that I'd forgotten to add a message. Another e-mail was composed:

When Jane asked me if the message was from 'you know who' I denied it. Usually, I'm pretty open with my female friends about boyfriends and relationships and all of those things. But there was a weird protectiveness coming over me when it came to Killian and I wasn't sure what it meant. Did it mean I didn't trust my friends? I hoped it didn't. We were usually all up in each other's business and it had never been a problem before. I was almost as familiar with the romantic lives of Lily, Jane and Christine as I was with my own. So where was this sudden reticence coming from? I remembered the previous night with Killian, how he'd reacted to my assessment of his trip to the Maldives with the swimsuit model. Maybe now that I'd seen the Prince in his role as actual living, breathing human being, I didn't want to play any part in maintaining the idea – an idea I myself had held until very recently – that his life was just fodder for gossip?

Three hours later, when the bride was finally satisfied with our work, Christine caught me by the arm as I was on my way out of the hotel, intending to go straight home in order to avoid any awkward conversations at the pub.

"Hey, Eva."

I turned around. "Yeah? What's up – did I forget something?"

Christine shook her head. "No, I just wanted to, uh, I just wanted to say that I hope you're not upset with me – or with any of us. We can be a little full-on, I know that, but we don't mean any harm."

"Oh I know," I replied. "It's just, I don't know, it's harder to talk about this than I thought it would be. I want to be able to talk about Killian like he's just a normal guy, and it was just a normal date. But it wasn't – and he isn't. And I haven't really figured out how I'm going to handle it. Or if I'm even going to have to handle it all – who knows, after Wednesday maybe he'll never call me again."

Christine made a face.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Eva, are you serious?"

"Yes...? Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just said it yourself. He's not normal. He's not a regular person like you or me. He doesn't have to wait it out with someone he's not really interested in, does he? Killian Chatham-Hayes could just point at a woman on the street and she'd go to bed with him right away. He's messaging you, right? I could tell from the look on your face earlier that the text was from him. He wants to see you again. This is huge, girl. And I get why you're holding your cards close to your chest."

"Do you?" I asked. "Because I'm not sure I do."

Christine was by far the quietest of our little quartet of women. But when she did speak up, whatever she said was usually pretty smart. "Because this is uncharted territory," she told me. "You're just feeling your way out, being careful. That's what you should be doing. I know we were prying earlier, but –"

"You weren't prying," I cut in, not wanting her to think I was offended.

"Yes we were!" she laughed. "Of course we were, it's what we do with each other, isn't it? But I just wanted to let you know that I get it, OK? You have every right to keep things on the down-low while you figure out what this thing with Prince Killian is going to be."

I was so grateful for Christine's kind words – for her understanding. "Thank-you," I said, looking into my friend's hazel-grey eyes. "I mean it. I really – I don't know what I'm even thinking right now. I'm so excited, but also nervous, you know? It's like I don't want to get my hopes up or something, and maybe not talking about it helps me do that, in a way?"

Christine smiled and gave me a hug. "I get it. I totally get it. See you on Monday, then?"

We said our goodbyes and I decided to walk home. It was a long walk, over an hour, but I was full of nervous energy and I thought the walk might help me calm down.

For the first time in many days I allowed myself to think about something other than Killian Chatham-Hayes. It was autumn in the Capital and the evening was warm enough, even with the first cool whispers of winter in the air, to make a jacket unnecessary. My apartment wasn't in a posh neighborhood, but I had to walk through a few of them to get there. The streets were lined with huge, thick-trunked oak trees and I looked up at the yellowing leaves as I walked underneath them. The smells of the city – restaurants, car exhaust, women's perfume – that had been so noticeable to me when I first arrived were becoming normal by then, almost comforting. I was starting, little by little, to feel at home.

I stopped by the grocery store and bought myself some food for dinner – pasta, tomatoes, some fresh basil and a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese that I couldn't really afford. A night in by myself sounded like a good idea, some time to get my head straight. I set to cooking as soon as I got back to my apartment, washing the vegetables and lining them up on the cutting board and filling a saucepan with water. It was just as the water was about to boil that my phone rang. It was Killian. I turned the stove off, wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and took a deep breath before taking the call.

"Hello?"

"Eva. It's Killian. Are you busy?"

"No," I lied, flopping down on the sofa and trying to keep how happy I was to hear from him concealed. "I was just, um – no, not busy. How about you?"

There was a sigh from the other end of the phone. "Busy day, but I've got a breather now. I got your saucy photo."

Saucy. God, even the words he used were charming. "Did you?" I giggled. "I had such a good time with you at the party, I thought you deserved a reward."

"Well, carrot nudes will always do it, Eva. You're lucky I wasn't in public when I saw that message, it wouldn't do for the Prince of Rhenland to be caught out with a huge hard-on, would it?"

I felt heat rising in my cheeks – not because I was embarrassed, but because the thought of Killian hard was – well, it was nice. So nice I had to concentrate on keeping my cool, not tripping over my words. "No," I replied. "I suppose it wouldn't."

"The Daily News would be scandalized! Next time maybe send something a little more subtle. A potato in a bikini, perhaps? Something that isn't so blatantly sexy."

"I'll see what I can do," I told him, smiling so hard my cheeks started to ache.

"So, Wednesday? Are we on?"

What I wanted to say was that of course we were on, and did he think I was insane? Instead I just told him we were.

"Good. If you let me know when you're off work I can send a car. Not to be tiresome about this but it's probably not a good idea for you to just be strolling up to my front door in broad daylight – there are usually paparazzi hiding in the bushes."

There was something in Killian's voice. Was it fatigue? Stress? He sounded a bit like I imagine I sound when I'm talking to my parents and trying to hide it if I'm feeling down.

"Are you OK?" I asked. "You sound a little tired."

There was a long pause. "Yes, Eva, I'm OK. It's just been a very busy day and – yeah. Busy. I get to do a lot of fun things, but it's not all cutting ribbons on new community centers, you know? I told myself I wasn't going to talk about this with you."

"Why?"

"Why what?" Killian replied. I could hear a sound in the background, like he was rubbing his forehead.

"Why did you tell yourself you weren't going to talk to me about it?"

"Well, because it's sad. And I don't want to make you sad, Eva."

If Killian wasn't truly concerned about making me sad, he was doing a very good job of imitating someone who was. "OK," I said. "But you don't have to worry about that, you know. I asked about your day because I was genuinely interested."

He was hesitating and I didn't quite understand why. Was it some sort of secret family thing he didn't feel safe mentioning to a woman he didn't know very well?

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, finally. It was the first time I ever heard anything like vulnerability in Killian's voice. Whatever had happened, he was clearly upset about it and I was surprised to discover just how much that troubled me.

"Yes," I replied quietly.

"I had an engagement today, at a place here in the Capital. A hospice, for children. Do you know what that is?"

My heart sank. "Is that one of those places where people go when, um, when they're very sick?"

"When they're dying," Killian told me, his voice flat now as he dropped the effort to cover up how bad he was feeling. "And before you say anything, Eva, I want you to know that I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me. I know this kind of thing is my job and it's one I'm proud to be able to do. I also know that those kids today, and their families, are going through something that puts every bad thing that's ever happened to me to shame. It's not about me. But damn, it's hard. I'm there to bring attention to a cause, to meet and greet and pose for photos. All of that is important. But it's a hospice. Those kids aren't going to get better. So even while I'm smiling and hugging and everyone is on their best behavior, you could just feel the sadness in the room. It was pretty fucking awful, if I'm going to be honest."

"Oh Killian," I whispered, because there was really nothing helpful to say. What I wanted, in that moment, was to be with him. To wrap my arms around him and kiss his face and do whatever I could to comfort him. The urge was so strong it almost took my breath away.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, his voice back to its usual clear confidence. "You don't need to hear any of this, Eva, I –"

"No," I cut him off. "Stop. Don't say that. I'm glad that you told me. And listen, Killian. I know we're not best friends. I know we hardly know each other. But right now? I just want to help you, however I can. So don't say you wish you hadn't told me. People need to talk about things like this. Even you."

"You're sweet, you know," he replied. "You're very, very sweet, Eva. I think maybe that's why I called you, without even realizing it until right now. I just knew you would understand. I don't quite know what's gotten into me, actually. I usually call Charlotte after a day like today, or Tristan. He's not so bad when he's not drunk off his face. But I just – I wanted to call you."

"I wish I was there," I said. "With you, I mean. Right now."

"So do I," Killian concurred. "I'd send a car right now if I didn't have a meeting with my father in half an hour."

"A meeting?" I asked, hoping that maybe a subject change would help his mood. "You have 'meetings' with your own dad?"

"Yes I do. I suppose that seems a little odd to you. My parents aren't in the Capital very often, but Charlotte and I are both based here. So our teams schedule meetings every week or two just to touch base and make sure everything's on track. If I miss a meeting or back out, they both immediately assume the worst - that I've gotten a stripper pregnant or developed a hard drug habit or something. Our PR teams need to be on the same page, too, and we need to talk about that part of it, see if any fires need putting out."

"Huh. You're right, that does seem very strange to me. I guess it makes sense, though. Maybe I'll e-mail my mom and tell her she needs to start making appointments to talk to me, I'm sure she'd love that."

Killian laughed and advised me against it. We chatted for another ten or so minutes, just about the little details of our day – I could sense that he needed it. By the end of the conversation he sounded more cheerful. Before we hung up I apologized for sending the carrot e-mail, telling him I understood that what he needed probably wasn't my silly jokes after a day that had been anything but silly.

"No," he said. "I loved it. It made me laugh. Naked vegetables are never inappropriate, Eva."

When the call was over I went back to dinner with a kind of proud warmth in my heart. Killian had had a rough day. I wasn't naive enough to believe I could fix it, but by the time the we hung up he sounded better. It made me feel good to be able to do that. I wanted to do more. Maybe I could do more at some point? Or maybe it was all just a lovely interlude. I went back into the kitchen and started chopping up the fresh basil, telling myself that it would be OK if it that's all it turned out to be – a lovely interlude. That my life would continue just the way it always had even if Killian Chatham-Hayes was just briefly stopping in. Maybe I even believed it.

* * *

Wednesday took a long time to arrive. The Prince was sending a car to my apartment at six, so I rushed home from work to have a shower and re-do my hair and make-up. But the car didn't take me to Killian, not right away. It took me to a spa in one of the Capital's ritziest neighborhoods, where an immaculate woman in a white uniform led me into a treatment room and asked me to undress.

I wasn't a spa girl. Not because I didn't want to be, but because I could never afford it. But there I was, lying face down on a table, naked except for a small towel. I don't know how long the massage lasted, I dozed off a couple of times, but it felt like hours – blissful hours. When it was over and I stood up, my body felt like it was floating, like every single one of my muscles had been injected with some kind of magical relaxant.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed, looking wide-eyed at the masseuse. "This feels amazing!"

She smiled. "It's your first time, no? I always say if more people had professional massages, society would be a lot healthier. It's impossible to be angry or stressed after a massage."

She was right, too. My mind was as relaxed as my body, suffused with a glowing wellbeing and, rare for me, not automatically searching for something to worry about. I was slowly gathering my things to leave when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "We have something else for you, from the gentleman. I'll leave you alone to get dressed."

I turned around and the masseuse gestured to a black garment bag lying across a velvet armchair.

"That's for me?"

"Yes. Enjoy your evening, Miss James."

She left the room silently, giving me a little respectful nod as she did so and I unzipped the garment bag. Inside was the most beautiful dress I have ever seen in my life. Forest green, made of fabric so soft and supple it made me gasp when I touched it, and every inch of it covered in tiny, slightly iridescent sequins. Without bothering with my bra or panties, I slipped it on and stepped in front of the mirror, knowing instantly and with full confidence that nothing had ever looked that good on me. It was long, and the hem swept the floor as I moved. It had long sleeves, too, with a very slight blouson at the cuffs. The v-neck was deep and dramatic – not so deep as to be uncomfortable or too exposing, though – and when I turned my body to the side the fabric swished deliciously around my legs. The dress sparkled, even under the low light in the room, making my skin look like it was lit from within. In short, it was gorgeous – and it made me look gorgeous.

I walked down to the car feeling like a princess, lifting the bottom of my new dress up to walk daintily down the steps. The Capital looked different that night, glittering with possibility as the driver made his way through traffic with me in the backseat, gazing dreamily out the window.

When I saw a sign for Capital Airport I perked up. I knew Capital Airport only because I sometimes had to arrange pick-ups for clients who were flying in from Europe or further abroad. Nobody I knew used it – it was for private flights only. A little flutter of excitement started up in my belly when the car pulled up next to a small terminal and there was Killian, opening my door and holding out his hand to me.

"Oh," he said when he saw me, his eyes widening as he took me in. "Oh, Eva. You look stunning. Absolutely stunning."

"I presume this is your doing?" I asked, gesturing down at the dress.

"Yes," Killian confirmed. "It's my doing. Well, it's Millie's doing – she's the fashion maven – but it was my idea. I wasn't sure about that color but damn if she wasn't right. I'm not sure I even trust the pilot to be able to fly with you looking like that, you know."

He leaned in and kissed both my cheeks, lingering a little on the second kiss. Killian was a gentleman, raised with all the manners of his class, but I saw his eyes flicker down over my body, just briefly. A little warm hum started up in my belly at the feeling of his eyes on me.

"Thank-you," I replied. "This is already the best date I've ever been on, you know. I don't even feel like I can walk properly after that massage. Thank-you for everything. The dress, too. I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I'm just – thank-you, Killian."

"Babble all you like," he responded, grinning that billion-watt grin. "You're a delight, Eva."

A delight. My God, could the evening get any better? It could. Killian took my hand again and gestured into the darkness. I squinted my eyes for a few seconds and then saw it – a helicopter.

"Oh Killian – is that – are we –?"

"Yes, it is. And yes we are. The Capital is beautiful at night, from above. I thought you might like to see your adopted city from a new angle. You're not afraid of flying, are you?"

"Well, not really," I answered. "I'm a bit nervous. On planes, I mean – I've never been on a helicopter before."

Killian slipped his arm around my waist and I couldn't stop myself from leaning into him a little. "Well the pilot is ex-military, the best of the best. It'll be perfectly safe."

"I can't believe this is happening," I murmured, not entirely intending to say it out loud, as Killian led me to the helicopter. He looked at me.

"Can't you?"

"No, I really can't. This – Killian, this kind of thing doesn't happen to me. I'm just Eva James from Oshwego. I worked at McDonald's in high school. I'm an assistant makeup artist. No, this doesn't happen to me."

"Well," he pronounced, opening the passenger side door, "apparently it does."

There was only one seat beside the pilot, and Killian appeared to be guiding me into it. When I hesitated he reassured me. "I want you to sit up front, Eva, so you can see everything. Don't worry, I'll be right here."

When the pilot turned the rotors on and they roared to life above me I instinctively reached back, not even aware I was doing it until Killian took my hand.

"It's OK, Eva. Just relax. I'm here."

The helicopter lifted off and I sucked my breath in and held it, squeezing Killian's hand hard as the field slowly began to recede from view and the Capital's unique combination of ancient buildings and glossy, cloud-piercing skyscrapers slowly came into view underneath us. I couldn't even speak for a few minutes, so taken was I at the sight of the city spread out below me like a blanket of light.

"There," Killian shouted over the sound of the rotors, leaning forward in his seat and pointing with one finger. "There's St. David's, do you see it?"

I followed his gaze with mine and spotted the dome of the famous church, surrounded and almost dwarfed by the modern city rising up around it.

"And there's the river."

The river looked like a dark snake winding its way through the Capital, spanned at several points by brightly lit bridges. The pilot swooped down, flying between some of the city's iconic towers, and I caught a reflection of the helicopter in the glass, laughing out loud because what else could I do?

Conversation was difficult, but I wouldn't have been able to say much anyway. I was too captivated, and not just with the spectacular views. In fact I wasn't just captivated, I was utterly overwhelmed – the massage, the beautiful dress, the dazzling city beneath me and... Killian. Killian, who had made all of it happen.

After about an hour of aerial sight-seeing we landed on a helipad on top of one of the tallest buildings. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I found I was actually out of breath. So out of breath that the Prince asked me if I was OK when we got out.

"Yes," I replied, shaking my head. "I just still can't believe this. That was amazing – the city, everything. But not just that. I – I don't know. I'd never do something like this on my own, even if I had the money. Never. And now I have. This is one of those experiences you tell your grandchildren about, you know?"

I was gushing, I knew I was. And yet I couldn't stop. Killian took it all in stride, beaming at me, obviously pleased with himself.

"Hmm, grandchildren," he said, offering me his arm and walking me over to where a uniformed waiter was standing beside a steel door. "Do you plan to have many of them? Thirty, maybe? Fifty?"

I laughed. "I don't know. Maybe not as many as fifty."

The waiter bowed respectfully in front of us. "Right this way, Your Highness."

We followed him down a staircase and then out into a completely empty restaurant with three walls made entirely of glass, all of them overlooking the Capital. One table, set with white linen and a single candle, had been situated in the best spot.

"Do you know who Harold Blumenthal is?" Killian asked.

"I don't know. Do I? I think I recognize the name. Is he a chef?"

Killian pulled out my chair when we got to the table before taking his own seat. "Yes, he is. He's the chef who's responsible for the rebirth of traditional Rhennish cuisine, you've probably seen him on TV – short, funny hair, a bit of a mad scientist vibe?"

"Oh yes, I know who he is," I answered. "I think I read an article about him in the Sentinel. Wait. This is his restaurant?"

The Prince of Rhenland could not keep the smile off his face. "Yes, this is his restaurant. And he'll be our chef tonight – he's prepared a special menu just for us. I hope you're hungry, Eva."

I stared at him from across the table, watching the candlelight dance in his sapphire-colored eyes until I regained the ability to speak. "Killian, you're kidding. Oh my God!"

"What?" he asked, shrugging, playing innocent but clearly loving my reaction.

"This can't be real," I told him. "Nope, I'm dreaming. The dress, the helicopter, this. It can't be. I'm not – Killian, I told you I'm not the kind of person this happens to."

"Nonsense," he replied, reaching across the table and taking my hand. "Look at me, Eva." I did as he asked, even as I was afraid it was all going to disappear in a puff of smoke and I was about to wake up in bed in my run-down little apartment. "You are the kind of person this happens to. Because it is happening. I wanted it to, I wanted to do something for you. You were so kind on Saturday, after my awful day, I just had to –"

"What?" I cut in, laughing. "You're doing this because I had a conversation with you? Damn, Killian, now I wish I'd baked you cookies or something, you might have taken me to the moon!"

I was doing it again. That thing I do when I'm slightly uncomfortable with my own emotions – making little jokey comments to try and lighten things up a little. Killian didn't laugh, he just kept looking into my eyes, his expression serious.

"Why not?" he asked, signaling the waiter to come and pour us each a glass of white wine. "I'm not joking, Eva. You were kind and it meant a lot to me. I mean, that's not the only reason. I'm doing it because I can't get you out of my mind. Because you're beautiful. Because you look like a goddess in that dress. It's all I can do not to crawl across this table right this minute. So be skeptical if you like, I understand. But you're not dreaming, and I'm not doing this for any nefarious reasons. I'm doing it because, well – because you're you."

What does a person say to something like that? Especially a person who isn't used to being told, by gorgeous princes, that they're beautiful and kind, that they deserve meals cooked by Michelin-starred chefs and helicopter rides and wildly expensive designer dresses? Killian sensed my bashfulness. "It's OK, you don't have to say anything. In fact, look, here comes the first course. I hope you're ready for this – a Harold Blumenthal meal is an epic event."

A waiter appeared tableside and I immediately did a double-take. In each of his hands was a plate. And on each plate was what looked to be a Coney dog, like the ones I'd grown up with in Oshwego. I glanced at Killian, waiting for the joke to be revealed, but none was.

"Coney dogs," the waiter said, placing a plate in front of me, and then the other in front of Killian. "In honor of the lady."

Killian raised his eyebrows at me, waiting for a reaction. "How did you –" I started, before trailing off. "I – I used to eat these when I went to football games with my dad. How could you possible know that?"

He winked at me. "Don't ever say I don't do my research, Eva. Go on, try it."

I bent down over my plate, noticing the distinct absence of the familiar onion-y smell of a Coney dog. "This smells fruity."

"Why don't you try it and see?"

I almost picked up the hotdog in my hands before thinking twice about where I was and picking up a knife and fork instead. I sliced through one end of the hotdog and popped it into my mouth. Whatever I was eating, it wasn't a hotdog. It was fruit – the sweetest, most intense fruit I've ever tasted in my life. "Oh!" I squeaked, shocked by the juxtaposition between what it looked like I was eating and what it tasted like I was eating. "What is this? It's – oh my God, it's so good. How did he even do this?!"

"It's kind of his thing," Killian told me, watching as I picked up a tiny chunk of 'onion' and sniffed it. "Chef Blumenthal likes to play with expectations. Doesn't it just mess with your brain? Last Christmas I ate here and the 'fruit' was really pâté coated with sherry jelly. What do you think? Were you fooled?"

"Of course I was fooled," I giggled. "I still can't even tell what this stuff is!" I dipped the tines of the fork in the 'mustard' and sighed, finally recognizing a flavor. "Mango. That's mango. But I still don't know what the onions are. Or the hotdog. Or the bun."

"Starfruit," Killian said, taking a bite of his own. "The onions are starfruit chopped small, the hotdog is raspberry puree with some kind of molecular plum paste on the outside, the bun is ice milk, spray-painted with an edible paint the chef made from toasted sesame seeds, and the mustard is mango, as you said."

After the tribute to my home state, the courses came one after the other, each one seemingly more fantastical than the last. I ate 'roast beef' that turned out to be a kind of tempered chocolate marbled with coconut cream and drank champagne spiked with slivers of iced celery purée. There was a dish served wreathed in a horseradish smoke that concealed a tiny, perfectly seared square of Wagyu beef. And the whole time, Killian was observing me, enjoying my delight. I want to say it was like a fairytale but it wasn't like a fairytale – it was a fairytale.

The helicopter ride, the dress that swished and sparkled like the Capital itself, the meal – all of it added up to an experience I knew I would never forget. And then there was Prince Killian with his oceanic blue eyes and his deep, posh, baritone laugh and his ability to focus in on me like I was the only person in the whole world. What could a girl do in the face of a man like that? Of a night like that?

The waiter left us alone as the dinner-slash-theatrical-production came to an end, leaving us each, as a final course, an oyster shell filled with what was described as 'sugar-citrus caviar.' I was way beyond trying to figure out how the chef had done any of the things he'd managed to do, but the caviar almost looked alive, the tiny, clear balls shimmering under the candlelight.

"I know you're full," Killian said, reaching out and pushing a stray curl off my cheek, "but you have to try this. This one is my idea – now, obviously I can't take credit for the actual work – but this one is mine, inspired by you. Not by Michigan or the Capital or Rhenland – you, Eva."

I scooped up some of the caviar on a teensy silver spoon and tasted it. Lemon, lime, an echo of sweetness – the little bubbles burst in my mouth, each one a little explosion. It was perfect. And I was running out of words to describe perfect things, that night.

"Do you like it?" Killian asked, finally digging into his own. "It's like you, Eva. Bright and bold and cut with just the right amount of sweetness."

I put my head in my hands, laughing unabashedly. Killian cocked an eyebrow at me. "What?"

"What?" I repeated back to him. "What, Killian?! What am I supposed to say? If I don't laugh I might cry, or freak out. How am I supposed to respond to this? No one has ever done anything like this for me before."

"Nonsense," he demurred. "I'm sure there are countless men who would do something like this for you. The only difference is I can afford to, because of who I am. It's one of the few real benefits of being me – I can do things like this for the people I care about."

He was playing it down. I shook my head, adamant. "No, Killian," I insisted. "No, there hasn't been another man who would do something like this for me. Not even close. Even if they could afford it."

"Well then they're idiots," he replied simply, scooping the last few spoonfuls of caviar out of the oyster shell. "And I'm glad they're idiots, because it means I got to spend the evening with you."

I laughed. Partly because I was happy, but also partly at myself – at all my resolutions not to give in too quickly, not to give him my body – or my heart – before I was sure of him. Where before there had been uncertainty there was now a feeling of utter inevitability. It was going to happen, because it had to – because it would have been a joke to keep telling myself I was in control of anything. There was no other place to end that night other than in his arms. And I wanted to be in Killian's arms, more than I've ever wanted anything else.

We rode down to street level in a glass elevator, alone, with the Prince's ever-present but ever-discreet security team riding separately. As soon as the door closed behind us I simply turned my face up to his, knowing what was coming. He kissed me slowly, carefully, savoring me. And as we kissed, the heat in my body that had been there all night quickened and intensified. I leaned on the wall of the elevator, opening my body to Killian, pushing myself forward against him and burying my fingers in his hair as he slipped his tongue between my lips.

Just before the elevator reached the ground floor he pushed me back against the wall a little harder, until I suddenly felt him against my belly, hard and obvious.

"Killian," I gasped, closing my eyes tightly and then opening them again, wide, to look at him. "Oh my God, Killian."

When I kissed him once more, it felt different. I was hungrier now, needier. I opened my mouth wide for his tongue and angled my hips towards him. And then the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors opened to the lobby. I spotted three of security guys waiting there for us before Killian pushed the 'doors close' button and looked down at me. His face was flushed and his breathing was audibly heavy. I reached for him again but he caught my wrists and shook his head.

"No, Eva. I –"

"Wait," I cut him off. "What do you mean 'no?'"

Killian suddenly took a step towards me and took my face in his hands. "I mean no. I told myself no. I told myself that tonight wasn't about me, it was about you. I know what you want, I can see it on your face. I love seeing it on your face. It's killing me. But this isn't how I want it to happen. I don't want you to do this because I got you a massage and bought you a dress and took –"

"Killian!" I squeaked, trying and failing to extricate my wrists from his grip, because all I wanted was to put my hands on him again. "This – it's not that, that's not what's going on."

"I know," he said. "I know, Eva. That came out wrong, Jesus, I can't even think right now. I don't think I've got any blood left in my brain. What I want to say is this – I like you, OK? A lot. And you've got me thinking about things I don't ever think about – things my parents have been trying to get me to think about for years. There's nothing I want more than to take you home right now. Nothing. But I'm not going to, because I don't want to be that person with you. Do you understand? I don't want to start things that way, I want this to be different."

He meant what he was saying, I could feel it. And even though he was being serious, I couldn't help chuckling. "I – Killian, I hear you. But this is not how I expected this to go, you know."

He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling for a few moments and breathing deeply. When he looked back at me his expression was tender. "Oh, Eva. Look at you. You're beautiful. And you're smart and funny and warm and just generally wonderful. And I'm so fucking hard right now I don't even know if I can physically walk out to the car."

Once again, I tried to reach for him, as something deep inside me reacted to what he'd just said. He easily held me off.

"This weekend," Killian said. "This weekend. I want to take you somewhere. Are you free? Just – Eva, you need to tell me right now. I'm not going to be able to stay in control of myself for much longer, not with you standing there looking like that."

"Yes," I replied, without even stopping to think if I actually was free. If Killian Chatham-Hayes had asked me, at that moment, if I wanted to trek across the Arctic with him on pink elephants, I would have said yes.

"Good. OK. I'll call you. Now kiss me one more time before I go."

He was rushing, and I knew the reason why – it was as obvious as the bulge in his dress pants and for some reason it just made me want him even more. There's something about a man controlling himself like that that just makes me crazy. So I kissed him again, as told. He didn't need to tell me how much he wanted me, because I could taste it in that kiss. It left me breathless and weak-kneed, leaning back against the elevator walls because I wasn't sure I could stand up anymore.

"Wait until I'm gone," Killian instructed me. "I'm leaving one of my security guys to drive you home, he's right outside the door. Just give me a minute before you leave, OK?"

I nodded. At the last minute, just before the doors shut behind him, he popped his head back into the elevator, looked right at me and said: "You're the loveliest person I've ever met, Eva James."

And then he was gone. And I was alone, overwhelmed, turned on, completely and utterly dazzled by the force of nature that was Prince Killian. A few minutes later, when the security man knocked on the elevator door and asked me if I was ready, I still wasn't entirely sure the whole night hadn't been a dream.