It’s the silence that makes me look up from the dough I’m kneading. Leo stands in the kitchen doorway, his tall, broad-shouldered frame outlined by the bright white jamb. While everyone is staring at him in obvious surprise, his gaze is locked on me.

Letting the door swing shut behind him, he strides forward. A chorus of “Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness” echoes within the room, and he acknowledges the greetings with a curt nod.

When he stops next to me, I turn to face him. “Hey, Leo. What’s up?”

I hear someone gasp. I’m pretty sure it’s Bess, a young kitchen staffer who’s been chopping vegetables non-stop for the three hours I’ve been in the kitchen.

Bess is probably scandalized by the familiar way I greeted the future king of Alsania. I wonder how she’d react if she knew how familiar Leo and I really are.

Familiar enough that I know the sounds he makes right before he comes. Familiar enough that I know his favorite position for sex—me on all fours with him on the bed behind me—and for sleep—my back tucked against his front. 

I didn’t expect to be at Helios for more than a week or two at the most. But it’s going on a month now.

Leo spends every night in my suite, screwing me senseless. I had a copper IUD inserted after we had unprotected sex in the limo. Apparently, it’s far more effective than the morning-after pill, reducing the risk of pregnancy by ninety-nine percent after unprotected sex. It also works to prevent pregnancy on an ongoing basis.

After spending the night with me, Leo returns to his own suite in the early hours of the morning. More than once, I’ve wondered if he messes up the covers so his bed looks slept in when the maids arrive.

By now, I’m sure the household staff at Helios has figured out what Leo and I are up to. So maybe Bess is shocked by his attire instead of how I greeted him. I have to admit, I’m a little surprised by his clothing choice today.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt with a red-and-blue gingham pattern. Its long sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and it’s untucked—gasp!—over dark-washed jeans.

Instead of the usual expensive wing tips, brown leather boots cover his feet. They’re scuffed and worn, probably his long-time favorites.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Leo says, sounding both annoyed and relieved. “Literally everywhere.”

He looks down at the counter where my lump of dough sits like a miniature beige Jabba the Hut. “What is that?” He brings his eyes back to mine. “What are you doing down here?”

“Making chocolate croissants.”

The skin around his dark eyes crinkles as he frowns. “Why?”

Shrugging, I say, “No reason.”

No reason except for one: I was bored and lonely without Leo to keep me company.

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I’m trapped at Helios. The paparazzi are still camped in front of my apartment, and people are still mobbing my little flower shop, trying to steal a glimpse of the woman who got a piece of Prince Leo’s liver.

Although the media tour was supposed to last only two weeks, the whole world seems to be enthralled with the story of the prince who saved the commoner. The palace’s PR team received so many interview requests, King Carlo suggested the media tour be extended until the end of August. It wasn’t really a suggestion. It was a royal edict.

Initially, Leo balked at extending the media tour, saying it was time for things to get back to normal. But then he changed his mind, literally overnight, and asked me if I would continue to do interviews with him.

I agreed, of course. I have hard time denying Leo anything.

Yesterday, we were guests on Alsania’s number one morning program. Afterward, we did a radio interview with BBC and ate a late lunch with a well-known doctor who acts as a medical correspondent for a cable news network.

I’ve lost count of how many interviews we’ve done. Print. Digital. TV. Radio. We’ve done them all.

If I wasn’t living in a fish bowl, I’d be out having fun with my sister or my friends today. Maybe biking around Circo or strolling through the farmer’s market or browsing the funky boutiques in my neighborhood.

And even I wasn’t having fun, I still wouldn’t be bored. There’s always laundry to fold, carpets to vacuum, closets to organize, paperwork to file ... all the tasks normal people do on a daily basis.

But I’m not living with normal people right now. I’m living with royalty. All those household chores keep me busy at home, but here at Helios, a huge team handles them, giving me far more free time than I’m used to.

When I was a little girl, and I whined about being bored, my mom would say: Only boring people get bored. Find something to do that makes you more interesting.

So today, when I realized I was feeling bored after wandering around the gardens for a couple of hours, I followed my mother’s advice. I made my way to the kitchen and asked if I could make something I’d never made before.

I’m sure the staffers were surprised to see me. Nonetheless, the pastry chef put me to work with a recipe card and a rolling pin.

Leo’s gaze skims over my chevron-printed headscarf and my flour-sprinkled apron. “Is baking one of your hobbies?”

“No. I just wanted to learn something new.”

He glances at the dough again. He’s probably wondering how something that looks so gross could possibly turn into something so delicious. I’m wondering that myself. 

“Would you be willing to put your project on hold for a few hours?” he asks.

“Maybe.” I wipe my hands on the towel hanging from the belted tie of my apron. “If I had something more interesting to do.”

“You do.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Really.” He lifts the edge of the towel and dabs at something on my cheek, probably a smudge of flour. Or maybe a greasy smear of butter. “Grab your sunglasses and meet me at the garage in ten minutes.”

I watch him walk away, wishing his shirt wasn’t untucked so I could get a glimpse of his denim-clad ass. If it looks good in dress pants, just imagine how fabulous it’d look in jeans. Rawr.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside a massive hangar facility, gawking mutely at the sleek black helicopter in front of me. I glance sideways at Leo, knowing my eyes must be the size of dinner plates. His eyes, meanwhile, are shielded by aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses.

“A helicopter?” My voice is so squeaky I sound like a mouse with laryngitis. “You want to take me for a ride in a helicopter?”

The corner of his perfectly-shaped mouth lifts in a tiny smile. “It’s a perfect day for one.”

“A perfect day to die, you mean.”

He steps in front of me, blocking my view of the flying death trap, and takes off his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. “Do you trust me, Tessa?”

I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes.”

I trust Leo with my life. He saved mine by putting his own at risk. But I’m not sure I can trust him with my heart. I’m afraid my feelings for him are far stronger than his feelings for me.

During one of the first stops on the media tour, the female interviewer asked on live TV if Leo and I were romantically involved. The intrusive question caught me off guard, but he must’ve anticipated it because he had a ready answer: I have tremendous admiration for Miss Lulach. She’s an amazing woman who handled a very difficult situation with grace and strength.

I couldn’t help being flattered by his compliments. Yet at the same time, I was disappointed he didn’t acknowledge that we’re more than donor and recipient.

Almost every interviewer since has asked a variation of that question. I let Leo handle it because he’s a master at deflecting, far better than I am.

He always answers the same way, and his response makes me question whether he’s trying to protect our privacy or trying to hide our real relationship ... if you can even call it a relationship. He might think it’s nothing more than sex. He certainly hasn’t said anything to the contrary.

To me, it’s more than sex. A lot more.

Leo’s voice brings me back to the present—back to the helicopter. “With me at the stick, you don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

“I’m confused. You flew jets in the Navy, not helicopters.”

“Correct. But I can fly helicopters too.” Taking my sweat-dampened hand, he weaves our fingers together. “I’d never let anything or anyone hurt you, Tessa. If you don’t like it when we get up there, I’ll bring us down.”

I hesitate, thinking about all the stories I’ve heard about helicopter crashes. Eventually my faith in Leo eclipses my fear.

“Okay,” I say.

Lifting our hands, he kisses the top of mine. “There’s my brave girl.”

As we walk toward the helicopter, he explains that both seats in the cockpit have cyclics, or sticks. Most right-handed pilots prefer to sit in the right seat. In that position, they can keep their dominate hand on the stick and use their other one, the left hand, to operate the controls on the middle console.

He guides me to the left seat and after buckling me in, he places the aviation headset over my ears and adjusts the flexible boom mic in front of my mouth. He slams the door shut, pushes his palm against it to make sure it’s closed, and jogs around the nose of the helicopter to vault into his seat.

As he buckles his safety harness and dons his own headset, he gives me a smile that’s clearly meant to be reassuring. It does little to calm the bats swooping around in my stomach, but they settle down the moment he starts checking dials and flipping switches.

This is Leo in his element—calm and collected, capable and confident. He’s so insanely hot, I’m tempted to unzip his jeans and suck him off right here, right now.

Maybe I can get him off before we get off the ground?

I wonder what the aviation version of road head is called. Would it be air head?

The absurdity of my thoughts makes me giggle. Suddenly, Leo’s voice fills my ear: “That’s not hysterical laughter, is it?”

“Of course not.”

Technically, it’s phallical laughter.

He presses a button, and a low buzz fills the cockpit. The rotors start to spin in my peripheral vision followed by the sound of them cutting through the air—the unmistakable chop-chop-chop that makes you look up when you hear it overhead.

Leo grasps the cylindrical bar alongside his seat with his left hand and grips the stick between his legs—not that one—with his right hand. The helicopter shimmies a little before lifting.

All the muscles in my body tighten involuntarily, especially those in my lower body. It’s as if they’re trying to push me down into my seat to keep me on the ground.

Suddenly, we’re in the air with nothing but blue sky spread out before us. It’s a hue so deep and pure it reminds me of cornflowers.

“How’re you doing over there?” Leo asks.

Dragging my eyes to him, I say, “This is...” I pause, trying to think of a word to adequately describe the view. “Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He flashes a gorgeous grin at me, one so full of joy, my heart feels as if it’s expanding. “I knew you’d love it,” he says, “if you just gave it a chance.”

“Thank you, Leo.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

And I can tell that he means it. I’ve never seen him so happy and relaxed. No, that’s not true. He’s like this when we’re together, after we’ve both come so hard we can barely move.

I wonder how many other women he’s taken for a ride—both figuratively and literally. Trying to be casual, I ask, “Do you usually have company when you fly?”

He changes the angle of the stick, and the helicopter arcs toward the right. “No. I always come up alone.”

Am I stupid for thinking it means something that he wanted to share this with me? I want it to mean something.

“I love...”

His voice fades, and I hold my breath, wondering if he’s about to—

“To fly,” he says, completing his sentence. 

I exhale heavily, trying to ignore the disappointment gnawing at my stomach. “What do you love about it?”

He’s silent for so long, I start to wonder if he heard me. Just as I’m about to repeat the question, he says, “When I’m flying, no one cares who I am. They only care about what I do. Up here, I’m not Prince Leo or the Polar Prince or the future king of Alsania. I’m just a pilot. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“I understand exactly what you’re saying—up here, you’re a nobody.” A sigh slips from my mouth. “I wish I was still a nobody. I never knew how lucky I was—to be able to go anywhere and to do anything, without worrying about who was watching or what people would say.”

Static crackles through the headset for a second or two. Then I hear his voice again: “I know the past few weeks have been difficult for you, Tessa.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “Please forget I said anything. I sound like a whiny, ungrateful brat! I’m lucky now! Lucky that you donated a piece of your liver. Lucky that my body hasn’t rejected it. Lucky to be alive. Most of all, Leo, I’m lucky to have met you.” 

He swings the helicopter to the left. “I’m lucky too—lucky that you’re sitting here beside me.”

That’s when it hits me—I don’t want to be anywhere but beside Leo. Forever.