Kit and Emily had released a statement yesterday, naming Rob and I as their best man and maid of honor. Their press secretary had assured me they’d asked the media to be respectful. She also warned the attention “could get a bit intense, especially at first”.

But nothing could have prepared me for just how intense it would be. How overwhelming, especially when my body still rung from the way Rob’s fingers had grazed my neck. Photographers crowded the sidewalk. They pressed in on me, changing the angle of their cameras with each shot they took. My blood turned to ice, despite the hot blare of my pulse. I felt suddenly, horribly self conscious. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. All I could do was stare, the flashes branding my vision with bright neon dots. It was like being assaulted by hurricane-force winds with absolutely no warning.

“Congrats on being named maid of honor!” a photographer said.

Another crouched down, his face scrunched as he took one shot after another. “How does it feel, knowing your best friend landed a prince?”

“You jealous at all, love?” one added. “How could you ever top that?”

My eyes pricked with tears. I drew a sharp breath. I don’t know why I was about to cry. All I knew was that I didn’t want to. I wasn’t a crier. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t a good look when I did. It was a superficial thing to worry about. But how could I not worry about a terrible picture of me, red-faced and crying, ending up in magazines and on gossip sites around the world?

Worse, what if my crying hurt Emily? I could imagine the headlines: Princess-to-be’s maid of honor breaks down with jealousy. Why isn’t Princess Emily doing more to protect her friend?

It was so, so easily for this story to get twisted. I was happy for Emily. Rob was happy for Kit. But me bursting into tears in front of photographers didn’t exactly communicate that.

Blinking back tears, I attempted to gather my wits. I just had to keep moving. Paste a smile on and—

“Step back! The lot of you, give us some space!”

I nearly jumped at the sound of Rob’s shout. He moved in front of me, using his arm to guide me behind the bulk of his body. I breathed in the scent of him, that cologne and the clean, wooly smell of his coat. The tightness in my throat loosened the tiniest bit.

On cue, the photographers fell back. A few of them even put down their cameras.

Rob dug his phone out of his pocket and made a call.

“We’re surrounded,” he growled into the receiver. “Get the car here. Now.”

My skin flushed with awareness at the authority in his tone. The vicious urgency.

Hanging up, he turned to look at me over his shoulder. “Stay close. You can keep your head down if that’s more comfortable. Twenty seconds and I’ll have us out of here, okay?”

I hadn’t realized I was shaking until I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.

His gaze intensified. Hardened with anger. Softened with concern. It made my stomach flip.

“Aly,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. But I need you to follow me out. Can you do that?”

I managed a nod. Rob was definitely not the most trustworthy guy in the world. But I had a feeling he was in this. He’d dealt with this attention all his life. He knew how to handle it.

Just like he’d known how to handle me all those times in bathrooms and backseats.

Besides, what choice did I have? It was obvious I couldn’t walk out of here on my own without making a mess of things.

“Ready?” he asked.

There it was again, that viciousness. That urgency. I’d never seen it in him before.

It was so. Sexy.

“Ready,” I said.

Rob moved out onto the sidewalk. His stride was purposeful, confident, but he was still careful to keep me close.

A photographer rushed at us.

“Back up,” Rob barked at him. The guy scurried off, tail between his legs.

The paparazzi stood back, but they continued to take pictures. I tried my best to stay close to Rob without touching him. The last thing I needed were rumors floating around about us. Whatever we’d been doing, it was over.

A Range Rover with blacked out windows waited for us at the curb. The engine throbbed, a low, almost sinister sound. A man in a black suit and sunglasses, earpiece coiling up his neck, hurried to open the back door for us.

Rob’s other hand slid to the back of my neck. He ducked my head, helping me inside first before he followed. It all happened quickly: the door slamming behind us. The guy in the suit jumping in the front seat. Rob reaching across me, giving my seatbelt a hard tug and buckling me in. The driver punching the gas.

Breathless, I turned my head to watch the photographers recede from view. They were busy snapping pictures of the car. Several onlookers had stopped to watch, too. It was surreal, like the back window had turned into a TV screen and I was watching a Liam Neeson movie.

I felt a hand on my leg. I turned back to see Rob looking at me. His eyes were open. Soft.

My stomach dipped.

“You okay?”

I swallowed. Looked down at his hand, looked back up at his face. Our eyes locked.

Something moved between us then. I couldn’t explain it. It just felt…nice. I could see the desire behind those baby blues of his. But I also sensed concern there. Which made me feel safe. Jesus, I felt safe with Rob. He was looking after me—touching me—and I didn’t hate it.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his eyes changed. His whole being changed. He went from being open and soft to closed off and hard in the space of a single heartbeat. It was like watching a wall come down behind his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

He suddenly pulled back his hand, like I’d burned him, and turned looked out the window.

What in the world?

“I’m fine,” I bit out. “You?”

“I shouldn’t have dismissed my detail,” he growled.

The man in the front seat cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t have, sir. All due respect.”

“You were right, Marty.” Rob settled his elbow on the car door. “As usual.”

“Sir. I’m always right.”

“You’ve really got to rub it in like that, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I do. It’s quite satisfying.”

Rob was silent for the rest of the drive, his eyes glued to the window. The sudden change in his mood was confusing. It actually hurt. And I didn’t like that I’d let Rob hurt my feelings.

We wove through London for a while. Marty wanted to make sure we didn’t have a tail. Satisfied we weren’t being followed, we finally made our way to my office.

The driver pulled up to the curb outside my building and put the car in park.

Silence, uncomfortable and heavy, swam in the space between my body and Rob’s as I unbuckled my seatbelt.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

Rob grunted in reply.

Ass.

I was about to open my door when Marty cleared his throat.

“Sir?”

“What is it now?” Rob spat.

“A gentleman usually escorts a lady to her door. Sir.”

Rob’s entire body went rigid. Like being asked to walk me to my door was a gigantic imposition after I’d just been scared shitless by the paparazzi.

Rolling my eyes—why’d he have to be such a dick?—I pushed open my door.

The next thing I knew, Rob was opening his, too, sighing heavily as he slammed it shut behind him.

I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” I said, and turned back to my door.

I climbed the steps two at a time. I wanted to get away from Rob. Away from the things I was feeling. I dug my keys out of my bag.

I felt Rob standing behind me. This brooding, angry, impatient presence.

My hand shook as I tried to unlock the door. The keys fell through my hands onto the stoop.

“Need help with that?” he asked, sounding bored.

I grabbed the keys. “No.” Then I shoved the key into the lock and finally slid the bolt home. I couldn’t get inside fast enough.

Rob didn’t say goodbye. But as I turned to close the door behind me, I caught him looking at me. His eyes—they weren’t hard or soft. They were conflicted. Confused.

They lingered on me for one heartbeat, then another.

At last he turned and stalked down the sidewalk, his footsteps marking a loud, steady beat in the otherwise quiet afternoon.

I threw my keys on a nearby table and tugged off my jacket. I couldn’t catch my breath. Rob had been almost charming at lunch. Courteous. And then, seemingly out of the blue, he goes full dickhead.

Reason number eight hundred and nine why breaking off our hook up had been a good idea. Rob had his pussy. And I had Philip. Two totally opposite things, because that’s what he and I were—opposites.

Besides. Moody men had absolutely no place in my fairy tale.