Eva:

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.

* * *

Killian:

"Dan only," I snapped at my security team waiting outside the tower, not eager to make conversation or deal with anyone I didn't know on the ride home.

"Sir? The weeknight protocol is –"

"I don't care about the fucking protocol! Dan only!"

"Yes, sir."

I collapsed into the back seat of the car and leaned my head back against the leather headrest, exhaling heavily, wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life in refusing to take Eva home and give her what she so clearly needed. Goddamn, she looked so good in that dress, the fabric draping over her breasts so nicely I'd been hard the second I saw her at Capital Airport. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth against the urge to change my mind, to call her and tell her I was just kidding, that she needed to come back to Pritchard Palace with me right away.

"Home?" Dan asked, adjusting the rearview mirror and starting the engine.

"Yes," I replied. "Home."

* * *

The next few days were a blur. I gave two speeches, one to an wildlife charity and another to a veteran's organization. I also did a press conference at both. On top of that there was the usual meetings at my offices in the Capital, working out itineraries for scheduled trips abroad and discussing the expansion of my own conservation project, the one focused mainly on endangered species in Rhenland.

And alongside all those things, all the regular duties of my life, there was Eva. Always there in the back of my mind even as I spoke about the experiences of veterans or the need to do more to preserve the Rhennish wildcat. People noticed, too. Even the press noticed. There was one headline in the Capital's daily tabloid that described me as the 'Distracted Prince' after I stumbled over a few lines in a speech and then knocked my notes off the podium. I called Eva at work from the car that night and told her to check out the story.

"You did that," I told her disapprovingly as she read the headline out loud.

"Did I?" She asked, amused. "As far as I know I was at work this morning, not forcing you to throw your papers all over the room in front of the cameras."

"Well I didn't say you physically did it. I was just thinking about you, and whenever I think about you I start tripping over my own feet and lose the ability to speak in sentences. It's a good trick, Eva."

She laughed and oh, God, hearing Eva laugh at one of my stupid jokes was literally the high point of my day. "You should see me," she countered. "I feel like I'm about to explode all the time. I just want to talk to my girlfriends about this, but I know I can't really do that. So I just walk around all day like a bomb about to go off."

Damn. She was perfect. The universe had designed a perfect woman to torment me with. I say 'torment' because underneath everything, there was a knowledge I'd been refusing to face ever since that day on Cambridge Street when I first laid eyes on Eva James. And that knowledge was that there was a certain line for me, a point beyond which I could not go with women – with any woman, regardless of how I felt about her – without getting the approval of my parents. And not the way a sixteen year old school girl gets approval from her parents, either. That girl's parents are just trying to make sure the boy they're approving is good for their daughter, that his intentions are good. My parents are the living embodiment of the state, of Rhenland itself. They live lives of immense privilege and wealth. They also lead lives that are in no way their own, and that's the world in which my sister and I were both raised from birth. My duty is to Rhenland. Everything I do, everything I will do, must be for the good of the state, and not for the good of myself.

Of course I kicked back against the constraints a little, the way many young members of royal families do. But I never truly questioned the way I was raised on any deep or serious level. It was what it was. Until Eva. Until I found myself entirely ignoring the fact that even as I stupidly imagined various shining futures with her, I knew it could never happen, not in reality. Thinking about it made me angry, so I solved that problem by not thinking about it.

It was at lunch with Charlotte that the issue raised its head unexpectedly, when she asked me how Tristan was doing.

"Is he still mooning over that little Spanish girl?" My sister asked, sipping her tea. "I don't know why he's being so stupid."

"Well that's a little harsh," I replied, taking an entirely different tack to the one I usually took when it came to Tristan and his doomed foreign affair.

Charlotte is the smart one in the family. She looked up from her tea and caught my eye. "Harsh? Where's that coming from? Tristan knows as well as anyone that he was never going to be allowed to marry someone like that. He should never even have spoken to her, let alone fallen in love."

"I don't know," I mused, trying to choose my words carefully because Charlotte is like a goddamned bloodhound when she gets a scent. "I just think it's harsh, is all. Who gets to choose who they love? You didn't choose to get caught making out with that stable boy when you were at Marlton, did you?"

Marlton was the all-girls private school Charlotte had attended as a teenager. And I knew that the incident with the stable boy, reported in the media as a meaningless, drunken dalliance between a couple of dumb kids, had been more than that. And Charlotte knew I knew, we'd just always had an unspoken agreement never to talk about it. She eyed me suspiciously.

"This is about that American girl, isn't it? That's why you're bringing up ancient history. Don't sit there all wide-eyed, Killian, do you think I didn't hear about her?"

There's a childhood dynamic between my older sister and I, one that has survived beyond childhood itself, and that is my tendency to get defensive when she calls me on something –especially if she's right.

"What?" I asked, offended. "No, this isn't about Eva – what are you talking about? Why are you even bringing that up? Who told you?"

My sister sighed. "Why do you do this, Killian? It is about her. I know it and so do you, and it doesn't matter who told me. Apparently you didn't make much of an effort to hide your infatuation, either, so I don't know why you're getting tetchy with me. I'm not our parents, you know. I'm not going to give you a lecture. I just hope you know what you're doing – for your sake and for hers. It's not fair to string people along, and it's also not fair to leave them open to media attention when they have no idea how to handle it."

'Infatuation.' Charlotte always knew what words to use to get under my skin and make me feel like I was eight years old again.

"You don't know anything about it," I told her. "It's – it's not even a – it's not a thing, Charlotte. We haven't even, uh, I mean, it's just a friendship. I don't know who you spoke to but you might want to find a less excitable source. This isn't any of your business, you know. This isn't anybody's business. The media has no idea."

Charlotte looked out the window and grimaced, revealing a few tiny crow's feet around her eyes. They weren't new, we were both getting older and I knew the knowledge that she would one day be Queen weighed heavily on her at times. She looked a little different that day, though. A little puffier in the face. Before I had time to ask if she was feeling well, she turned to me and fixed me with a patient gaze.

"You forget how well I know you, little brother. You haven't taken her to bed yet and I'm supposed to believe that that's because you don't have feelings for her? You also forget that I'm on your side. I'm sorry for getting defensive about my own past, I guess it's hard for me to admit I cared about him. And that I dropped him because I had to, not because I wanted to. Just – Killian, please be careful. That's all I'm saying. You may think you know this girl, but you don't. Who knows what kind of mess she could stir up? Hell hath no fury and all that."

I swallowed the urge to defend Eva, to insist that she would never do anything to cause trouble for me. Charlotte was just looking out for me, like she always does. And no matter how into the girl from Oshwego I was, my sister was also right about the fact that I didn't know her very well.

"OK," I said, reaching across the table and sneaking a sip of Charlotte's tea before she could stop me. "I hear you. I'll be careful. I'm not an eighteen year old idiot anymore, you know."

My sister grinned. "Well, you're not eighteen anymore, that much is true."

After our lunch I walked out into a sunny autumn day in the Capital, thinking of nothing except Eva James. It's one thing to say you've taken advice on board – it's another to actually do it, especially when it feels literally impossible to stop thinking about a certain person, no matter how hard you try. I don't think I waited even ten minutes before calling my assistant Jason and asking him to clear my schedule for the weekend.

"Can't do it," he told me bluntly, before checking himself. "Well, I could, but you know as well as I do that it would get out. We just finished putting out the last PR fire – do you really want to start another one this soon?"

He was right, just like Charlotte had been. "How about the weekend after, then?" I asked. "Just two days, Saturday and Sunday, and I can do anything Friday night and possibly even Sunday night, depending on when I get back to the Capital."

I waited as Jason checked the schedule, making little annoyed noises the entire time. "OK," he finally agreed. "I can try to reschedule the Children's Place press conference for Friday evening. I'll try for six. You've also got an appearance at that community gardens thing with Charlotte on Sunday afternoon."

"Cancel it," I replied. "They don't even want to see me, they want to see Charlotte. Tell her to bring her dashing husband along and no one will even notice I'm missing."

Disapproving silence from the other end of the phone, followed by a heavy sigh. "Sir, that event has been scheduled for three months. They –"

"Cancel it," I repeated. "Tell them I'm sick, tell them I've run off to the circus with a trapeze artist, tell them whatever you want, Jason."

"Well, it's actually Ashley who's dealing with them, so I'll have to –"

"I don't need the goddamned details, Jason, just get it done!"

"Yes, Sir."

I called Eva as soon as Jason hung up.

"Hello?"

Commotion in the background, conversations, the sound of people being busy. "Busy?" I asked, just happy to hear her voice. "I can call back."

"No – I mean, yes, actually. But I'm going to be busy until late tonight. There's a movie premiere this evening and we're in full-on panic mode here. Can I – can I call you tomorrow?"

She was pretending it wasn't me she was talking to, keeping her tone professional. "Yes," I replied. "Of course. But just before you go – can you keep the weekend after next free? I want to take you to Woaden, I've got a –"

"Sorry, what? It's loud here. Did you say Woaden?"

"Yes, it's on the southwest coast. I've got a place there. I'd like you to see it."

"Next weekend? You mean the one after this one? Yes I can do that, I think. I'm sorry, Ki – uh, I'll call you tomorrow, OK?"

"Yes, yes, that's fine, I can hear how busy you are."

We ended the call. Even though I knew Eva had been deliberately vague – even catching herself before she said my name out loud – I couldn't help feeling slightly deflated. I grabbed a bottle of beer and walked out onto my balcony to enjoy the evening, laughing at myself when it finally dawned on me that my emotions were mostly about the fact that women were never too busy to talk to me. It was simply something that didn't happen. Until that day, apparently. And even as I was amused by my own ego, there was something oddly attractive about Eva being too busy to talk to me. She had a life of her own. A job. Not some silly job in PR that she was only doing until she either inherited daddy's money or married a banker or a minor aristocrat, but a real job. One she cared about, one she was good at.

I don't know too many ambitious people. In the circles I run in, ambition is actually a dirty word, a quality ascribed to the common people as they struggle to improve themselves and their lot in life. Ambition isn't necessary when you're given everything you could possibly need from the moment you're born. It's not like I was so enlightened, either. I grew up with that idea – the notion that working to better yourself was somehow vulgar. It was only Eva who got me thinking it might be bullshit. In a way, I envied her. She was doing something useful. Learning a skill, mastering it, making a living. What skills did I have? What had I mastered? I spent my days the way I did because that was how I was told I would spend my days, because that's how everyone in my family spent their days. It was never a question, there was never any choice – I didn't spend my childhood dreaming of being a firefighter or an artist. And I didn't even stop to think about how odd that must have looked to someone on the outside until I met Eva.

Eva. Now I wasn't going to see her for more than a week. So what did I do? I spent every free moment – and most of the un-free ones – thinking about her. I even stooped, late one night, to Googling her. I then spent an embarrassing amount of time going through her boss's Instagram account, looking specifically for the photos that credited Eva. She was good – very good. In some of the photos, Eva herself was visible, hands splotched with various colors and concoctions, surrounded by brushes and palettes, smiling proudly.

I thought I knew myself by that point in my life. I could look back at my younger self and see what an idiot I'd been and it seemed to naturally follow that I was no longer that idiot. I thought I knew what I was doing with Eva, assumed I was in control. Sure, there were difficulties on the horizon. But I was the Prince. I could handle them.

It never even occurred to me that the only reason I so arrogantly assumed I could surmount any obstacle was the fact that I'd never actually faced a real obstacle before. And I'd certainly never had to deal with a relationship where I didn't hold all the power. I had no idea what I was in for...