Chapter 18

Beatrice

This night has flown by like some sort of surrealist fairy tale. But nobody tell my fairy godmother, because it’s well past midnight, and while leaving with both shoes was touch and go for a bit, I’m now fleeing from the castle with all my footwear—and a handsome prince to boot.

Maybe I shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of Prosecco.

Hope and Lawrence left before we did, so it’s just Henry and me—plus two secret service agents—as we climb into the elevator to hoist us up to our secure hotel floor.

I lean back against the mirrored panel of the elevator car and close my eyes. I’m not drunk, just a bit buzzed, but it’s been a long day—and night—and the swiftly ascending carriage sends my stomach into my ribs.

“Had fun?” Henry asks, leaning against the back wall next to me; the heat coming off his body is making mine melt.

I roll my head to the side and look up, giving him a lazy, satisfied smile.

“Tons,” I tell him.

And then he snakes his hand down to mine and lifts my wrist to his lips, placing a soft and dangerous kiss on the delicate skin.

Electricity arcs through my body, heating my blood until it puddles in my core with a pulsing desire.

Suddenly, I’m no longer tired.

I check to see if anyone noticed, but the two agents are staring resolutely ahead, feet spread, hands clasped in front.

I look at Henry, and he looks back at me, still holding my hand.

In this moment, it feels as if the entire universe can fit within the confines of this elevator.

I open my mouth to say something just as the doors ding and slide open to reveal our floor. I jump with a start, snatching back my hand, and then follow the agents out onto hallway. I move quickly, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

But instead of doing the smart thing and calling out a friendly ‘good night’ before going inside and getting some much-needed rest, I pause. I find myself hovering outside my door, my heart pounding in my throat, as Henry swaggers out, hands in his tuxedo pockets.

I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of him. Whether I want them to or not, they track his every movement down the hall. And I just stand here in my evening gown, hand outstretched to the handle, frozen. Transfixed.

He stops to whisper something to one of his secret service men, who nods once and heads off, and then proceeds to the entrance of his suite, just a few doors down from mine. He reaches it, but instead of going in, he leans one shoulder against the door and faces me.

Once again, though there are secret service guards posted every so many feet down the hall, it feels as if we’re totally and utterly alone.

He arches his eyebrow in question, then licks his lips. “Nightcap?”

I find myself staring at his mouth and licking my own lips. It takes a full minute for his question to sink in, and when it does, I almost have to physically shake myself to break whatever spell he’s put me under.

And that has me wondering who orchestrated this night—his fairy godmother or mine? I shake myself again. I definitely shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of Prosecco.

Still, when he asks again, I find myself nodding my head yes and sauntering toward him down the hall. Every slip of the satin dress across my skin is like a caress. And the memory of his strong arms holding me close while we danced sends a throbbing ache to the juncture of my thighs.

When I reach him, his eyes are awash with desire, the blue of them nearly black. Then he gives me a lazy smirk, and I almost come undone.

“Should I bring my tape recorder?” I ask, my voice husky.

Henry pulls out his key and opens the door, holding it open for me enter.

As I move past him into the suite, he presses his palm into the small of my back and bends down to whisper into my ear, “I wasn’t planning on recording us, but I’m certainly not opposed.”

His hot breath tickles my ear and sends a sharp ache low in my belly. All I want in that moment is for him to bite it, but he straightens up, turning around to take something from an agent in the hall. Then he follows me inside, closing the door with his foot.

As soon as I hear the click, I realize I’ve passed the point of no return.

And it scares me. Just a little.

So to ease some of the tension, I feign nonchalance and kick off my shoes then curl up on the settee in front of the windows.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Henry says, his back to me as he fills a bucket with ice and pops the cork on a bottle of Prosecco.

He drops a few cubes in a glass and adds in a splash of whiskey then comes to join me on the settee.

“How come you’re not married?” I ask when he hands me my flute.

He almost chokes on his whiskey.

I set my glass down and rub him on the back, which I quickly realize was a terrible idea, since he removed his jacket and I can feel every hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. And whatever distance and calm I gained by curling up on the couch is now a fleeting memory. I snatch my hand back, but it’s too late.

The damage is done.

Having regained his composure, Henry takes another tentative sip of his drink, then leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch. His long fingers start to absentmindedly stroke my shoulder.

“I don’t know. Not enough time? My focus was elsewhere. Becoming the youngest President of the United States doesn’t come without sacrifice.”

I snort into my sparkling wine.

“I can only imagine. But there’s been nobody that’s come close in the last—oh, I don’t know—ten years?” I take another sip and give him a playful smile.

I really wish I did have my tape recorder on me.

He looks at me closely, then glances away, clearing his throat. “Well, there was one person…” he trails off.

Suddenly, I don’t find this funny anymore. Of course there was somebody. Of course there was. He’s a ridiculously attractive and powerful man.

I drain my glass. “What happened?”

He gives me a curious look.

“I let her slip away,” he reveals. “My turn to ask the questions.”

“What?” I ask, blinking one too many times.

He reaches forward and refills my glass.

“Tell me a secret,” he says.

“That’s not a question,” I counter, nervously taking too big a sip of Prosecco and almost choking myself.

“Fine. Do you have any secrets?”

“Of course,” I scoff. “Everyone has secrets.”

“Then, tell me one?” he asks, leaning in close enough so that I can smell the sweet, smoky scent of the whiskey on his breath.

“About?”

My heart is fluttering like a flock of hummingbirds.

He leans just a bit closer and whispers seductively, “Something you wouldn’t want me to know.”

I suck in my breath and sit back as if slapped. My cheeks burn.

But part of me desperately wants to tell him, just to get it out in the open. If I’m going to keep working for him, if I’m going to be able to do my job, I need to set some boundaries.

Because every lingering look, every casual caress is killing me. Every day, I almost drown in my desire—and that’s no way to live.

“Fine. Oh god, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I—” My face burns, and I can’t bring myself to look at him. I finish in a rush, “I have a crush on you, and—oh god why did I tell you that—and I’ve probably just ruined our relationship, and I can’t believe I kissed you six years ago, and—oh my god what have I done.”

I let my face fall into my palms. If I could just disappear, that would be great.

Two strong hands gently pry my own hands from my face.

“Beatrice. Bea. Look at me,” Henry demands softly.

I look up, heart in my throat, but strangely defiant. I think he’s going to let me down easy, but his look says something else.

Then the next thing I know, all of the air is sucked out of the room because he kisses me. And the fizz of his mouth on my mine feels as if I’ve swallowed stars.