On one hand, I’m relieved that the paparazzi showed up. I was a hair’s breath away from giving into Anton and my feelings for him. Fuck, that gentle graze of his lips against mine had my knees on the verge of buckling.

But on the other hand, I’m pissed that they showed up and ruined my fucking moment. I was about to give in and succumb to the fairy tale ending where I get to kiss the prince and live happily ever after.

I know that last bit doesn’t really make sense, given how firmly I’m denying my feelings for Anton.

I’m a complicated woman. It’s part of my charm.

Now as a whole, I’m not a big fan of the paparazzi. Far too often they’re just a bunch of sketchy motherfuckers with camera lenses that look more like telescopes. They’re tactless and intrusive.

At least the guys at TMZ are classy.

“Whoa,” I yelp.

Anton is pulling me by the hand down the alleyway and away from the prying eyes of the so-called photojournalists.

In my long and illustrious career—well more of a calling really—as a party girl and professional shit disturber, I’ve had to run a lot in heels.

That shit isn’t easy. At all.

But I’m like Usain Bolt when I need to be. Right now though I’m more like a preteen trying to run in her mother’s heels that are four sizes too big.

The first corner we turn has me tumbling into Anton’s arms with a groan.

Not my finest moment.

He helps me steady myself just in time for the paparazzi to turn the corner after us.

“Tenacious assholes,” I mutter.

We start running down the street like we’re in the middle of one of those Jason Bourne movies. Only we’re running from mildly overweight men with giant cameras shouting questions at us.

We dash across the street—through traffic I might add—like badass action heroes.

Anton looks over his shoulder at me with a smile.

Now let me say that Anton looks fucking sexy regardless of what he is or isn’t wearing or whatever facial expression he has.

It doesn’t matter; the man is sexy.

But when he smiles?

Well fuck me—that’s a whole new level of sexy.

Anton’s smile is one of those smiles that could literally stop traffic which would be useful right now.

It’s charming, endearing, suggestive, mischievous, and infectious all at the same time.

In this man’s long list of weapons in his arsenal, his smile is the most dangerous.

So when he looks at me with that smile as he dodges incoming cars and scooters from crashing into us, I can’t help but smile back.

I don’t want to smile.

I want to be angry at him for his sexiness and devotion.

Ugh! Why must he be so fucking perfect!?

We make it across the street without getting run over, then I pull on his arm to stop running.

“Come on, Percy,” he says as he tries to pull me again.

I shoot him a look. A look that says I’ll cut off his fucking balls and feed them to him if he pulls me again.

He may not believe me when I tell him that I don’t love him—and why would he when I don’t believe it myself—but when he sees the look on my face, he knows I’m not kidding around.

I lean down to peel my Louboutins from my feet.

“There. Now we can run.”

He takes my hand, and we’re off to the races once more.

Thankfully, we’re close enough to my hotel where we can hide for a while.

I may not have my clutch with me, but the hotel’s manager is a fan of my tits and knows me by face. But plans of rushing through the front door of the hotel fall apart when the hotel comes into view.

A swarm of paparazzi are standing around outside, waiting like mosquitoes.

“Well, fuck.”

“Well, fuck.”

We look at each other and laugh.

It’s a cute moment—which I love and hate at the same time—that’s quickly ruined when the swarm out front of the hotel hear us.

“Prince Anton! Over here!”

“Just a couple of pictures!”

We run toward the side of the hotel. The swarm has smelled blood, and they chase after it. From the street we can see my hotel room, but there’s a fucking problem.

My suite is on the second floor.

“The next time I run, it better be to a fucking bar,” I groan.

“Hang on. I have an idea,” he says with far too much confidence.

“Oh, this better be goo—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence as he lifts me off the ground and puts me on his shoulders.

“Alright. I’m going to jump, and you’re going to grab the balcony’s bars okay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think that you married some parkour princess or something?”

“Just fucking do it, Percy.”

I let out a groan of frustration, but at this point, I’ll do what I have to just to get rid of the paparazzi on our tail.

Anton does a short running leap that is high enough for me to grab my balcony’s railing. The problem is, I can’t fucking pull myself up.

“What now, smart ass?” I call down over my shoulder.

In response, I hear a loud grunt and the sound of Anton’s hand grabbing the balcony beside me.

I got to say, I’m fucking surprised—and impressed—that he made the jump. I shouldn’t be, given that the man is a fucking giant. I wouldn’t be surprised if he used his fucking cock as a pole vault.

From the corner of my eye, I see Anton pull himself up over the balcony as if it’s part of his workout routine.

“Alright, easy now,” he says as his hands wrap around my wrists.

With Anton’s help, I climb over the balcony’s railing. Though it would be more accurate to say he just pulled me up over the railing, and I was just there.

But, it’s not all smooth sailing.

While going over the top of the railing, I lose my balance and fall into him—hard.

He catches me, but tumbles backward into my suite and onto his back. We blurt out small grunts and groans as we hit the floor. I get off of his lap, but Anton pulls me down onto him.

Our lips meet, and it’s like fucking fireworks on New Years Eve, the Fourth of July, and the Superbowl all rolled into one. I want to resist, but it feels so fucking good.

The way he tastes. The way his tongue dances with mine.

It’s raw passion on a level that has me second guessing my resolve.

And I can’t have that.

At my knee, I can feel the heel of one of my shoes.

I grab it and start beating Anton in the arm with it.

Our lips part, and I roll off of him as quickly as I can.

“No, Anton. You don’t get to play dirty like that,” I huff.

I take a couple of deep breaths. I need to focus and re-center myself. Otherwise, I’m going to jump him right here and now.

He lies there looking at me in disbelief as I take several steps away from him.

“I told you in the alley. I don’t love you. We—” I wave my finger between us, “—we aren’t a thing. Look, I’m sorry that I’m not the woman you want me to be. But I’m not wife material, okay?”

There’s a flash of something I’ve never seen in his eyes before.

He’s pissed. And not ‘I stubbed my toe’ or ‘my favorite sports team lost’ kind of pissed.

This is some salt of the Earth kind of primal angry.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Percy!” he yells with the force of a thunderclap.

When he gets up, it feels as though he’s a dozen feet tall as I look up at him.

But I stand my ground.

I’m not about to back down from any man. Prince or not.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work. You know that? You go through life acting like you’re some raunchy, party girl who likes to ride from one dick to another like connecting flights on some around-the-world trip.”

“Well, that’s because I am!” I yell back.

He laughs, and it hurts.

“I’ve heard that record, Percy. It’s a pile of fucking shit. You know what you are?”

“Well, enlighten me then, Prince Fuck Face!”

“You’re just a woman afraid that she’s worthy of being loved. The idea that someone could love you more than life itself scares the living shit out of you. So you play this party girl act because you think it will save you from it. You think that if you keep spinning the lie that you’ll eventually believe it yourself. And you want to, so fucking badly, because the alternative terrifies you.”

“Well, aren’t you just a regular Dr. Phil!” I yell in frustration.

The most frustrating part of it all is that I know he’s right.

His love does terrify me.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Percy. Look me in the eye and fucking tell me.”

“What makes you so fucking certain that you’re right? Who the fuck are you to tell me how I feel, huh?”

That’s right Percy! Go on the offensive!

He turns away with another laugh. He throws his hands up in the air and yells out a handful of words in French.

“You still don’t fucking have a clue!” he says as he turns to face me. “How the fuck do you think you ended up handcuffed to your bed, Percy? And not just here. Bangkok. Vegas. Montreal. Mexico. Sydney. All those fucking times you woke up naked and handcuffed. How the fuck do you think it happened? Magical fucking leprechauns?”

The events of all those trips play through my mind like a video of my greatest hits.

It clicks that he’s been there each and every time. And not out of coincidence either.

It’s like finding the last piece of the puzzle that has been missing for years. But when you pulled back the couch cushion, there it is, staring at you in the face.

Anton—my prince and my Silver Fox—is that last piece.

And I’m the puzzle.