Chapter Seven
Edee
“Good morning, princess.”
The sexy baritone rumbling in my ear is . . . unexpected.
For the last eighteen months, the only male I’ve woken up with is my stepmother’s five-year-old Siamese, and he doesn’t even qualify as male since his snip-snip trip to the vet way back in kittendom. The poor guy never stood a chance.
Usually, the first thing I want in the morning is coffee. Waking up is made tolerable only by a liberal application of java beans. Instant, Arabica, Robusta, served up in a paper cup from the Golden Arches—I don’t care as long as there oceans and oceans of it. Right now, however, I’m willing to trade up.
For him.
I crack an eye and frown. The details of last night dance somewhere in the back of my head, eluding me. They’ll undoubtedly come flooding back in embarrassing detail once I down that coffee but for right now . . . I don’t care that the bed I’m in is completely, entirely unfamiliar. It’s also fabulous. I’m no expert, but the thread count of the sheets tangled around me has to be a four-digit affair and the duvet is a big, puffy cloud of comfortable white.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I blurt the words out because thinking before I speak is also a post-coffee activity.
“I get that a lot.” I can practically hear the smirk in my companion’s voice.
His voice doesn’t get any less sexy, either. I’m in so much trouble. On the Richter scale of arousal, I’m hovering around an eleven, ready to detonate. If I’m lucky, he’ll be up for crooning the collected works of Shakespeare at me. Heck, I’d settle for listening to him read the phone book. My panties get wet.
I suppose it’s a plus that I’m even wearing panties.
I think.
Did we have sex? Have I popped my one-night-stand cherry and can’t remember it? The warm weight behind me shifts as my bedmate moves. My sudden headache makes yesterday’s seem like nothing. I have just enough time to decide that morning afters suck before big, rough, capable male hands press an Advil against my mouth and urge me to drink.
I do.
Huh. Those words seem familiar and yet . . . I can feel the memories lurking, waiting to pounce and go I told you so, but it’s way too early to confront any demons or slay dragons. I hit the mental snooze button on my brain and give it up to the mattress. Big hands tug me gently downward until my cheek is pressed against a bare chest. This is an awesome improvement on my usual pillow but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be doing this. In another minute I’ll remember a baker’s dozen of reasons why not.
“Did we?” My words come out all sleepy slur.
The chest beneath me rumbles with laughter.
“You got a list, princess?”
He has a pet name for me.
“Yeah.” I always have a list. It’s both the bane and the blessing of my existence.
“Save that thought and tell me about it later,” he suggests. It’s possible he brushes a kiss over my hair, but that’s not one-night-stand material. Even I know that, so I must be mistaken. I add it to my list of things to figure out later and let myself go.
When I wake up for real, yesterday evening seems like a dream. A very detailed, very Technicolor, extraordinarily embarrassing dream. I haven’t quite stripped down and walked around in public, but it feels like it. I mentally list what I know for a fact. One, I came out to the Royal Palace Resort and Casino for a photography gig. Two, instead of snapping pictures of the happy prince and princess, I hung out with the prince. Who, three, asked me to marry him (or possibly I asked him—I’m going to need to consult an English teacher on that one). Four, I did it. Which brings me to . . . five.
I’m married.
I’m a Mrs.
I run through the list again just to be sure, because holy impossible shit, Batman.
I run my index finger over my so not bare ring finger—a finger sporting a metal band and a stone the size of a ring pop. Since I need immediate confirmation of the impossible, I carefully crack one eye. I’m no jeweler, but there certainly appears to be a megawatt diamond wedding perched on my finger. Freaking hell, it’s probably some national treasure worth more money than I’ll ever make in my life. I’m married. OhmyGOD.
I give up playing possum and sit bolt upright. I need to get out of here, wherever here is. The duvet sags to my waist as I take a closer look at my surroundings. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore—and even though this room is all gold and gilt, it’s got nothing on the man sprawled out on the ginormous bed beside me. He’s not wearing a shirt. Naturally, that’s the first thing I notice because muscled chests are my Waterloo and my early morning companion is perfection. He’s chiseled and eminently lickable. Does he always hang out bare chested? Am I really complaining?
He sets the tablet he’s holding aside and winks at me. “Let’s try this again.”
I look at him. Nope. Lusty thoughts I’ve got, but words? Not so much.
“Good morning, princess.”
“Ummmmm.” Yes, I’m super-suave like that. I have morning breath with a side of bedhead. Now is not the time to jump the poor man or whisper sweet nothings in his ear.
“How do you feel?” He leans forward, his beautiful, beautiful face inches from mine. For one crazy moment, I consider throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing. Maybe rubbing my boobs on his chest. His bare, muscled chest. Naked is such a good look for him—and it seems to be his favorite. First the strip show by the pool, and now this. Clothing is entirely optional around this man. Wait. Am I wearing a shirt? I’m pretty sure my face goes up in flames as I hastily check out my own front.
I’m dressed. Sort of.
I’m wearing a wash-worn white T-shirt with puppies on it. Presumably, it belongs to Dare, making me responsible for his near nudity. I’m a genius. While he stares at me, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, I do a quick inventory. Beneath the T-shirt, I’m mostly bare. No bra. No pants. And from the uncomfortable tugging on my lady bits, I’m still rocking my wedding thong.
I tackle the first problem on my list.
“I have no pants.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
“I need pants.” I weigh my options. This is a hotel, right? So there’s bound to be a bathrobe hanging in the closet or the armoire or whatever gigantic dressing room this minipalace comes equipped with. I’d still have to do the walk of shame through the lobby, however, with bare feet. If I could find my purse, I could buy pants. I mean, it’s Vegas, right? They’ve seen everything here, so my pants-less self waltzing into the cheapest, non-designer store I can find should shock no one.
Dare’s grin gets wider. God, he’s trouble. “Not on my account.”
“I had pants yesterday,” I accuse.
Anyone else would be taking advantage of my pants-less state, and part of me (the part usually concealed by said pants) feels sad he’s not already leapt across the bed to appreciate my loss. Wait. Stupid brain.
Dare grabs a cell phone from the side of the bed and his fingers fly over the screen. It looks suspiciously like a phone prototype that was splashed all over the news a month ago when an employee leaked the design to the media. Clearly, Dare doesn’t wait for anything.
He gets exactly what he wants, when he wants.
I’ve always refused to do the pick me dance, but today might be the right day to make an exception. If I were really feeling brave, I’d strip off my borrowed shirt and jump up and down on the bed. I’m bra-less. Dare appears to be a boob man. I could . . .
“Pants coming up,” he announces.
Okay. So the opportunity ship is sailing, leaving me standalone on the pier.
Dare tosses the phone back onto the bedside table with the carelessness of a man who has a million billion dollars at his disposal and returns his gaze to me. And since his hotel suite has more mirrors than a funhouse and I’m waking up, I can see exactly what he sees. Defying the laws of gravity, my hair sticks out in a million directions. My head looks like someone electrocuted a baby hedgehog. I frantically pat at the flyaway strands, as if that can somehow restore order. Since my hair doesn’t respond to gentle touches, however, the effort’s futile. The sledgehammer behind my eyes is joined by a jackhammer and my need to pee approaches desperate level.
“I need to know what the plan is,” I tell him.
“You need to relax,” he counters. “Let me demonstrate.”
He leans back against the headboard, stacking his arms behind his head, and I forget all about planning. All that gold crap on the bed should make him look like a peacock or an elf or just less masculine, right? Wrong.
“One, I’m in bed with a total stranger.” I lift a finger as I count because math is always better with a visual aid. “Two, I have no pants. Three, I need a précis of what happened last night so that I can figure out four. Any relaxing I do can take place after I’ve established my plan.”
Laughter lights up his eyes. “One, clothes are on their way. Two, coffee. Three, waffles. Plus, why the hang up on pants? Why discriminate against the skirt or the dress?”
He acts as if this whole situation we’re in is one big joke and nothing to worry about.
“Personally, I prefer to face the day”—and random mystery princes—“fully dressed.”
He shrugs. “You can have my pants if you need pants so badly. Pants are overrated.”
If you look like him, absolutely. Some of us, however, prefer a little armor.
Screw it. Be brave. Don’t ask to borrow his pants. “Do you do this often?”
“Wake up?” He regards me with mock solemnity.
He acts like he does this all the time, this waking up next to a total stranger in bed. And maybe he does? So he may be funny and blunt and way too hot with his scruffy face and bare chest, but he’s also completely out of my league. There’s no way anything could work between us. We can’t possibly be married. I revise my plan. Step one? Locate the nearest exit, preferably near a bathroom.
Step two? Use the bathroom and then use the door. Step three likely involves lawyers or a really big-ass margarita. It’s Vegas—don’t judge.
I direct one blood-shot eye toward the suite’s front door—crap. Naturally, Dare couldn’t rent a small, cozy suite. I estimate he’s got about seven acres of carpeted, gilded, over-the-top room at his disposal. It’s a lot of open space to cover, especially pants-less. Trust me. This isn’t something that Emily Post has covered. And if she had, I wouldn’t have paid attention. Princes aren’t my usual company. I can’t believe I did this. It’s not me. Okay. But just look at him. I’m slowly remembering more and more as the morning passes—and clearly, princes are my weakness.
Dare studies me carefully. “What do you remember about last night?”
“What do you remember?” I hedge.
He frowns. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can get a doctor.”
“God, no. Do you know what those cost?” And since I’m currently uninsured, I’d really rather not be able to answer that question in exact dollars and cents. Good medical advice is the price of a small car, and something tells me Dare would insist on the very, very best.
His frown gets deeper. “I’ve got you covered.”
“No, thanks.” I fight the urge to smooth away that frowny face with my fingers. The little pucker in his forehead should spoil his outrageous good looks, but it just makes him look slightly tired and more approachable. He’s like a cake, but somebody’s already cut a slice out of its gooey goodness, so it’s no longer off-limits. All I need now is for life to pass me a fork and I’ll eat this guy up.
Running for the door would be so much safer.
He shrugs and I can practically see him let go of whatever’s got him temporarily worried. “Back to items two and three in my awesome plan. You want some breakfast?”
I consult with my stomach. The one advantage of wearing Dare’s discarded T-shirt is that it’s plenty loose, bless its cottony goodness. I don’t have to worry about sucking in my stomach or food babies. In fact, there’s enough room for two, which sort of makes me want to invite him.
Bad me.
Did I think I needed a detailed plan? I’ll simplify. Get up. Get out. I can always pee in a potted plant somewhere. Or there will be public bathrooms on the casino level. Really great marble bathrooms with private stalls and no princes. The choice is clear.
I ease my legs over the side of the bed. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you.”
“Wait.” He slides an arm out from behind his head and somehow his fingers shackle my wrist lightly. My head pounds, but not half as hard as my heart. His fingertips skate over my rampaging pulse. It feels good, but not so good that I can ignore the note of command in his voice. Of course, from what I remember, this man will be in charge of an entire country someday. He’ll be like the pied piper of princes—or pussy. I can just imagine how his female subjects will react to him.
“Going,” I remind him, working my feet onto the floor.
“What do you remember about last night?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Not a thing. But I’ve definitely got an urgent thing this morning, so I’ll just be going.”
“Edee.” He groans my name. “You’re gonna have to talk about this. We’re married.”
I lick my lips. “Are we really?”
He holds up his hand. The band on his ring finger is surprisingly simple, but it’s gold, it’s shiny, and it screams married. I look again at the diamond-encrusted wedding band nestled beneath the big-ass diamond on my ring finger. Somebody should check with NASA—they can probably see the glare from outer space.
He shrugs. “I did. You did. Now we are.”
“You said it would be temporary,” I accuse.
“So you do remember something.” He beams at me.
Busted.
“Are we done here?”
Mentally, I kick myself. He has to be playing games because a guy like him just doesn’t marry a girl like me. And I’m not trying to be self-deprecating. I have a healthy sense of self-worth. It’s just that we come from two different worlds, and I can’t imagine what we might have in common.
He tugs me back toward the center of the bed. “Have breakfast with me.”
Waffles or escape. Choices, choices.
“Come in!” Dare bellows and the door flies open. OhmyGOD.
“Pants and then waffles, you bastard,” I hiss as I dive beneath the covers. Screw dignity.
He laughs like a maniac, and I half expect him to flip the covers back, but all he does is pat the bump that is my back and make himself comfortable.
My blanket diving is turning out to be a better idea than I thought. My new position puts me super close to Dare—and his lap. Long legs stretch out beneath the covers beside me. While I am plagued by a distinct lack of pants, he’s been over-blessed in that area. He’s wearing a pair of faded blue jeans. And while jeans strike me as a less-than-comfortable pajama alternative, I have to admire the view. The top two buttons have come miraculously undone and he’s flashing me his Calvins. I shouldn’t be experiencing any regrets that he’s not naked, but . . . I am.
I enjoy the view and forcibly keep myself from touching. Somewhere overhead, far too close, comes the smooth polished voice of a hotel employee, followed by the scent of bacon. My stomach lurches.
Dare peels the covers back and grins at me. “Up.”
A strong hand scoops me up and deposits me next to him. I add strength to my list of favorite qualities in a guy.
“Food,” he says, further cementing his place in my Top Ten list of favorite men. He passes me a waffle and coffee as the butler parades out of the room. An honest-to-God butler in a full penguin suit.
Still, since it’s a waffle-and-caffeine-bearing butler, I decide not to comment on Dare’s ostentatious lifestyle. I’ll just chew and enjoy in silence.
If you’d asked me my thoughts on post-impulse-wedding breakfasts, I’d have bet you that they were awkward. I’d have lost. Dare doesn’t rush to fill in the silence—he just enjoys his coffee and his food, checking periodically to make sure that I’ve got enough carbs on my plate to fuel a marathon. And when I do need a refill, he doesn’t act like he’s judging me for my caloric consumption or anything other than thrilled to, yes, pass me the breadbasket. No wonder he’s so popular with the ladies.
Stomach eventually satisfied, I return to my list of questions. “Can I ask you something?”
I’m about to go off script, but I’m dying of curiosity. Plus, this is likely the only time I’ll ever have a prince trapped in bed with me. They don’t grow on trees in Vegas.
“Go for it.” He sets his coffee cup on the bedside table and gives me his full attention. Wow. I freeze for a moment. Small talk isn’t my strong point, and he’s a little much. Up close his face is rugged and sexy. He has a strong face, stubble-roughened and shadowed; tousled red hair; a hint of a dimple in his left cheek; and eyes that stare into mine as if he can see right through me. Or possibly undress me. The jury’s still out on that one.
“Do you always have a butler bring you breakfast?”
He stacks his hands behind his head, getting comfortable. I wish he’d look away, but nope, he’s still watching me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever woken up next to. “Job perk.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He shrugs. “When I’m traveling or at the palace, yes. They frown on butlers in army field training exercises, so I’m on my own then.”
“Servants?”
He grins. “You mean like a valet and a personal secretary?”
“Another yes?” Jeez. It’s like waking up next to the hero of a historical romance. He not only has a palace, but he has a staff.
“Sorry to disappoint you, brown eyes.” He shakes his head. “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s a family tradition.”
I’ll bet.
“You don’t mind living your life in front of an audience?”
Because it sounds to me like he lives in a fishbowl. A really clean, well-serviced fishbowl but . . . glass walls.
He winks. “I love a good audience, don’t you?”
Did he just make a sex joke?
Since I don’t have a ready come back, I settle for yanking the top sheet out of the bottom of the bed and wrapping it around me. Dare watches me.
“Could you not—” I wiggle my fingers at him.
“Sorry?” His brow furrows.
“Stare at me,” I blurt out. “It’s really disconcerting and this morning is already weird enough.”
The bastard laughs, and he doesn’t even try to hold back. He flops on his back and laughs his heart out. Right. I yank the sheet off the bed, fashion a makeshift muumuu, and march myself into the bathroom. I can still hear him chortling when I slam the door. And since no one’s invented teleportation or magic glass elevators yet, I settle for raiding the deluxe assortment of hotel toiletries arranged on the marble vanity.
Princes truly don’t live like the rest of us. There’s an elegance and a blithe disregard for money, a sense of luxury and entitlement that permeates every elegant inch of this room. Even the little bottle of body wash I palm is sophisticated—Bulgari and Ferragamo, rather than a hotel-branded generic. I help myself liberally, while ignoring my abandoned wedding dress spilling out of the ginormous tub. When I can’t put off my return any longer, I trade the sheet for a hotel robe and then do the walk of shame back into the bedroom.
The breakfast fairies have magically cleared away our bed picnic while I’ve been hiding. Dare lounges against the headboard, eyes focused on a tablet that he sets aside when I come out. There’s something about the way he chooses to focus on me that is addictive. For right now, I’m the center of his universe.
What do I do now? Do I get back into the bed? Sit on the edge? Find a nice desk chair and hang out there?
“This is awkward.” Captain Obvious, that’s me.
“Because you don’t know me.” He snaps his fingers. “Speed dating. We can do that six-minute thing.”
“I think we’re supposed to do like six people in one night.” My voice sounds doubtful—and a little eager. Crap. I need to play this cool.
“Edee.” His voice is coaxing. “Six questions. I ask you. You ask me. Just say the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Like truth or dare?” By the way—his voice? It’s a dirty, wonderful drug. I’d be happy if this man read me the phone book.
“Just questions, brown eyes.” He winks at me. “Although we could lose an article of clothing for each bad answer.”
That’s either the best idea ever—or the worst. Because he’s just said six questions and I’m wearing a T-shirt and panties. From what I saw during my stint beneath the covers, he’s not wearing much more. We’d both end up naked.
“Too soon?” He sighs dramatically and flings himself backward on the pillows. “I feel rejected.”
I snort. “As if.”
“Yes or no?”
I can’t help but think that he’s treating our marriage as a joke. Sure, it took two and I said I do in all the right places, too, but I can’t help but think that it’s not so funny right now. We’re married. This man has the legal right to pull the plug on me and to keep half of what I earn.
“You worry too much.” He brushes the tip of my nose with his finger. What the hell? “I can help with that.”
“Okay,” I say, pretending I’m not breathless at all. “
“First question.” He stacks his hands behind his head. “Summer or winter? Don’t think—just answer.”
“Winter because . . . cozy sweaters.”
He groans. “Too many clothes. Definitely summer.”
No surprise there. When I met the man, he was busy stripping down to his skivvies. There aren’t words to describe how much I plan on enjoying that particular memory. The only thing better would have been if I’d been able to snap a picture. You know. For posterity. Or my own personal spank bank. Thank God I’ve got an excellent memory.
For a moment my brain blanks as he looks at me, clearly expecting a question. Right. We’re playing a game. “Plan it out or be spontaneous?”
“Spontaneous.” He winks at me. “And you’re a planner. We should probably discuss our views on couples counseling next.”
“Would you do that?” Most guys, I’ve found, aren’t big on talking. They’ll use words, but they tend to be directed at the television or they’re dirty talk. Maybe a request to pick stuff up at the store or a question for a waiter. But actually talking talking? About feelings? That’s been a definite male no-fly zone for me.
Dare shrugs. Oooh, see? Nonanswer. “Unless that’s your question, it’s my turn. When did you lose your virginity and where?”
He’s such a cheater. “That’s two questions.”
“We failed to discuss penalties for refusing to answer.” His huge smile is all the warning I get before he launches himself across the bed at me. I shriek and land flat on my back, his knees on either side of me as his fingers seek out every ticklish spot on my body.
I twist and buck because I hate losing control and I’m laughing so hard I almost pee. He plays my ribs like a virtuoso and I give it up.
“College,” I gasp out in pure self-defense. “In my boyfriend’s roommate’s car. Cut it out.”
His fingers ease up on my ribs, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he rolls to his side, bringing me with him. Somehow I end up tucked against his chest, panting like a mad woman and trying hard to not get away from him.
“You suck,” I hiss.
“Did you plan it?” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes. “Because I lost mine the first time I snuck out of the ballroom, but that was more of a happy accident. I totally believed Lady Lynn when she offered to show me her etchings.”
I’m sure there’s a dirty joke in there, but now it’s my turn to shrug. “If I had, I would have picked a much more romantic—and cleaner—location. Plus, security made regular sweeps of the parking lot, so we had to be quick. What was the last book you read?”
He gives a wicked laugh. “All the way through?”
“With actual words and not pictures,” I say with mock solemnity. “Come on, big guy. And don’t tell me it was a nudie mag.”
To my surprise, he names a book on economic theory by a recent Nobel Prize winner.
“But I’m only halfway through.” He nods toward the bedside table, and sure enough, there’s an honest-to-God book sitting there. Hardcover, complete with paper jacket, and . . . a Kleenex as a bookmark. Very classy.
“Why that book?” Now I want to see his library, because a prince like him? I’ll bet he has a big library. Huge. The kind with books on gilt stands and first editions next to other books that Uncle Bob read and loved hundreds of years ago.
Strong hands rub my back. “A country’s just a very big business with a ton of employees depending on you. Your turn.”
“The last book I read was an Agatha Christie. A Murder is Announced.”
“How-to books.” His hold on me doesn’t ease up, so I relax into his chest. Too bad all first dates can’t be like this. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if I announce your impending death in the newspaper.”
I was eight the first time I met Agatha Christie’s nosy, snooping, wonderful old lady detective and I fell in love. There was no problem too knotty for Miss Marple. For years, I fantasized of moving to St. Mary Mead and becoming her Gal Friday.
“What’s your favorite boy part? Please feel free to point it out on my person.”
“Forearms.” We both look at his. There’s a whole lot of bronzed, muscled skin on display, and yes, my mouth waters. The sexiest movie scene ever is when Captain Jack Sparrow is forced to offer his hand to Norrington and is outed as a pirate when Norrington shoves his shirtsleeve up. Sure my beloved captain could do with a little more soap and a whole lot less alcohol in his life, but his forearm is strong and inked and I get shivers just thinking about the bracelets.
“You’re not listening,” he whispers in my ear. “And my favorite part is awesome. You should pay attention to me or I’ll make you guess.”
“I’m a terrible guesser.”
He sighs. “I’ll give you a hint. It starts with p.”
“But if I guess, then I’ll be asking a question.”
He laughs. “Good point. I’ll pick an easier question. Do you watch porn?”
“Hello. We’re in Vegas. If you stand on the Strip after dark, there’s no way to not watch porn.”
He grunts. “Evasion.”
“Truth.”
“How long was your last relationship and when did it end?”
“Never. I don’t do relationships, brown eyes.”
I don’t think he’s lying.
Dare snags his tablet from the bedside table and holds it out to me. He’s been browsing various gossip and news sites, all of them full of Prince Dare’s mysterious, impulsive wedding to an unknown woman. My picture is everywhere. Sort of. I appear to be the tulle-wrapped, sparkly blob standing next to the handsome prince. There’s not a single shot of my face, and that’s a blessing. The sites enthuse over his selection of an American bride, calling it bold, revolutionary, and (heh) daring.
“That’s a good one of you.” I point to a particularly charming shot of Dare grinning. He looks happy. As if getting married to my drunken self in a Vegas quickie ceremony officiated by an Elvis impersonator is the acme of his dreams.
His smile promptly disappears. “I don’t like pictures.”
“Really?” My brain explodes, trying to process that one. “I love them. Taking them.”
“Being in them?” he asks dryly.
I shrug. “I’m always on the other side of the camera. I like it that way.”
Wait. My camera! I had it with me yesterday and then . . . I draw a blank. I hop off the bed and look underneath it. No camera.
Dare drops to the floor beside me. “What are we doing?”
“Have you seen Mr. Precious?”
He smirks. “Given my dick a pet name already, have you? Wait until you actually see it.”
I smack his shoulder companionably. “Mr. Precious is my camera. At best, you’re Mr. Semi-Precious.”
“Ouch.” He grins companionably at me. Is he never serious?
“I have to find it.” I never lose my camera. Ever. It’s like my third arm or tit or something far, far more useful. And not only does it contain all my pictures from yesterday, but I simply cannot afford to replace it.
“Edee. Calm down.” He pats me on the shoulder and vaults to his feet. “We have people for this.”
“I’m not panicking.” Liar. I’m totally panicking. I’m never without Mr. Precious. Who is absolutely, totally nowhere to be seen.
Dare hauls open the bedroom door and a pair of dress-shoe-wearing feet steps into view.
“Little warning,” I growl and contemplate crawling underneath the bed. Great. Now his security detail has seen my panty-clad butt crawling around on the floor. They’ll probably decide I’m into some really kinky sex and then I’ll end up as one of those unfortunate tabloid stories.
I hear Dare ask Mr. Dress Shoes to put someone on the task of hunting down my missing camera ASAP and then the door shuts. As if it’s that simple. I’ll bet his people have people.
“Distraction time.”
That’s all the warning I get before a strong arm hooks around my waist and I’m hauled back against a warm, hard body—right before we both go flying through the air to land on the mattress. Dare proves diabolically talented in the distraction department. His fingers dig into my ribs, tickling and teasing. I squirm, trying to get away, but he simply hooks a leg over mine. And although the majority of the time he’s on top, I’m not going down without a fight.
Turns out, Dare’s ticklish in more than a few places, too. The side of his neck is particularly sensitive, as is the back of his knee. We play wrestle, rolling around on the bed. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself, which is definitely not the kind of impression I want to make on a prince of the realm or whatever he is. Eventually, I’ve had enough.
“Off,” I shove at his chest and he obediently flops onto his back beside me.
“Dare?” I stare up at the ceiling. It’s really great. Some kind of fancy trompe l’oeil depiction of a nighttime sky.
“Question, brown eyes?”
“Why are we married? Really?”
Because I’m not Cinderella. I didn’t show up at his glamorous ball in a magical gown and I didn’t dance my way into his heart. He hasn’t chased after me, hanging on to hope and a single glass slipper. He has a reason—he just hasn’t shared it with me.
“It’s a joke.” He stares up at the ceiling as if he’s never seen it before. And of course maybe he hasn’t. This is a hotel room. He could—
Just my luck.
I meet a prince. He offers to marry me—and it’s a joke.
“Marriage or me?” My voice sounds way too soft. It’s freaking embarrassing. But here’s the thing. I may not be married, engaged, or even seriously looking, but I’ve always known that someday I do want to find Mr. Right. And when I do, I want to make him those promises. To have, to hold, to honor—I want it all. I know that my track record and wedding vows are no guarantee of forever, but I want that chance. My Mr. Right will be so Team Edee that he’ll want to be a member forever, he’ll be willing to stand up and say so in front of the whole world, that I’m his everything and all he wants. Forever. It’s a lot to ask, but I do plan on asking. Someday. When I meet a guy who doesn’t run straight out the door if he’s asked to commit to so much as a dinner choice.
“Edee.” Dare groans my name and rolls over so he can look down into my face. “Marriage. Not you, brown eyes.”
He has to say that, my brain points out.
It’s time for Step Two in my plan. I need to go.
Growing up, I knew that life was at best perfectly imperfect. Guys came, they went, but that didn’t deter me from dating. My parents’ divorce was a speed bump in said dating life, but I got over it. My dad died—and I got over it. I got over a whole lot of people, and somewhere along the way, the road of life got a little bumpy. My romantic life either picked up speed or came to a dead halt (depending on your perspective), men coming and then promptly doing a U-turn and leaving me stranded by the side of the road. Once is a mistake. Twice might be poor luck. The third, fourth, and subsequent times? Public humiliation galore. Ever since, I’ve made a point of being the person who does the leaving in a relationship. It makes everything so much easier. So much safer.
As fun as the adrenaline rush of getting to know someone is, the letdown is a thousand times worse. The kind of worse that feels like you’ve just shot off the road and gone crashing down a mountainside—only to realize at the bottom that you’ve forgotten your seat belt. Dare’s undoubtedly fun. He’s a hot prince and we could have fun together—but eventually, he’s going to leave me, and because of who he is, the whole world will hear about it. I’ll be the punch line, the bad joke—and I won’t be the one laughing.
I stare up at his gorgeous face, the dark red hair tumbling around those mischievous eyes, and I know I have to be the one to do the leaving. And I have to do it now.
Which is why I say what I do. “Divorce me.”