Page 74 of The Thing About My Prince

“Wow. This is great stuff.” She turns her head to look at me. Is there a shift in her opinion of me hidden in that expression? “We could do a whole chapter on that.”

“Maybe every royal isn’t bad,” I suggest. “Just like every journalist isn’t.”

All my life, I’ve loathed the press with every pore of my being, done my very best to stay as far away from them as possible, but with this particular reporter I can’t help but scooch myself a couple of inches closer.

If it were only that she’s beautiful, smart, and the perfect kisser, her profession would still make me keep my distance. But there’s something about Lexi, that thing in her eyes, the deep familiarity when she looks at me, like we’re connected somewhere deep inside, like we already know each other through and through, that makes me want to do all the wrong things because they feel so fucking right.

“What are you doing?” she asks but doesn’t move back.

“Trying to persuade you to rethink your kissing ban.” I rest my hand on her calf, and she doesn’t pull away.

She looks down at the inches between us. “Your waterfall story is really sad.”

“Interesting way to dodge the issue.”

Her shoulders shift a little with a small laugh.

“I asked for ahappystory.” She meets my gaze and, good God, I don’t know if it’s the darkness, the forbidden nature of it all, the fact I’ve just told her about such a private moment, the intimacy of sitting here cocooned in a four-poster bed in the dark, or what the hell it is, but my stomach does a seriesof somersaults, each one starting before the other has finished.

“Thatwasa happy story.” I tick-tock my thumb over the curve of her calf.

She shakes her head slowly. “The fact you think it’s happy makes it even sadder.”

I glide my hand higher up her leg, inch by inch, wanting to absorb every millimeter of the journey. She flinches slightly, and the neckline of her shirt rises and falls more deeply over the swell of her breasts.

The idea that I’m making her breath deepen causes my dick to swell so much I have to wriggle a little to stop it from hurting. “The little while that Wendy and I were in the pools, splashing about in the sunshine, then having a picnic on the blankets, it was pure bliss.”

“So why does the waterfall thing stand out so much from all your other childhood memories?”

I bring my hand to rest in the crook at her hip. “You’re good at this question-asking lark, huh?”

Her delicious pink lips quirk up at one side and she shrugs one shoulder.

I’d better be more to her than a job. “Because it felt different from anything else.”

“In what way?”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes while I put myself back there and try to figure out why it was the one moment that popped into my mind. “I think because I felt free. And like I imagine non-public-figure folks feel when they’re out having fun. Like the fantasy I’ve had my whole life of being able to do whatever I want without fear of public scrutiny.”

“You felt like yourself?”

“That’s an excellent way to put it. Either you’re very good at this word business or you’re very good at reading me.”

“Maybe both.” Her eyes flick to me for a second beforesettling back on her screen. “And in almost three decades you’ve never felt fully yourself like that since?”

“When I’m at a Commoners game and am lost in the joy or despair of it, I do.”

Her gaze rests on me now, her forehead crinkled. “And that’s it? Nothing in between that moment when you were nine and when you bought the soccer team a couple of years ago?”

Do I say this? Dare I? Will she think I’m putting too much pressure on her?

Fuck it.

It’s true. So I’m going to say it.

“I feel like myself right now.” I allow my hand to continue its journey, moving from her leg up her arm, over her shoulder, and to her neck. When I make contact with the bare, soft skin just below her ear, her eyes drift closed on a long sigh.

After a few seconds’ pause, where the silence is broken only by the pounding of my pulse in my head, her heavy lids haul themselves partially open.