My Forbidden Royal Fling

DAWN LIGHT SHIFTS across the bed and I reach for Santiago instinctively, my fingertips brushing the sheets in search of him. But he’s not there, of course. I have no concept of what time he left, or if he tried to wake me to say goodbye, I only feel a sense of incompleteness that he’s not here.

It jolts me awake, so I stare at the view revealed by my window of the sun cresting over the city, and the glistening ocean, and wonder at how he’s

become so important to me in such a short space of time. What happened to a secret, sexy fling? A bit of fun before I go home and pick up the mantle of my responsibilities, finally becoming Queen of Marlsdoven, and all that entails?

Except he is fun, too, even as I recognise he’s become something...more...something difficult to characterise. I smile as I shower, remembering the night we shared, the way he kissed me, touched me so reverently, as though he were worshipping me...as though I completed him. Of course I don’t—that’s just me trying to make sense of such an intimate physical act, of the way it feels when we’re together. So right.

A frown is on my face as I get ready, choosing a sunny dress and sandals for my last day in Barcelona. The thought is at the edge of my mind all day, an awareness of time racing towards a finish line I no longer want to reach. What if I were to extend my trip?

Except I can’t. There’s a state dinner tomorrow night. That’s the reason I booked my visit for these dates. I can’t miss it. Not even for this.

No, I have to leave as originally planned, and then that will be the end of this.

It’s late in the afternoon when my phone buzzes.

Are you free for dinner?

I roll my eyes, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.

Who with?

Funny! I’ll be back in Barcelona around six p.m. Okay?

My heart notches up a gear. Okay? It’s better than okay. It’s at least two hours earlier than I had expected him for dinner.

Sure. See you then.

He arrives five minutes early, carrying a large brown paper bag, and my heart races at the sight of him. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearm tattoos. His skin is a golden brown, his hair pushed back from his face so the intensity of his eyes is all the more obvious. My nerves go into overdrive.

He kisses me on the cheek and my pulse throbs; it’s such a normal gesture, as if we’re two people who are dating, as though this isn’t the last night we’ll see each other. I look away, blinking rapidly to clear the thought. This isn’t the time to think about that.

‘What’s in the bag?’ I ask, lifting up to peek in the top.

‘Dinner.’ He lowers it to reveal a bushy green celery top and some bulbs of garlic. ‘Or it soon will be.’

My brows lift in surprise. ‘You’re cooking?’

He sends me a sardonic look. ‘That surprises you?’

‘Well, obviously!’ I laugh. ‘I don’t think I can picture you in an apron.’

‘I cook shirtless.’ Even though it’s obviously a joke, my breath bursts out of my lungs.

He doesn’t cook shirtless, but he cooks well, as though he’s often done. I watch, mesmerised, sipping wine and making conversation which, he’s informed me, is my job for the evening. I don’t drink much, though, just a few small sips, because I want to remember every detail just as it happened without any filter over the top.

When I take a bite of the paella he makes, my lips part on a moan of appreciation. ‘This is amazing.’ Saffron, olives and tomato all combine to give the dish a richness that is full-bodied yet not overpowering.

He dips his head. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘How did you learn to make this?’

‘It’s not rocket science.’

‘I just presumed you’re someone who eats out every night. I had no idea you were secretly a culinary whiz.’

He grins as he lifts a fork to his mouth. ‘Paella is easy.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ I take another bite, closing my eyes as the flavours run through me. ‘How did you learn?’