“No, you’re interested in Lily. The reckless and impulsive woman from the bar that went back to your hotel room. She was an imposter.”
“I don’t believe that. You may have amnesia, but there was nothing reckless about her. You were passionate, seductive, and wild. Everything about that weekend was fucking remarkable.”
“You need to get it through your thick head, that woman doesn’t exist.”
“I will find her, and in the process, I’m going to find out what fucked up shit happened to you.”
“My ‘fucked up shit’, as you so eloquently put it, is in the past.”
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Why does it bother you so much?” he pushes, and the tickle in my throat builds.
My control slips, and before I can get a grip, I blurt out, “Because I know what it means! I held that title for years. Prada Princess, Dior Diva, Gucci Gal, Burberry Bitch… all the ways people referred to me while I was busting my ass up the corporate ladder. I told myself what they thought didn’t matter. Those people wanted to be me, so I ignored the snide comments and owned my success. When the truth came out, I swore no one would ever call me that again. I left that behind in Chicago.” My face flames in humiliation as the last sentence comes out squeaky.
In the next moment, Miller has me in his arms. Fingers fisting my hair as he brings my face to his.
“Baby, what happened to you? Talk to me.” His voice is silky smooth and full of kindness, which slices deeper.
“Nothing happened,” I rasp.
“You’re lying.” His tone gentle, his fingers now caressing the back of my scalp.
“Nothing I can talk about.”
“Says who?”
“Me.” To my horror, a tear trails down my cheek.
His crystal blue eyes are swimming with concern, which makes my already unstable emotions even shakier.
“Don’t,” I beg. “Please don’t look at me like this.”
“Like I care?”
“Yes, you can’t care.”
“Too late.”
“You have to let what happened between us go.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Why? I’ve told you I’m not that woman! If you knew the person I really am, you’d be mortified you ever hooked up with me.” I reach up between us, swiping the path of tears away.
“Impossible.”
“Arrrrgggg!” I try to twist out of his grip, only to be yanked into his chest.
“I know the person you are because you are the same person I spent the best weekend of my life with.”
“No.” I shake my head against him, denying myself the happiness at his admission. “That was sex; this is real life.”
“Bullshit,” he deadpans, his voice hard and steely.
“I’m working through some things and you don’t need to get involved.”
“Whatever is eating you up inside, I can help. No matter what it is, I’ll never regret my time with you. You can talk to me.”
“I can’t.” My whisper comes out muffled, and I’m suddenly grateful he’s got me pinned to him. “You’re too good for me.”
The silence gives me a chance to regain my composure and stop the pounding in my chest. When I have my emotions locked in place, I wrap my arms around his waist and lean back to face him. “When I say you’d be mortified, I’m referring to myself. I’m embarrassed by the woman I was, and tarnishing the memories of our time together is not—”
He shuts me up by running his mouth across mine, nibbling on my bottom lip and pressing his forehead to mine. “I know about the Prada Princess, heard about it before even knowing it was you who moved into town. But that’s not the reason I call you Princess.”
“Why then?”
“Because you’re fucking gorgeous, you’re chasing a dream, and when I remember our time together, it was perfect. The name fits.”
“You’re imagining a Paper Princess.”
“Not in my mind. Pretty sure I remember you as perfect.”
For the first time in a long time, I find myself wanting to hear him call me by the name I swore to hate. “Miller—”
“We have time,” he cuts me off again.
“Time?”
“I’m not going anywhere. We have time,” he repeats.
“I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I don’t have a lot to give right now.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Mmhmm.” His lips touch mine again, vibrating with his response before he kisses me tenderly and loosens his grip to give me a little space. “To prove I hear you, I’ll let you off the hook.”
“How gracious.”
“For now,” he finishes with a hint of humor.
“Good lord!” I drop my head back to the ceiling.
“Ashlyn?”
My breath catches in my throat at the seriousness of his expression when I meet his eyes.
“Don’t have a clue what you’re hiding, but I get the feeling you’ve been dealing with this shit by yourself for a long time. You’re not alone anymore. I’ve got your back.”
His words are loaded with conviction. The overwhelming urge to cry strikes again, and I swallow hard, willing it to go away. Instead of continuing to push my argument, I say, “Thank you.”