Secret Heir

I glanced behind me, noticing the heel still poking like a deadly stake out of the cobblestone. The doorman was bent, trying to wedge it out with the end of an umbrella. “That doesn’t look good.”

“That’s the only pair I have that are appropriate for these dumb fancy events while I’m here.”

I laughed, appreciating her honesty. With the veil of respectable decorum down and her ankle in my hand and her hair all tousled, she was lovely. “These things are dumb,” I grinned, “but you never know who you’ll meet.”

“Why are you here then?” She asked.

“I’m a Royal Academy benefactor.” I answered as she pressed herself off of the leather seat and winced. “Don’t hurt yourself anymore than you already have.” I lifted her ankle and angled her into the back seat. “I can bring you home, or better yet, my place. There’s an old-fashioned shoe store right next to me, I could probably get him to open up after hours to get you a replacement for those shoes.”

She frowned, then tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Ssh,” I tucked into the backseat beside her. “Take us home, Sven.”

She trembled at my side, swiping at wetness on her cheeks before I pulled my navy pocket square from my suit and dabbed at her cheeks and eyes. “Are you always this clumsy or is it just when you’re falling for me?”

She sniffed, smiling at my teasing tone before pushing a hand through her hair. It mussed even more, tousling over one shoulder in waves and sending a wash of sweet, French vanilla-scented goodness my way. She smelled delicious enough to eat. Did she do it on purpose? Dip herself in sugar and flaunt her beauty in front of me like bait I wasn’t supposed to take?

I groaned, adjusting myself discreetly.

Sven sped over a half a block of uneven cobblestones and I made a mental note to have words with the mayor about the state of Copenhagen’s streets. Sven hit the breaks swiftly when a group of late-night college students stumbled out of a pub and into the street. They yelled and cheered, singling happily as the world turned around them. I hardly remembered a time I’d ever felt as free as they looked right then.

“Copenhagen is…interesting.” Pixie said, just as one of the partygoers pressed his face to the window of the car and cheered. She clutched at my thigh, nails tearing deep and holding tightly.

Every nerve in my body throbbed with her contact. I imagined what it might feel like with her nails dragging down my bare back as I pressed into her for the first time… I shifted my focus and offered, “Copenhagen has a wild side that only comes out at night.”

We pulled in front of one of the oldest buildings in the city. I was lucky, my apartment was the epitome of luxury. It was awe-inspiring by day with it’s view of the sparkling harbor, canals, and red-tiled skyline. The characteristic red roof tiles reflecting the evening sun was one of my favorite views in all of Copenhagen, but at night it was something else entirely. Maybe I could convince Pixie to a late-night dinner on the balcony, most tourists pay thousands for views like the one I lived with everyday. I wanted to share it with her, I found myself wanting to share a lot of my life that I usually guarded so privately.

My life was blessed, but it came with a price. Despite Denmark’s strict journalism privacy policies, the media could be brutal for someone with my last name. It occurred to me then that maybe that’s why I found Pixie so refreshing—she had no idea who I was. To her, I’m just another handsome stranger. The anonymity was invigorating.

“Thanks, Sven.” I called over my shoulder as I opened the car door. “I’ll call you when she’s ready to go home.”

Before Pixie could protest, I scooped her in my arms and lifted her out of the car. On easy strides I carried her across the cobblestones, stopping only to press my thumb to the scanner that opened my private entry.

“Do you always act like you own the place?” She was teasing.

I wasn’t. I didn’t reply.

“I wish I wouldn’t have had any champagne, I’m not used to the bubbles.” She commented, pressing herself a little tighter to me when I carried her into the small, old-fashioned cage elevator. “I blame the bubbles. You can let me down, I think I can lean.”

I huffed. “Almost there.”

I didn’t let her down and she squirmed. “I’m okay, really.”

“I am too. Almost there. Be patient, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.” My words were cocky, my meaning was clear.

I liked having little miss Pixie Wells in my arms.

“Are you always so welcoming to strangers?” She asked.