Royal Treatment (His Royal Hotness 2)

I’m back on the porch in under ten minutes, locking the door and grinning at Gorgeous Garrett. “Ready?” I ask.

“I am.” He never sat down, so he just holds his arm out to me, elbow bent like in those old-time movies. Which definitely doesn’t make me swoon—not even a little. “Shall we go?”

“We shall.” I take his arm and let him escort me down the path from my front door to my driveway, where two black SUVs are parked. His bodyguards follow silently behind us.

“I’ve got to tell you,” I say as he opens the door to one of them and helps me into the passenger seat. “I haven’t had a chaperone since my Senior Prom.”

“Really?” One imperious and princely brow goes up. “And how did that work out for you?”

I think back to making out with Victor in the posh ladies’ room of the hotel where Prom was held—and the two orgasms he gave me before the dance was even over. They were my first, and while they weren’t my best, they—and Victor—still h

old a soft spot in my heart. Especially since our breakup was more about college and lack of proximity than either of us screwing the other over—something that can’t be said of my subsequent relationships.

“Pretty well, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” My thoughts must be written on my face because his eyes suddenly spark with interest. But his words are still as gentlemanly as the rest of him. “Well then, you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

“Oh, I’m not nervous.”

“No?” There’s that eyebrow again. “Well, that makes one of us.”

And just that easily he’s got my attention.

Chapter 8

“You’re not having a good time.”

I startle at Garrett’s words, looking up for the first time in at least five minutes from the very posh dessert menu at the very posh restaurant he has taken me to. What can I say? Looking for hemlock on a dessert menu takes a while, even at a place that has cornered the market on weird and exotic ingredients.

Usually I’m pretty adventurous about what I’m willing to eat, but this restaurant gives even my open-mindedness a run for its money. I mean, broccoli and peanut butter ice cream? Chocolate onion rutabaga tart? There’s trendy and then there’s T-R-E-N-D-Y, and this place is very definitely the latter…

As our eyes meet, tension hums in the air between us. There are innumerable lies I can tell in this situation and they all begin with “Of course I am.” But I’m not much of a liar at the best of times and this dinner—or whatever it is—definitely doesn’t qualify as that. So I decide to hell with pretending. It’s never really been my thing anyway.

“I’m not. But I think that’s more about me than it is about you.”

“You think?” he echoes, voice skeptical and eyebrow raised.

“Okay, I lied. It’s all you and this ridiculous restaurant.”

That startles a laugh out of him even as he raises a hand to call for the check. A fawning waiter is at his side within moments.

“Has Your Royal Highness decided on a dessert?” the little man simpers.

“Actually, we’re going to forgo dessert this evening, Pierre.”

I’m impressed, but not surprised, that he remembers the man’s name. I’ve reached the conclusion that Garrett notices, and remembers, everything.

“Yes, of course, sir.” Pierre’s words are perfectly polite—perfectly appropriate—but his tone suggests that Garrett has just murdered his grandmother. Or worse, ordered Pierre to go home and commit the murder himself. “I’ll just…” His voice breaks and I’m pretty sure the poor guy is fighting back tears as he clears his throat once, then again and again. “I’ll have your bill ready momentarily.”

My own throat closes up a little as he backs away, his lower lip trembling just a bit. Who knew a monarch’s refusal of dessert could cause such utter and complete devastation? For the good of the country, I obviously need to suck it up a little here.

“Actually,” I call after poor, sad Pierre, “can we have one of everything to go?”

Garrett’s eyes widen in alarm. One of everything? he mouths, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Considering who he is, I’m pretty sure it’s not the exorbitant prices that have him looking so horrified. Which means he must be as traumatized at the thought of broccoli and peanut butter ice cream as I am.

“Look at it as your public service for the day,” I whisper, making sure to keep my voice down since there are people around me and the last thing we need is for our conversation to end up in Wildemar’s tabloids.

Then again, that’s been the problem with this whole night. Between the bodyguards, the fawning waitstaff, and the other restaurant-goers—all of whom seem shocked and awed to find their prince among them—the night has been one long whisper fest.