Don’t talk too loud, don’t get too animated, don’t bring up anything personal. Going on a public date with Gorgeous Garrett is about as much fun as getting a root canal—in one of those bizarre dentist offices where they leave the blinds open so anyone walking by can see you tipped back with your mouth wide freaking open. So not worth the all-nighter I’m going to have to pull to get my inventory ready for tomorrow morning’s photo shoot—especially since he’s been so busy being the prince that the goofy guy that made me go against my better judgment has completely disappeared.
“I’m not certain my sense of duty extends so far that it encompasses brussels sprout panna cotta,” he responds as he reaches for his wallet. “Public service or not.”
My sense of duty doesn’t extend to brussels sprout anything, but I don’t bother to tell him that. I’m pretty sure he already knows.
As we make our way outside a couple of minutes later—Garrett’s bodyguards leading the way and bringing up the rear, even with their arms full of dessert—Garrett guides me with a hand to the small of my back. And though I’m looking for a graceful way to exit this date as fast as possible, I’d be lying if I said his touch—light but firm, warm but not too hot—doesn’t give me shivers. Because it does, even after that ridiculous excuse for a dinner.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks as we approach the black SUV idling at the curb.
I start to say yes—this date has been distinctly un-fun and I have a shit-ton of work to do tonight—but something about the look in his eyes has my throat closing up all over again. Apparently, one date with Gorgeous Garrett has turned me into a royal pushover.
“Actually, why don’t we walk a little?” I tell him. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Walk?” He looks surprised, like he’s never heard of the concept.
“You know, that activity where you put one foot in front of the other and it propels you in a forward direction?” I snark.
“I am familiar with the concept. Although you’ll have to give me some pointers, as I’m used to being carried everywhere on a palanquin—”
“A what?”
He gives me a superior look that should be obnoxious but is just hot instead. “You shouldn’t snark if you can’t keep up. First rule of being a smart-ass.”
“Oh, I can keep up.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And what do you know about snark anyway? Aren’t you Prince Perfect?”
“You’ve obviously never met my brother if you have to ask what I know about snark. And I prefer Prince Charming. So much less braggadocious than Prince Perfect.”
“Of course you do.” I insert my tongue firmly in my cheek. “Your humility really is your best quality.”
“You only say that because you haven’t yet seen my best quality.”
“Seriously? What is it about men that makes them physically incapable of passing up a chance to publicly proclaim how awesome their dicks are?”
The bodyguard behind me makes a sound like he swallowed a bug, and for a moment I wonder if I’m going to be shipped off to the tower for my insolence.
But Garrett just grins wickedly. “I never mentioned my dick, but glad to know that’s what you’re thinking about. Means I’m definitely making progress.”
As he leans in, I slap a hand on his chest and push firmly to keep him just where he is—partly because I’m not done verbally sparring with him yet and partly because I’m afraid that if his lips touch mine I’m going to be completely and utterly lost. Which is absurd considering the last thing I have the emotional capacity to do right now is to fall for some guy, even if he is a prince. Especially if he’s a prince.
“Slow your roll there, dude. I—”
“Slow my roll?” He looks bewildered, his French accent a little heavier than normal.
I give an exaggerated sigh. “So much to teach you, so little time.”
“I guess we’d better get started, then.” He steps back and holds his elbow out to me, like some old-time gentleman. I think about taking it for about three seconds, but I’m no damsel—in distress or otherwise—and I figure now’s as good a time as any to make sure he knows it.
“Last one to the light pole at the end of the street wins!” I shout over my shoulder as I take off running toward the corner about two hundred yards away.
At first Garrett doesn’t respond, but I’m not stupid enough to waste time looking back when any second now he’ll spring into action.
Sure enough, only a few moments pass before I hear the slap-slap-slap of his dress shoes on the pavement behind me. A few more moments and he’s pulled up beside me, and a couple more after that has him leaving me in the dust. Stupid royals and their stupid exercise programs.
When I finally make it to the light pole, he’s lounging against it, arms folded over his muscular chest and a ridiculously proud grin on his face. “So, what do I win?” he asks when I lean against the nearest building.
“Nobody likes a braggart, you know,” I tell him when I finally catch my breath.
“Nobody likes a sore loser, either.” He reaches for my hair and pinches one of my curls between his thumb and index finger. He pulls it out to its maximum length, then watches with a grin as he lets go and it springs back, slapping me in the face. “I love your hair.”