Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
How can this be happening? It was one kiss. One. Kiss. And a little illegal entry onto public lands, but come on. Garrett’s brother, Kian, was constantly in the magazines with one woman or another. A few shots here, an interview there, and nobody paid much more attention than that to the women in his revolving door. So why is it such a big deal that Garrett kissed a woman? He is more than a prince, after all. He’s a man. A straight man, and straight men tend to kiss women. That’s how it works.
Sure, up until recently he’s had a fiancée, but he’s been around the block a few times these last couple of months. I’ve seen those pics too. So why this sudden frenzy? Why me? And yes, I understand the irony of being excited about the increased traffic to the site even as I bemoan the people giving me the extra publicity that drives that traffic, but come on. I was happy with my business the way it was, and I’d go back to it in a heartbeat if it meant that I could walk out my front door right now like a normal person.
With a moan, I let the curtain fall back where it belongs. Then I head into the kitchen for a much-needed cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant. Because if any morning ever deserved chocolate, this one is absolutely it.
I’m just getting my croissant out of the microwave when a knock sounds at my front door. It’s so unexpected that I end up nearly dropping the stupid thing in my haste to turn around and stare at the door. Which is ridiculous, I know, considering I can’t see through the wood. But I can’t help feeling a little like the first victim in a horror movie when the killer comes knocking on the door.
I ignore the summons—no way am I stupid enough to open that door—but then it comes again. And again. And again. I get a little more pissed off with every rap of knuckles against wood, because these reporters freaking know better. It’s why they’re camped at the bottom of the driveway instead of on the front lawn. They aren’t allowed on private property and they are well aware of it. So why the hell is one of them knocking on my damn door at eight o’clock in the freaking morning?
Furious at the audacity and frustrated at my absolute inability to do anything about it, I march toward the living room. I’m not opening the door, but I can yell through the thing for them to go away.
But before I can even make it to the small entryway, I recognize Garrett’s voice calling through the door, “It’s Garrett, Lola. Open up, will you?”
Hallelujah, the cavalry has arrived!
I start to throw open the door, then remember I’m dressed in nothing more than a skimpy camisole and short pajama bottoms. The last thing we need is some jerk with a long-range lens getting a shot of me letting Garrett into the house when I’m nearly naked.
“Give me a sec to put some more clothes on,” I call back, then race to my bedroom to throw something on. There’s a little bit of déjà vu, considering this is how this whole debacle started last night, but I ignore it as I pull on a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie. It’s hot as hell in this weather, but I’d rather turn on the air-conditioning than worry about showing too much skin on the cover of the National Enquirer.
Once I’m dressed, I race back to the front door, where Garrett has started knocking again. “Come on, Lola. The last thing we want to do is give these guys a ton of pics of me standing on your front porch.”
I throw open the door, doing my best to hide behind it as I do. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“You would have if you’d turn on your damn phone occasionally,” he growls.
My back goes up at his tone, and at the implication that I’m somehow at fault for this mess. “Sorry, but after the two hundredth call from a reporter, I decided it was better to just turn the thing off. Believe me, this whole disaster is no picnic for me either. Unlike some people, I have actual work to do today.”
His eyes narrow at my implication. “I came to help get you out of this mess. But if you’d rather wait around for someone else, let me know and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Our eyes are locked by this point and I know I’ve got two options here. I can either say something that will keep this thing escalating between us or I can defuse the tension. And since I’ve got more than enough to handle right now with the paparazzi on my driveway and the increased traffic to my site, I figure picking a fight with the Crown Prince who isn’t really the Crown Prince anymore isn’t my smartest move. Especially since he claims he’s here to help and he’s got way more experience with this game than I ever will. More resources, too.
After a couple of seconds holding his gaze, I run a hand through my hair and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. This whole situation just has me on edge. Can I get you a cup of coffee and a croissant?”
He relaxes the second I do, his whole demeanor softening as he comes toward me. “I’m sorry too. I never should have taken you out last night. But I’ve been here three days and nothing major happened when I went into local businesses, so I thought it’d be okay. But that was before…”
“Before I convinced you to break into a park?”
He laughs at that and it’s as soothing as his voice is. As soothing as the hand he rests on the center of my back. I feel myself relaxing at the closeness of him, at the sound and feel and smell of him—all orange and bergamot and rich, dark cinnamon. Instinctively, I sink back into him, my whole body relaxing, unclenching, before I make the conscious effort to do so.
Normally, I’d be screaming at myself. I’m not the kind of woman to just step back and let some guy take over my life—even if he says he’s here to save me from it all. Believe me, I’ve been there, seen that, and it never ends pretty.
But this is different, I tell myself, as I absorb the heat of his palm through the thin material of my hoodie. I’m not sure how yet, but it is. Or at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
My computer dings, signaling a DM from one of my staff, and—reluctantly—I pull away from the warmth of Garrett’s touch. “Just let me get this,” I tell him as I scroll through to the new message. “My business has been going nuts since the pics of us broke and I’m trying to keep my site from crashing under the increased traffic.”
“I’m sorry about that.” His hand is back, this time on my shoulder. The nonverbal support shouldn’t mean anything—I’m just doing my job—but somehow it does. Which, if I let myself think about it, makes Garrett, and this situation, even more complicated than I want to admit.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him, going for flippant. “Increased traffic means increased sales.” I skim the information about increased server space and fire back an answer. I also need to draft something about this for PR to circulate, but since I want Garrett’s take on that, I close the computer so I can actually focus on the discussion at hand.
“So, how do you like your coffee?” I ask, when I can finally bring myself to pull away from his touch. It’s way harder than it should be. Nearly as hard as it was to step out of his embrace and kick him off my porch last night.
There’s just something about Garrett that turns me on, something about him that makes me throw my normal defenses out the window the second he touches me. I don’t like it, but there it is. And considering he’s a more decent guy than most…
It is what it is, I decide, as I move to pour a second mug of coffee. I look at him questioningly, since he hasn’t moved an inch since I pulled away from him. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling this strange sense of connection and familiarity between us.