The minute the door closes behind him, and Samuel, I’m in the living room. “Let me come with you to Paris.”
She turns to me wide-eyed. “You want to come to Paris?”
“I want to be with you. You need to be in Paris. Therefore, I’ll go to Paris too. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“But what will you do there?”
“Does it really matter? The only other thing I have scheduled for this week is a party in Ibiza, and I’d much rather be in Paris with you than on some movie star’s yacht.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Which movie star?”
“Let me come to Paris with you and maybe I’ll tell you.”
She studies me for long seconds. “Is this for the story?”
&nbs
p; I have a policy of being honest in all my relationships, but I’m not quite masochistic enough to answer that question with the whole truth—at least not until I have some inkling of what Lola is thinking and feeling. So I do the only thing I can. I hedge. “It’s partly about the story. But it’s also about me wanting to spend more time with you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t you mean more time in bed with me?”
I can hear the capitulation in her voice and relief sweeps through me. “Not going to lie. That’s a nice side benefit.” I reach for her, relishing the feel of her soft, curvy body as I pull her against me.
She grins up at me, a wicked light in her eyes. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Does that mean you’ll let me come to Paris with you?”
“It means I would love for you to come to Paris with me. If we’re lucky, maybe we can even get you a seat on my flight.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, you really do have a lot to learn about dating a prince.”
Chapter 21
Lola
Holy shit. Holyshit. HOLY. SHIT.
I’m trying to play it cool for the cameras, trying to pretend this is no big deal. That I do it every day.
But, honestly, it’s a huge freaking deal. Gigantic. Colossal. Because I’m about to fly to Paris on Wildemar’s equivalent of Air Force One. What the hell has even happened to my life? And how the hell am I supposed to come back from it?
“You doing okay?” Garrett asks, his arm around my waist as we walk through the terminal surrounded by an army of Wildemar’s palace security personnel. Photographers are trailing behind us, snapping pictures and calling out questions from a safe distance, and with every step we take, more people are turning to stare at us. Lifting their phones to take photos or videos. Calling out from the crowd, asking Garrett for a selfie or an autograph.
He waves back often and occasionally calls out an encouraging word or two to his subjects. It’s a whole different world, one I have no idea if I can find a way to fit into. Or even if I want to.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, and it’s not technically a lie. My heart has stopped racing and I can almost feel my toes and fingers again. That has to be a good sign, right?
“I’m really sorry about this. Normally the limo pulls straight onto the tarmac and we get on the plane from there, but Joss thought this little pap walk would do wonders for Garla.”
“Garla?” I ask, baffled.
He grimaces, but there’s an amused light in his eyes when he says, “Apparently, it’s our ship name.”
“Our ship name?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You know, when fans smash our names together to make one. We’re Garla.”
“Garla?” I repeat, vaguely horrified at the sound of it.