His Princess (A Man Who Knows What He Wants)

I have to be honest with him.

“I’m just self-conscious about eating in front of you, I guess.”

I add I guess but there’s no guesswork required.

“Why?” he asks genuinely confused.

“Because…” I wave a hand down at my body. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly a swimsuit model—”

“No,” he snaps.

“No?” I laugh lightly. “You’re saying I am a swimsuit model?”

“I’m saying no to you belittling yourself, putting yourself down. I don’t want you to be a swimsuit model. I want you to be you. I love how curvy you are. I love how gorgeously voluptuous your body is. And I know you’re a person, just like me, a person who hasn’t eaten in several hours. You’re not some ideal of what I wish a woman was. You’re you, and I’d have it no other way. So what if you wolf down the pizza? So what if you want a snack after that? I don’t care because you’re you, princess. I want your curves. I want you.”

His words move through me like a salve, soothing the anxiety-riddled parts of me I’ve always felt.

“You mean it?”

“Yes,” he growls. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. I’m never going to lie to you. Now be a good girl and eat your pizza. Here. I’ll show you how.”

He picks up another slice and destroys half of it with one bite, smirking at me as he chews… with his mouth closed, proving he’s not a complete barbarian.

I follow suit, taking a smaller bite this time.

“Is this what you had in mind for our first date?” he asks and then takes a sip of soda.

I look around the room, at the rose petals, at the art and the chandelier, and the light flickering against the closed curtains.

“For an FBI safe house, this is actually beautiful. But to be honest I never really let myself imagine what it would be like to go on a date. And I haven’t exactly had time today to speculate.”

He nods with a gruff laugh. “Yeah, it’s been one hell of a hectic day, hasn’t it?”

“I like it though,” I say passionately. “I don’t think I could go to a restaurant and try to act all fancy. I’ve never been like that. I used to hate when Uncle Aaron would make me go to his events.”

“Did your dad ever make you go?”

I shake my head. “Dad didn’t really hold mob events.”

Rider nods. “Yeah, that’s right. I remember now. He flatly refused. He was always working on making this city a better place in his own way.”

A cord plucks at my heart as if there really are strings in there as the saying goes. I’ve heard that phrase so many times.

Heartstrings.

But I’ve never felt them before.

“Did you know him well?”

“Not particularly. But we spoke a few times, and I heard about his business dealings from others. He was working damn hard to improve this city, funding charities, stuff like that. Your uncle did this city a great disservice when they killed him.”

My mind blazes with a thousand memories, a thousand sun-flecked vignettes of Dad smiling at me over his end-of-the-day beer, of Dad standing at my bedroom door with his hand on the doorframe, his face lighting up when I’d tell him about my latest story.

“I’m sorry,” Rider says. “I didn’t mean to dredge it all up.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good to remember him. Do you ever…”

I take a bite to stop myself from finishing the sentence.

Just like he doesn’t want to dredge it all up about my dad, I don’t want to do the same for his parents.

“Do I ever think about my mom and dad?” he asks, reading me.

I nod.

“Sometimes,” he goes on. “But it’s like I said before, something closed off in me when they died. I became wholly focused on my mission. But yeah, every now and then…”

“What do you think about?” I ask, hungry to learn more about him, this man I know I’m going to be with forever.

“My old man’s the one who got me into boxing,” Rider says, a light smirk touching his lips. “He used to box. I was a gym rat when I was a kid, following him around, the mascot of the place. Then I started to hit pads, hit the bag a little… and finally, in my teens, I shot up and started to pack on muscle. That’s when the coaches really started to encourage me.”

His eyes gaze off, as though he’s staring directly into the past.

“Do you miss it?” I ask. “It sounds like you do.”

He sighs, nodding. “A little, yeah.”

“Do you ever think about what it could’ve been like, your career if your parents hadn’t passed? Sorry. I know I’m asking loads of questions.”

“Princess,” he says firmly.

He reaches across the table and cradles my cheek for a second. I freaking love when he does that. It feels so intimate, so reassuring, as though he’s telling me through touch alone I don’t have to obsess so much all the time.