I blink at his muscled back. Of all the types of comments I didn’t expect to hear from Prince Manwhore…
I rub my lips together, trying to think of what to say. Coming to terms with the fact that I really don’t know this guy at all. That even the caricature of him could very well be wrong. And maybe it is wrong—he seems more serious than he’s portrayed in the media—but at the core of all the Prince Liam coverage is Prince Liam.
I lean my cheek in my palm. “I think they like you, too.”
I can tell by the way his shoulders stiffen that my words were wrong. What I meant is I like him. From the paparazzi pictures to the guy cooking for me. I like him. All of him. I don’t even know why. I don’t know him very well, but I find him magnetic.
He glances over his shoulder, face taut. “They don’t know me.”
“Well—they know you’re charming.”
He steps toward me. He takes my chin in his hand. “As are you, Lucy.”
My blood burns as his fingers shift a little on my face. His grip is firm but gentle.
When his lips brush my forehead, I don’t move or even breathe. Then he’s turned back toward the stove again, cooking in a broody silence while I look down at my nails and think of which ones need to be filed.
The next few minutes pass with no noise save the clinking of cooking utensils and the light whoosh of his clothing as he moves about. Then he’s filling two bowls with macaroni, pouring two glasses of wine and two glasses of water.
Finally he’s facing me again and I can’t read his flawlessly schooled features. He sets my stuff down in front of me, grabs two cloth napkins, and takes the bar stool beside me.
He spreads my napkin on my lap and watches me take the first bite while he has some of his wine.
Oh my God. The cheese is heaven. “Mmmm.” I shut my eyes and open them to find him smiling.
“There’ll be more of this tomorrow when the chefs return.” To my look of question, he replies, “You’ll stay tonight. And several more unless you don’t want to. I have a guest room just for you. Red walls.” He winks.
We talk about random things, like the Gaelic practice of “stalking” and hunting red deer; the water quality in the local streams (excellent); who makes the castle linens (a local company); and how many interlopers the castle grounds get (a few each week).
My mac and cheese is finished fast, and when I’m finished, I find my eyelids feel heavy.
“No wine, Lucy?”
I blink at it. “Oh. I kind of forgot about it. Sorry.”
He bumps my shoulder with his, then downs the glass. “No worries.” I watch in silent surprise as he takes our dishes to the sink and washes them. I’d have thought that he would leave them for the crew tomorrow.
As he turns to me, he arches his brows.
“I can use the sink too.” He smirks.
He helps me off my stool. I gather Grey into my arms, and Liam gets all my bags. I follow him upstairs, what feels like several centuries back. The hall is wide, with insanely high ceilings, candle-lit wall scones, and a pleasant lemony smell. The walls are made of stone, the floor a very old, dark wood. The doors are thick wood, wide and tall, imposing.
I follow him past woven-rug type wall hangings, past oil paintings and portraits, until at last the hallway ends. He taps a door on the hallway’s right—“I’m here”—and then the doorway right across.
“This one is yours.”
I have to struggle not to gasp as he pushes the door open.
The room is stunning, massive as a cave, with the same high ceilings the castle seems to boast in every area. The walls are deep crimson, the floor-to-ceiling curtains beige and patterned with poppies. One long wall bears two big, round window seats, the seats done in a gold fabric. At the center of the room is an enormous, round canopy bed; the wood is cherry-colored, smooth and fine. The bed spread is gold with hints of brown, and enough pillows for an army.
My eyes fly around the vast space, drinking in the gorgeous oriental rug—gold, brown, and white; the dais by a row of bookshelves that bears a claw-footed tub (“for soaking, not bathing,” Liam tells me as my eyes catch his); a tall, thin dresser in one corner (“jewelry”); and an oil painting that must be almost two stories high, covering one wall almost to the ceiling. It depicts a forest, with a large deer at the center, looking directly out of the painting.
“Just for soaking,” I laugh, waving at the tub. “Holy hell, whose room is this?”
He smiles tightly. “The queen’s.”
SIXTEEN Liam
Mistakes are worse when you see them as you make them.
I know I shouldn’t let her stay…but I can’t send her off. I lead her to the crimson room—my mother’s room—because I’m incapable of any other action. I was born in that room, on a night with a full moon, the quarters lit by only candles, so I’m told. As the stories go, it was an easy birth, so my parents had no reservations about adding to the family later with my little sister.
I show Lucy the spacious bathroom and the refrigerator inside one of the bookshelves. I even pull the covers down for her, sporting a smile I hope she’ll find charming.
Then I’m gone. Not to my room—I know I can’t sleep—but to the rooftop gardens and the labyrinth.
The moon is full tonight. Its pearly light shines against my skin. My breath makes small, pale clouds in the black night.
You’re an imposter, my conscience screams. You’re lying to her.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. She’ll be here and gone, another fuck, because that’s all I can allow right now. Until everything plays out, I can’t get close to someone new. It wouldn’t be right.
You shouldn’t let her stay at all, a small voice whispers.
I think about her hair. The way it felt. The way it smelled that night. I think about her silk-smooth skin. Her mouth. How fucking good I know already it will feel to just get lost in her, in Lucille Rhodes.
She’ll never know. She’ll never know how much I’m holding back. I won’t put her in danger.
Just a few days.
I crouch down beside the tall, stone wall and pull my flask out of my pocket.
*
Lucy
I’m tired, but I can’t sleep.
I know I have to tell him…soon. I can’t just stay here, in this gorgeous suite, right across the hall from sexy-as-hell Prince Liam, pretending we’re just friends or—worse—fuck buddies.
For the first few hours after the door shuts, I occupy myself with showering, texting Amelia and my family, and finally reading TMZ. I’m so mentally exhausted, I can’t bring myself to summon much feeling over the Lucy Rhodes stories, except some vague gratitude the mothereffers at TMZ pulled the images down.
I sit in one of the window seats, Grey perched beside me in a tiny, sleeping ball, and braid strands of my own hair as the moon climbs in the sky. The cool breeze ripples through the giant fir tree outside my window. In the distance, I see a tiny sheen of sparkle: ocean water.