Now that he’s popped into my head, I can’t help thinking about Garrett as I carry everything into the cottage. Or, more accurately, fantasizing about him and his big, strong hands, broad shoulders, and too-sexy-for-my-own-good smile. Not to mention the wicked, and self-deprecating, sense of humor he kept giving me glimpses of when I least expected it.
The man is hot with a capital H, no doubt about it. I’ve seen his picture before—of course I have—but in photos he always looks a little too plastic, a little too perfect. Completely untouchable. In real life, with his too-long dark hair and too-serious blue eyes, he’s a lot more real. And a hell of a lot more sexy.
So sexy, in fact, that I can’t help thinking about what would have happened if I’d said yes to his invitation this morning. For a minute there, I really wanted to. Just to have a little fun. Just to see what might happen.
But those kinds of impulses—at least when it comes to men—have gotten me in trouble before, even if I was little more than a kid at the time. They’re sure as hell what got my mother in trouble over and over again. And there’s no way I’m making her mistakes, no way I’m letting my life get derailed the way hers was. Not even for a hot-as-hell prince.
Especially not for a hot-as-hell prince.
I have more than enough issues with relationships already. Why the hell should I go looking for more?
It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to carry in all my loot. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating and gross and all I really want is to take a long, cool shower, where I can think about anything but Garrett and the surprising—and very hot—attraction I felt for him.
So I do, stripping off my clothes and diving into the luxurious shower stall that the cottage owners had put in a few months ago when they remodeled—or so they told me when they were showing me around the place when I got here a couple of days ago.
Ecological guilt is a real thing as I turn on the second showerhead and let it rain down on me along with the first. But life’s all about the little pleasures, so I shut off the guilt and concentrate on the glory. And if I end up rushing the shower to make up for the extra showerhead, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
After slipping into my pj’s and drying my hair, I make my way back out to the cozy family room that is currently piled high with wardrobe bags. Now that I finally feel human again, it’s time to dive in. My stomach’s growling—I’ve barely eaten all day—but right now I’m more interested in getting my hands on the piles of rich, gorgeous fabric that are waiting for me in those bags than I am in taking time to put something in my stomach.
Besides, I’ve got to get all these clothes sorted and cataloged in the next thirty-six hours—along with the ones I picked up at yesterday’s estate sale two villages over. It’s a lot of work, but I’ve got two models booked for the day after tomorrow and I’m not going to waste their time or my money by not being ready for them.
I need to get this stuff up on my site so I can sell it and move on. Getting out of this town, and away from Gorgeous Garrett and all the temptation he poses, is pretty much my first order of business.
Yes, hunger can wait until I have at least an idea of what I’m dealing with here. That way, while I’m eating I can make a plan about everything that needs to be done and how long it will take. I mean, I already have a basic idea because I’m the one who packed everything up at the estate sale, but that was just me shoving things into bags in the most expedient manner possible. This is me getting a look at the stuff, grouping it, then pricing it to move on my website, vavoomvintage.com.
I open the first bag and pull out the grouping of vintage Chanel couture that made me hunt down this estate sale to begin with. A closer inspection reveals that two out of the three pieces are in pristine shape and the third is in very good shape, with only a few loose threads on the back and a tiny spot on the peplum part of the blouse. After marking the spot with a sticker—for further inspection and treatment—I pull up a spreadsheet on my computer and start to log in the pieces. Condition, origin, my best guess at pricing.
An hour and a half later, I’m deep into the second wardrobe bag when a knock sounds at the door. I’m not expecting anyone—I don’t know anyone in this village to expect. I got here four days ago, and save my landlord, who gave me the longest tour imaginable when I rented the place, no one knows where to find me. And I haven’t met anyone who’d be looking, anyway.
The knock comes again and I think about answering it, but I’ve got stuff to do and no time for wild goose chases—my own or anyone else’s. Especially not when I just found a Gaultier skirt that was overlooked in the estate sale’s inventory. The label is missing, so they probably didn’t know what they had—but I’m a huge fan and recognize it from his Spring 2016 collection.
I’m about to try it on—right over my pj shorts because I’m too excited to wait—when a third, louder knock all but shakes the door. Screw this. Dropping the skirt onto the closest pile, I march to the door and fling it open, prepared to tell off whoever is on the other side.
Except I’m stunned pretty close to speechless when I realize that the person on the other side of my threshold is none other than His Royal Highness, Prince Garrett of Wildemar.
Or should I say His Royal Hotness?
No, I think as I look him up and down. Right now he is every inch His Royal Highness. I’d bemoan the loss, except this look might be even better than the one he was sporting at the lake the other day.
Gone are the board shorts and shaggy hair and in their place is a bespoke-suit-wearing, slicked-back-hair-sporting prince. With his intense blue eyes and his cut-glass jaw shaved clean, he pretty much embodies the press’s moniker for him. Gorgeous Garrett is definitely in the house. Or, more precisely, on my porch.
Still, I’m not the type to swoon, no matter what my suddenly trembling knees have to say about it. So instead of inviting him in and jumping him in the middle of my very small (and currently cramped) living room, I lean against the doorframe and—with a cocked brow—ask, “What are you doing here?”
His eyebrows go up in response. “You said no to lunch, so I thought I’d give dinner a try.”
“You could have called.”
“I could have. But since it didn’t work out so well the first time, I figured a more hands-on approach was necessary.” His tone, while smooth and well-modulated, still somehow manages to call me on the fact that I didn’t give him a chance.
Which has my spine straightening as I don’t like being reprimanded by anyone, let alone some guy I met once—even if he is a prince. “And you decided stalking me to my Airbnb was the approach you wanted to take? Did it occur to you that perhaps I’m just not interested?”
“It did.” He grins. “But then I figured just the idea was absurd.”
“Wow. Ego much?”
“It’s not ego if it’s true.”
“Is this your normal spiel?” I ask, half amused and half offended. “Because I’ve got to tell you, it’s astonishing to think you can actually get a woman with it.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he agrees, still grinning. “It’s completely astonishing, isn’t it? To be honest, I was a little nervous about showing up here out of the blue, so I was trying to channel my brother Kian’s vibe—which attracts women by the hordes, by the way—but I just can’t seem to carry it off. It’s totally douchey, right?”
“Totally.” I want to be annoyed, but the truth is I’m totally charmed by his honesty. “What did you have to be nervous about, anyway?”
“You mean besides the fact that I called in Wildemar’s Director of National Intelligence to help me find a woman I met once? A woman who, incidentally, fled from me the second she had the chance and then hung up when I called and asked her for a date?”
“I didn’t exactly flee. More like…”
“Ran away quickly?”
I laugh. I
can’t help it. This guy is way smoother than he gives himself credit for. “Maybe. And I didn’t hang up on you. I told you I had a business call and a full day ahead of me.”
For the first time, he glances past me and into my living room. I can tell the moment he catches sight of the clothing explosion because his eyes widen comically. “I can see you were telling the truth. Shopping spree?”
“Business excursion.”
He arches a brow. “You dumped me for a job that required copious amounts of shopping?”
“I think dump is a little harsh, but yes.”
“Haven’t you heard? All work and no play makes Lola a dull girl…or so they say.”
“Isn’t it handy that I’m okay being dull, then? And from what I’ve heard, so is Gorgeous Garrett…”
“My reputation precedes me,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “But never fear—I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Hence the mid-morning sunbathing.”
“Exactly.”
“I gotta admit, that felt more like a whole branch than just a leaf.”
“Did it?” He shrugs, supremely unconcerned. That is as long as I don’t look too closely at his eyes. “Well, they say relaxation is good for the soul.”
“Do they now?”
He nods solemnly. “They absolutely do.”
“Who exactly is this mysterious ‘they’ you speak of?” I can’t help yanking his chain a little more. Some women get turned on by the dark-and-dangerous types, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the gorgeous-and-goofy ones. It’s a soft spot Garrett is exploiting to his advantage right now and I find myself relaxing despite myself. “And why should I care what they have to say anyway?”
For several long seconds, he pretends to ponder the question. Then smiles as he answers, “Now that you mention it, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Kind of stupid to quote them then, isn’t it?”
“It really is.”
We stand there smiling into each other’s eyes for several long seconds, and there’s a weird kind of buzz in the air—like neither of us can believe that we’re standing here having this ridiculous conversation. And enjoying it so much.
Eventually, though, something has to give. We can’t stand on the porch all night, after all. “Would you like to come in?” I ask, stepping back and holding the front door a little wider in invitation.
Before he can answer, there’s a small cough from the sidewalk at the bottom of my steps.
Garrett flushes a little, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the most endearing thing I’d seen in quite a while.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“You can’t?” I glance from him to the two bodyguards waiting on the sidewalk behind him—the same bodyguards who hassled me at the lake the other day. “Do you need a chaperone?”
“I need to let my security detail search your house. But since that’s just rude, especially on the first date, I was hoping to convince you—”
“Is that what this is? A first date?”
He sighs, a little exasperated. “It will be, if you let me ask you out. And if you say yes.”
This is the worst possible time for a date—first or otherwise. I have a million things to do before tomorrow. And I just told myself that I wasn’t going to spend any more time thinking about Gorgeous Garrett. But that was before he literally showed up on my doorstep and charmed my socks off with his ridiculousness. I’m not looking for a relationship by any stretch of the imagination, but one night out with a guy who is as amusing as he is gorgeous? It’s hard to say anything but “Hell, yes.”
“Hell, yes?” His eyebrows shoot up again. “Hell, yes, I can ask you? Or hell yes, you’ll go out with me? I just want to clarify—”
Figuring we’ll be here all day if I don’t take matters into my own hands, I push onto my tiptoes and plant a kiss right on his open mouth. It shuts him up, as intended, and I pull away, planning to give him a hard time.
But I’m not the only one with initiative, because the next thing I know, his arms are around me and I’m seeing fireworks—of the New-Year’s-Eve-and-Fourth-of-July-all-rolled-into-one variety.
His mouth is just soft enough to have me melting, just hard enough to have me pushing back onto my tiptoes and sinking into the long, lean strength of him. And his hands on my back—strong, sure, secure—feel so, so good.
My head is spinning by the time he pulls away—definitely not my typical modus operandi when it comes to kisses from men, no matter how hot they are. He looks a little dazed himself, his eyes just a bit blurry with the heat generated between us.
“So,” he says after several long seconds. “Dinner.”
“Yes, dinner. Absolutely.” I hate how frazzled I sound. I’m the one who does the frazzling, not the one who gets frazzled. But the longer Gorgeous Garrett stands there staring at me, the more nervous I get.
To solve the problem, I take a big step back. Then another and another, until I can no longer feel his body heat or hear the ragged sound of his breathing.
“I’ll just…go get ready,” I tell him, forcing a breezy smile I’m far from feeling. “Have a seat—if you can find one.”
He glances back at his bodyguards and I realize they probably won’t be too keen on having him walk into a building they haven’t checked out. I should invite them in too, but the idea of four men in my place—three of whom will be snooping around it—doesn’t exactly sit right with me. So I add, “Or you can hang out on the porch. The swing’s pretty comfortable and I promise not to take too long.”
He nods, his eyes going laser sharp again as he registers all the things I’m not saying. “You’re worth the wait.”
It doesn’t sound like a line, not with all the quiet sincerity he’s got going on. That—and his steady, knowing gaze—freaks me out even more than the fireworks did. For a second I think about calling the whole thing off.
But I don’t.
Instead, I hurry back to my bedroom and throw on the first decent thing I come to—a pair of black silk Versace pants and a matching shell. Garrett is in a suit, so I add a Gaultier jacket, partly to dress up the outfit and partly for the intrinsic edge it brings. A quick glance in the mirror shows I look more like the badass stepsister than I do Cinderella—thank God—so I finish the look with winged eyeliner and a sweep of angsty red across my lips. The clock says I’m at five minutes and counting, not bad if I do say so myself, so I take an extra two to try and tame my ridiculous hair into some kind of submission.
The curls aren’t having it, though, so in the end I settle for running a little bit of styling cream through them and letting them spring free—hoping against hope that, for a change of pace, the wind won’t kick up tonight while we’re out. And if it does…well, it’s not like this whole date is any more than wish fulfillment for the seven-year-old Disney princess inside of me.
I’m back on the porch in under ten minutes, locking the door and grinning at Gorgeous Garrett. “Ready?” I ask.
“I am.” He never sat down, so he just holds his arm out to me, elbow bent like in those old-time movies. Which definitely doesn’t make me swoon—not even a little. “Shall we go?”
“We shall.” I take his arm and let him escort me down the path from my front door to my driveway, where two black SUVs are parked. His bodyguards follow silently behind us.
“I’ve got to tell you,” I say as he opens the door to one of them and helps me into the passenger seat. “I haven’t had a chaperone since my Senior Prom.”
“Really?” One imperious and princely brow goes up. “And how did that work out for you?”
I think back to making out with Victor in the posh ladies’ room of the hotel where Prom was held—and the two orgasms he gave me before the dance was even over. They were my first, and while they weren’t my best, they—and Victor—still h
old a soft spot in my heart. Especially since our breakup was more about college and lack of proximity than either of us screwing the other over—something that can’t be said of my subsequent relationships.
“Pretty well, actually.”
“Oh, yeah?” My thoughts must be written on my face because his eyes suddenly spark with interest. But his words are still as gentlemanly as the rest of him. “Well then, you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”
“Oh, I’m not nervous.”
“No?” There’s that eyebrow again. “Well, that makes one of us.”
And just that easily he’s got my attention.
Chapter 8
“You’re not having a good time.”
I startle at Garrett’s words, looking up for the first time in at least five minutes from the very posh dessert menu at the very posh restaurant he has taken me to. What can I say? Looking for hemlock on a dessert menu takes a while, even at a place that has cornered the market on weird and exotic ingredients.
Usually I’m pretty adventurous about what I’m willing to eat, but this restaurant gives even my open-mindedness a run for its money. I mean, broccoli and peanut butter ice cream? Chocolate onion rutabaga tart? There’s trendy and then there’s T-R-E-N-D-Y, and this place is very definitely the latter…
As our eyes meet, tension hums in the air between us. There are innumerable lies I can tell in this situation and they all begin with “Of course I am.” But I’m not much of a liar at the best of times and this dinner—or whatever it is—definitely doesn’t qualify as that. So I decide to hell with pretending. It’s never really been my thing anyway.
“I’m not. But I think that’s more about me than it is about you.”
“You think?” he echoes, voice skeptical and eyebrow raised.