Page 21 of That Prince is Mine
Yes. Please. If you’re free.
Michel:
For dinner.
Michel:
Tonight.
He needed to stop typing.
Emma:
Okay. Does seven work?
Michel:
Yes.
And just so she understood how well seven worked, he sent another text.
Michel:
Please.
Before he could type thank you, a new message arrived from her.
Emma:
Where?
“Shit,” he spat. Where? He had no idea. He rushed out the front door and crossed the tastefully decorated elevator bank to the only other suite on his floor. He pounded on the door with his fist. “Sophie!”
Before he could register the door opening, Sophie hauled him behind her with narrowed eyes and scanned the empty foyer with her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring into action. Regret and frustration rushed through him at the alarm he’d caused his friend.
“It’s safe, Sophie,” he said softly. “I’m not in danger.”
It took a moment for her grip on his wrist to loosen, and she slowly turned to face him. “What. The. Fuck.”
“I just needed to talk to you.” Michel raked his fingers through his hair. “No one can even come up this elevator without your permission.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed, but her expression remained stony. “Fine. Talk.”
“Her name is Emma Yoon,” he said, swiftly changing tactics. He couldn’t ask Sophie for restaurant recommendations, much less drag her out to a restaurant after scaring her like that. Since he refused to sneak out like a rebellious teenager, there was only one option. “You probably want to run a background check on her before I invite her over for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?” Sophie unknowingly mimicked Emma’s question.
“Yes.” It was too late to second-guess himself. It hadn’t even occurred to him to postpone his date with Emma. Probably because he absolutely did not want to do that. As his cousin so helpfully reminded him, the clock was ticking. “I was thinking around seven, so that should give you a good three hours to figure out if she’ll kidnap me for ransom or not.”
“You’re inviting her to your hotel room? On your first date?” Her eyebrow arched skeptically even as her thumbs flashed over her phone.
“Not a room. A suite. A fifteen-hundred-square-foot suite.” Inviting her to his hotel—suite or not—wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t have much choice. “I think we’ll manage not to trip over my bed.”
“She won’t get anywhere near your bed or even set foot on this floor until I let her—as you pointed out.” She finished typing before looking up. “You’ll have my answer in three hours, my prince.”
She closed the door in his face. But as he turned to leave, muttering under his breath, she peeked her head out and said with a hint of a smirk, “And for your next date, I’ll help you pick out a restaurant.”
He returned to his suite and sat on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. With his identity concealed, he was in no real danger. Very few people in America would even recognize him. Their media had more than enough on their hands, covering the antics of their beloved Hollywood stars. They weren’t interested in the lives of princes from small European nations.
