Page 32 of That Prince is Mine
“You seem to be in a rush,” Sophie murmured with a sideways glance at him. “You also seem extremely happy about it. Care to share where we’re headed?”
Michel bent his head over his mobile, not slowing down his pace, and forwarded her the restaurant’s address. “I hope you like Peruvian food.”
“I haven’t had it in a long time, but I do love Peruvian. So thoughtful of you to suggest it.” Sophie held her arm out in front of him as a maintenance cart rambled past them. “But there’s no need to run into oncoming traffic for lomo saltado, my prince.”
“That golf cart was going less than five miles per hour,” Michel grumbled. “What’s lomo saltado? Never mind. I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Other than delicious food, what awaits you in Pasadena?”
“Emma.” He still loved the feel of her name on his lips. “I told you I didn’t mess this up.”
“Dear Lord. Did you just sigh?” Sophie arched an eyebrow at him. “Anyway, do you have any idea how you’ll explain my presence?”
“I actually hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He switched his briefcase to the opposite hand and rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps we could use the same arrangement we have for my visits to the hotel café.”
“You mean you want me to hide behind a potted plant?” She unlocked the car and waited for him to get in to the passenger seat—since he’d forbidden her from opening the door for him—before sliding into the driver’s seat.
“A fish tank or a large decorative vase would suffice,” he deadpanned.
Sophie’s lips twitched at one corner. “If this restaurant is a tasteless establishment with neither, I can always hide under the table.”
“Quite.”
Pasadena wasn’t very far from USC, but the famous LA rush hours made the trip interminable. Michel drummed his fingers on his knee, growing more impatient by the mile. He checked the dashboard clock for the tenth time. He might be late for his date.
“You won’t be late,” Sophie said, noticing his impatience. “And she’s an Angeleno. She knows what traffic is like.”
“Hmm.” Emma would certainly understand, but he didn’t like the thought of wasting even a minute of his time with her. He needed to spend that time convincing her that he was indeed husband material. In fact, he would become boyfriend material, lover material, father material… He would become everything she needed him to be.
“I bet you’re missing your royal helicopter right about now,” his friend teased.
“Just drive,” he muttered, tugging off his tie and tossing it in the back seat.
They arrived at the restaurant with three minutes to spare, and Michel stepped inside, relieved to be on time. Until he spotted Emma sitting at a table by the window. Damn it. She’d beaten him here.
“How many in your party?” the host asked.
“I see my friend is already seated,” Michel said, tearing his gaze away from Emma. She looked so lovely. “I’ll show myself to the table.”
“Of course. Enjoy your evening.” The host nodded with a smile, which Michel barely returned in his rush to get to Emma.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” He reached for the back of his chair. “May I?”
She turned her gaze away from the window and smiled up at him. “By all means. Unless you prefer to stand all night.”
He sank into the seat across from her with an answering smile. “I wouldn’t want to give you a crick in your neck.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Her dimple deepened and snagged his attention.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and ran a thumb over the spot—light and quick. God, her skin felt so soft. He immediately withdrew his hand, not trusting himself to let his touch linger.
“I still like your dimple,” he said huskily.
“Thank you.” A blush stole across her cheeks as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
He opened up his menu to stop himself from staring at her. “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
