Page 70 of That Prince is Mine
“Emma.”
“Yes?” The suspense was killing her a little bit.
“I am the crown prince of Rouleme.”
She tucked her chin against her chest and gave him the side-eye. Then a low, incredulous giggle trickled out of her. “Shut the front door.”
“You want me to…” Michel briefly looked uncertain, then he huffed something resembling a laugh. “Oh, you don’t mean that literally.”
Emma laughed again. But when he didn’t join in and profess to being a huge dork for making such a silly joke—Come on, the crown prince of Rouleme?—she stopped laughing. He stilled in his seat. He might’ve even stopped breathing. She could only stare at him. And he stared back. So far, this conversation consisted mostly of staring and not talking.
As the silence stretched on, she considered the possibility that he might not be a huge dork. He might not be making a silly joke.
“Oh my God.” Her breath rushed out in a whoosh. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” And there he went again, looking taller and bigger.
“You can’t be the actual prince of Rouleme.” She sprang up from her chair and paced back and forth—in sharp, two-step intervals—which made her a little dizzy. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” His eyebrows drew together. Oh no. His earnest, perplexed face was one of her favorite Michel faces.
“Because,” she roared, throwing her hands up. Because she couldn’t deal with it. Because they were too different to begin with. Because it would truly mean that there was no future for them. But the last reason didn’t count, because she already knew that there was no future for them. Right? She forced her voice into an even, reasonable tone. “Because it would be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? How so?” His face became extra earnest and perplexed. Goddamn it. Now was not the time to melt into a gooey pink puddle.
“Because”—she stopped pacing in front of his chair—“things like this don’t happen in real life, Michel.”
“Oh, I assure you they do.” He rose to his feet and loomed over her. “This is real. This is my life no matter how ridiculous it seems to you.”
“Wait.” She poked her index finger into his chest, annoyed to find that there was no give. She obstinately pressed a smidgen harder but had to stop because her finger hurt. “Are you getting angry with me? Because I don’t think you have any right—NONE!—to be angry with me right now.”
His shoulders rose on a sharp inhale, then drooped back down—but not by much, because his shoulders didn’t seem capable of truly drooping. “No. I’m not angry.”
“Good.” She jabbed his rock-hard chest once more out of principle. “Because I think I should be angry.”
“You should be?” One corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “Does that mean you aren’t actually angry?”
“You do not”—she glared at him angrily—“get to be cute right now.”
His lips definitely quirked up at that. She glared harder because she was angry. Wasn’t she? She was fairly certain she was, but she felt something calm and unconcerned beneath her anger. He’d lied to her—yes, lied to her by omission—and allowed her to think that he was just a regular handsome, ultra-rich man from an influential European family. As opposed to a royal handsome, ultra-rich man from a royal European family? But wasn’t that just semantics?
Michel had always been someone from a world different than her own. She had made a conscious decision that their differences didn’t matter, because he would be gone soon. In some ways, it almost seemed fitting that he was a prince. What they had was a fairy tale—wonderful and fleeting. Her chest tightened into a painful knot. She exhaled slowly and hardened her resolve. We aren’t meant to last.
So was she angry that he hadn’t been 100 percent forthright with her? Sure, she was. Did it matter that he was the crown prince of Rouleme? Emma resumed pacing because she couldn’t think clearly with Michel so close. No. In the grand scheme of things, him being a prince didn’t change a single thing. They had always been too different to belong together. He would still leave in a month and a half, and she would resume her real life. No matter how much that hurt, that was the way it was supposed to be.
“Sit,” she ordered, arranging herself back into the armchair. Even if his princely status didn’t change anything, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. He took a seat across from her and watched her with a wary expression. “You must have a reason.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to hear your reason for lying to me.” She held his gaze.
“Yes, of course.” He got points for not trying to argue that he technically hadn’t lied. “I wanted you to get to know me—just me—without the influence of my title.”
“You think things would’ve been different between us if I’d known you were a prince?” She drew back, hurt and indignant.
“How could they not?” he implored, hands spread out in front of him. “Would you have come over to my table at the café if I’d been wearing a crown?”
Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. “I don’t know.”
