Page 82 of That Prince is Mine
“Because love is worth the risk.” Michel held out his hands, palms up, as his eyes implored her. “And having things in common isn’t what makes people compatible. Sometimes it’s how their differences complement one another that makes them perfect for each other.”
“So what if their differences make them perfectly compatible?” she asked in a near whisper. Somewhere along the way, they’d stopped arguing about the other couple. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to hope. She was terrified she’d already started hoping. “Sophie’s life is in Rouleme. Gabriel’s life is here. Compatibility isn’t going to bridge the ocean between them.”
Michel opened his mouth on a sharp inhale, but the retort died on his lips. She held his gaze. See? You know I’m right. Even if she allowed herself to ignore that they came from different worlds—even if she followed her heart knowing that it would be shattered in the end—there was no chance for them. He knew that, and it hurt him as much as it hurt her. So much so that he didn’t go after her when she walked off on her own.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Michel stared wordlessly out the window as Sophie drove them back to the hotel. She must have heard them arguing about her and Gabriel—he and Emma certainly hadn’t been discreet with their argument—but he didn’t have the capacity to worry about his friend’s feelings at the moment.
It had gutted him to watch Emma walk away from him, but he needed time to think. Who was he to tell Emma that love was worth the risk? He’d been avoiding confessing his love to her because he’d been afraid. All his excuses—that he had to first figure out how to convince her they were meant for each other and to show her that his love would never fade—were just that. Excuses. He’d been too afraid to tell her he loved her because he didn’t want to risk ruining the four remaining weeks he had with her. Perhaps… he had been wise in his cowardice.
All this time, Michel had thought his greatest obstacle in winning Emma would be convincing her that despite their differences they fit perfectly. That it didn’t matter they weren’t perfect for each other on paper, because they were as compatible as two people could be in real life. How could he have been so wrong?
Emma’s parting words rang in his ears. Compatibility isn’t going to bridge the ocean between them. She was right, and they had more than the physical ocean between them. She was a culinary instructor in Los Angeles, living with a single father who depended on her love and her company. He was the crown prince and future king of Rouleme, duty bound to his country and his people.
He had blithely believed that if he could get her to fall in love with him, then she would uproot her life and leave behind everything she knew—everyone she loved—just to be with him. She would have to give up her dream of opening up a culinary school. But beyond that, she would have to give up her privacy and be bound to a life of duty like him. A duty that sometimes weighed so heavily on him that he could hardly breathe.
By asking her to become his wife, he would also be asking her to bear part of the blame for breaking a long-standing engagement. While Isabelle would be thrilled to be freed from an arranged marriage, the fallout would cause unwanted tension between the families, and his father would not be thrilled. He would ultimately accept Emma as his daughter-in-law and learn to love her, but she would have to endure a rocky start.
And the people of Rouleme were progressive and open-minded, but a vocal minority might denounce Emma as an outsider—even take issue with her race. He would protect her in every way he could, but those insidious voices would hurt her. If he loved her, how could he push her into a perilous, uncertain future? How could he ask her to sacrifice so much?
Shame rolled through him at how utterly selfish he’d been. Emma didn’t harbor secret hopes of becoming Cinderella. She believed in creating her own happiness through every meal she prepared, through every friendship she nurtured, through all the beauty she found in the world around her.
What did he have to offer her but pain and loss? Title, wealth, and power could never replace the things she would have to leave behind… the things she would have to endure. All he had to offer was himself and his love. But was his love even real if he wanted to have her by his side knowing that she would be unhappy?
Sophie shot him a concerned glance as they silently rode the elevator to their floor. “My prince, are you…”
“Please.” Michel held up his hand. “Not now.”
She bowed curtly with her lips pressed into a firm line. As soon as the elevator doors opened, he strode toward his suite, eager to be alone. His hand stilled halfway to the door handle when his friend spoke from across the foyer.
“I am a grown woman, Michel. My decisions are my own. You cannot blame Emma for her well-intentioned counsel.”
“I know,” he said quietly and stepped into his suite.
He unknotted his tie and threw it on an armchair, followed by his suit jacket. He sloshed whiskey into a tumbler and gulped down the fiery liquid, then poured himself another. Not bothering to walk over to the sitting area just a few steps away, he slid down to the floor next to the drink cart.
He rested his wrist on a raised knee and swirled the drink in the cup. What had that fight really been about? Yes, he’d felt a flash of anger at Emma’s meddling, but that was not why he’d lost his temper. He’d been worried—even a little scared—by the solemn, distant look on Emma’s face when she pulled away from him on the dance floor. Something was bothering her, and it made him nervous that he didn’t know what it was.
Michel had let his fear and frustration get the best of him. He’d already been on edge since realizing he was in love with her—afraid of truly facing what that meant. So, like a fool and a coward, he’d picked a fight with the woman he loved. Christ. He didn’t know what was the right thing to do. Whether loving her meant he should keep his true feelings to himself and leave Los Angeles—and Emma—when the time came. Or whether he should confess his love to her and beg her to be with him—to be his—no matter how selfish that felt.
He pushed up to his feet and set his untouched whiskey on the drink cart. He didn’t know what to do for his future—for their future. But he knew exactly what he needed to do in this moment. No matter which route he chose to take, the next few weeks were theirs. And no one—least of all himself—would take that from them. He had to go to Emma.
He slipped out of his suite and down the stairs, not wanting to alert Sophie by calling the elevator. When he finally reached the lobby, he realized he didn’t have the keys to the car. He strode out into the night and flagged down a taxi that had just dropped someone off at the hotel.
Fortunately, he had his wallet on him—unlike his mobile—to pay the taxi driver as he got out in front of Emma’s house. He glanced at his watch. It was just past ten o’clock. She wouldn’t be asleep yet, but her father might be, so he couldn’t very well knock on her front door. He stood on the sidewalk feeling decidedly foolish, wondering what he should do next. He only knew he needed her in his arms. Everything else he would figure out later.
Michel skulked down a path at the side of the house, hoping that it led into their backyard. Emma had mentioned that her bedroom was on the second floor, facing the garden in the back. Holding his breath, he tried the latch to the gate at the end of the path and exhaled with relief when it opened. Even in the silvery moonlight, he could see that the garden was lovingly maintained with fragrant flowers along the outer edges and a vegetable garden—perhaps a small farm was a better description—that took up most of the yard.
On the second floor, there were two larger windows at the opposite ends of the house—one lit, one dark—with a couple of smaller windows in between. He had to guess that the larger windows belonged to the bedrooms and one of them was Emma’s. He picked up several thumbnail-size pebbles and threw one, aiming for the lit window. He didn’t pause to think that he might very well be summoning her father.
He used up all his pebbles, but no one came to the window. Maybe she couldn’t hear the clack of the small stones. Perhaps he should use slightly larger stones at the risk of breaking the glass. He would, of course, reimburse them for any damage. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. He might be losing his mind.
“Michel?” Emma whisper shouted from the window. Ha! He’d chosen the right window to pellet. “What are you doing down there?”
“Trying to get your attention,” he said through cupped hands.
“Shh.” She glanced behind her as though her father might walk through her door. “Stay right there. I’m coming down.”
