Page 11 of Princessa
She peered around the room as if assessing who was within earshot. We were the only two dining, unless you counted our bodyguards who were seated together, four tables over, seemingly engrossed in their own animated conversation. See, when Finn made reservations at Oh La La, he pre-booked and paid for two hours’ worth of would be patrons and staff wages, leaving the restaurant to us during that time slot. Sure it was pricey, but it had become common practice whenever a situation warranted guaranteed privacy.
Arabella brought a glass of water to her mouth, then tossed back a swig, as though it were Vodka. “I was forced to date a man my family wanted me to marry. To be honest, it felt more like he and I were betrothed.”
At the mere mention ofbetrothed, I snapped my fingers, signaling for the waiter to deliver us more wine.
“We, Parker Jones and I,” she continued, “had been introduced three years ago and were sort of made to get to know each other because our two families supposedly meshed well. Soon after, he was the only man I waspermittedto date.” Shaking her head, she let out a scoff. “Can you imagine? Here we are, in the twenty-first century, mind you, and my parents were dictating who I could or could not go out with.”
The waiter arrived with more wine, refilling our glasses as I was about to tell Arabella just how much I understood her situation. My argument with my parents was based on their similar archaic way of thinking.
“More chardonnay,” the waiter said as he poured, his French accent thicker than mud. “Feel free to let me know when you’d like a refill.”
“How about you leave the bottle with us?” I suggested with a smile, and to that, he did, then scooted over to the table where our bodyguards were sitting. They were still heavily into their conversation and quite possibly into each other.
Seconds ticked by as we sipped our vino in silence but truth be told, I was dying to hear more. “So, what happened?”
“After three years of dating exclusively, I’d developed real feelings for him, you know? Besides that,everyone—my parents, best friend, Insta followers, all of Savannah, GA, and myself—expected him to propose.”
“And…did he?” With a gulp of wine, I chased down the lump of anticipation mauling my throat.
Could she be engaged? Married?
“Uh, no. On the night everyone assumed he was going to propose, the fool broke up with me.”
Fuck. That sucks.
Arabella’s gaze flicked downward as she gripped the tall crystal stem of her wineglass with both hands. “So, per my papa’s suggestion, I came here to escape the crazy post-breakup storm cloud that hung over me in Savannah.”
Another beat of silence stole the moment, save for giggles and chortles erupting from our bodyguards’ table.
“Why did the loser split up with you?” The inquiry burst out of my mouth before I had the chance to lock it up and throw away the key. As curious as I was, it was none of my damn business.
“Hmm, you mentioned having one question for me, yet by my count, I’ve been asked three. I say we go back to making this convo about you,Richard Suavé.” Her eyes were on mine again, and even in their narrowed, highly speculative state, it was easy to tell the chestnut beauties held a glimmer of laughter.
“Fair enough,” I chuckled, deciding whether or not I should pour myself more wine. “What would you like to know?”
Arabella’s eyes wavered back down for the slightest of moments as she ran her index finger along the rim of her half-empty glass. Long fingernails were one of my weaknesses and hers were painted a tempting shade of red. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that my mind drifted off to wondering how it would feel to have those nails digging into the length of my back.
God, the woman was an all-consuming force, in all of the best possible ways.
Still, I knew the question likely bouncing around in her mind. Yet, for some reason she held back as if needing to conjure up the nerve to finally ask it.
“So, why are you on the run?”
