Page 8 of Princessa
Chapter 7
He’s not coming.
Like an echo, the assumption rang endlessly through my mind as I stood at the table, eyes bouncing from each of the two ballroom entrances. Silly of me to think a man like Grayson—the prince that he was—would bother coming to a trivial affair. Although the affair was more grandiose than it was trivial. To be honest, I was surprised at how massive a turnout it had been, especially when those tigers took center stage. Emma’s the one who’d convinced me that honoring Asuka and Chiko’srequest of having the two caged mammals make a short appearance, would be equally colossal and striking. Turned out Emma, always full of optimism, was spot on. In the grand scheme of things, she indeed was someone I could count on. However, at that moment, she was taking longer than expected to circle back from the bar with our drinks.
Biting my nails to pacify the anxiety wreaking havoc on my nerves, I tried to relax. But, fidgety me was in desperate need of a cocktail to take the edge off. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, something happened to me that day I’d collided with Man of Steel. Perhaps a chunk of my brain had been knocked loose—a piece that housed all of my gawd-damn sense. In the three days that passed since smacking my face against his glorious chest, I’d become the incarnation of a hot, freaking mess. Sure, initially, I felt a tad put off that Prince Grayson was a presumed playboy and possibly on the run from Lord knows what. But I couldn’t ignore how my body reacted to him that day, and I was yearning for an encore.
Growing antsy, I decided to march over toward the bar, curious what was holding up Emma. With her chummy disposition, she had a tendency to strike up conversations with just about anyone, losing track of what she was meant to be doing.
Whirling around, I crashed into a man—oh, my gosh, him—along with two drinks he was carting.
I squealed.
Squealed, as though I’d witnessed an army of mice scurry across one end of the ballroom then back.
Icy remnants of the spilled drinks trickled down from the front of my dress and his tight, muscle-form-fitting shirt—I did my best not to stare at the contours on display—and onto our shoes. Nothing, and I do mean not a single thing, would have pleased me more than to have the marble floor beneath us rupture and gobble me whole. Seriously, why did I have to keep bumping into this beautiful man? Was it against all odds for me to just come upon him in a fashion that didn’t involve me making an inelegant ass of myself? Because, I promise you, in my previous life, the one before Mr. Tall, Dark, and Studmuffin, I had my shit together.
“We meet again,” he said with an accent and smile smokin’ hot enough to set the entire room, perhaps the whole resort, ablaze. During our last encounter, dumbstruck me failed to notice his low-rumbled timbre was a sexy mishmash of Latin and French. But considering he was the Prince of Andorra, a tiny sovereign state bordered by France to the north and Spain to the south—thank you, Google—it all made sense.
Nodding, because I’d lost the ability to speak actual words again, I took the martinis from his hands then set them onto the table beside a couple of cloth napkins—napkins I then used to wipe spillage off of his shirt.
“The resort will flip the bill for your shirt to get dry cleaned or even purchase a new one seeing how this may be ruined—was this custom made because it sure looks as though it’s been spray-painted on you and…” I was rambling and babbling, completely lost in some foreign, run-on-sentence-gibberish land; although I should’ve been pleased I’d moved on from drunken—Ga—toddlerville.
He leaned in, his lips just a whisper away from my ear. “It’s fine.” I swear, the man’s voice was as soft as puffy cotton candy at the Georgia State Fair. “These collisions with you have become the highlight of my existence.”
Dead.
That’s right, I’d positively died and gone to a realm where a ravishing, sweet-talking prince roamed free and awestruck ladies dropped like flies from too much swooning.
Taking custody of the cloth napkin I was feverishly swiping his shirt with, Grayson tossed it to the table, his sapphire eyes rendering me an interrogating perusal from head to toe. Oddly enough, it wasn’t his scrolling gaze that made my face feel flushed, my body all hot and, hopefully, unnoticeably bothered. It was that mouth, curved up in a way that oozed arrogance—no, maybe it was more like confidence—that sent a league of manic butterflies to my stomach.
“Perhaps we should begin with a proper introduction?”
My back stiffened as I stood poised, willing my mouth to reply like a regular human being. “Sounds fair enough.” I extended my hand to shake his, thankful to be feeling semi-normal again. “I’m Arabella Royale.”
Grayson brought my hand to his lips, gracing it a soft-as-sin kiss I was certain would send me straight back to babbleville. The subtle smooch had me internally vowing never to wash my hand again, as though I were some high school fangirl. “I’m Rico Suavé.”
Huh? Like the 1990s, one-hit-wonder? Was he for real?
“I’m sorry, who?” I gurgled.
“Rico Suavé,” he repeated with a nonchalant lean against the table, as if posing for a spread in Hot Prince Magazine. “At least that’s the alias my royal advisor slash bodyguard suggested I use while staying here.”
Lifting one of the glasses from the table, I swallowed a sip of what was left of the martini—a boost of liquid courage. “To be honest, you appear much too dignified to be a Rico. You’re more of aRichardSuavé.”
He threw his head back in laughter, unveiling a magnificent smile I wouldn’t mind seeing for the rest of my life. “Then Richard Suavé it shall be. Ms. Arabella Royale, it’s a pleasure to officially meet you. Is it safe for me to assume you’ve figured out I’m Prince Grayson of Andorra?”
I could just flat out lie and say the way my name sounded rolling off his tongue had no effect on me whatsoever; however, I did consider using the rest of my drink to douse the swoon flames off my face. “A little birdie named Emma may have made me privy.”
“Ah, Emma Marks, your Lady-in-Waiting.” He brought his glass to his delectable-looking mouth and took a swig, and this time, it was my turn to toss my head back with a chortle. My quirky assistant loved introducing herself as that, comparing me to a princess and her my attendant.
“You two have met then?”
“At the bar.” He gestured to the drinks and winked.
It explained why Emma took forever to come back with our cocktails, no doubt concocting a plan to have Grayson deliver them instead of herself, the clever woman she was. Looking over at the bar, I spotted Emma, all cheesy smiles, eyebrows grazing her hairline, drink in hand raised in my direction. At that point, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hug the woman or fire her.
“So, Richard Suavé, why the alias? Are you a prince on the run?”
He set his empty cocktail glass onto the table, then fixed me with a potent, borderline-hypnotic gaze that made my head swim with visions of us doing things worthy of making my mama faint. “Go on a dinner date with me tomorrow night and I’ll tell you everything.”
