Page 18 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
His smile was shy and pleased and so genuinely happy that I wanted to do something stupid like tell him exactly how impressive I found him. Instead, I settled for letting my thumb trace across his knuckles where our hands were still joined.
“We should probably make the rounds,” Eddie said softly, but he didn’t move away from me.
“Probably,” I agreed, but I didn’t let go of his hand.
We spent the next hour circulating through the mixer, playing our parts with increasing ease. Eddie charmed the faculty with his insights into European politics while I nodded along and contributed enough to seem engaged without revealing the depths of my ignorance. When people asked about our relationship, we deflected with the kind of casual intimacy that seemed to satisfy everyone’s curiosity without inviting deeper scrutiny.
And somewhere in the middle of all that performance, I forgot we were performing at all.
7
EDDIE
The sound of our apartment door closing was like a starting gun for me. Bash had left for his daily workout, which he did religiously, even on Saturdays, like today. It would be a short run today, he’d told me, which meant I wouldn’t have long, but it would be sufficient for what I absolutely could not do with him there.
I waited exactly thirty seconds—long enough for Bash to be out the front door of Cascade Hall—before scrambling for my phone and hitting Floris’s contact. He answered on the second ring, which meant he’d been waiting for the call we’d arranged via text yesterday.
“Well, well,” came his familiar voice, warm with affection and barely contained amusement. “If it isn’t my favorite closeted prince. How are things in the Pacific Northwest?”
“Complicated,” I said without preamble, sinking into my desk chair. “Gloriously, terrifyingly complicated.”
“Ah, right up my alley.”
I could practically hear Floris settling in for what he clearly expected to be an entertaining conversation, but manners still ruled for me. “But first, how’s Orson? Is he still making you disgustingly happy?”
Floris’s laugh was rich and genuine. “Disgustingly, blissfully happy.”
Despite my own turmoil, I smiled. Floris and Orson had started as randomly assigned roommates and ended up as the kind of couple that made everyone around them believe in love at first sight. Well, love at first semester, anyway. “He’s adjusting well to public life?”
The step into the spotlight as the boyfriend of a prince had not been easy for Orson, who came from a middle-class family in New Orleans, but he’d handled it surprisingly well. His fumbles were adorable and the press loved him for them—and so did the Dutch.
“He’s killing it. And his Dutch lessons are coming along really well. He’s trying so hard.” Floris’s voice softened. “He’s so good for me, Greg. Better than I deserve.”
“You deserve everything wonderful,” I said firmly, meaning every word. “I’m so pleased for you both.”
“Right, enough about my ridiculous happiness. Let’s discuss your situation, shall we? Last I heard, you were panicking about living with an attractive bodyguard. Please tell me you’ve made some progress beyond stammering and blushing.”
Trust Floris to cut straight to the heart of things. “Well, we’re fake dating now.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted exactly three seconds before Floris exploded into laughter. “I’m sorry, what? Did you say you’re fake dating your bodyguard? The one you’ve been pining over?”
“I haven’t been pining?—”
“Greg, darling, you called me in a panic because the man was attractive. Don’t bother denying you were lusting after him.” Floris’s voice was dancing with amusement. “Tell me everything.”
So I did. I told him about having to pose as a couple, about how natural it had felt to hold Bash’s hand and play the part of his boyfriend.
“And the problem is?” Floris asked when I’d finished.
“The problem is that I’m insanely attracted to him and want to do much more than hold his hand. The problem is that I want to move from pretend to real.”
“Ah.” Floris’s voice shifted, becoming gentler. “And you don’t know if he wants the same.”
“What if he’s just very good at his job? What if all of this—the hand-holding, the way he looks at me, the easy intimacy—is all professional for him?”
“Has it occurred to you that this might be exactly what you need?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
