The Duke of New York_A Contemporary Bad Boy Royal Romance

by Lisa Lace

  Melissa

  Henry comes back to the apartment with me in the morning. To my relief, the men are gone—including Connor. “I hope he’s okay,” I fret. “What if he’s in a jail cell somewhere? What if he fell in the river?”

  “What if monkeys really do take over New York?”

  I raise my eyebrows at Henry.

  He steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “I know you’re worried about him, but ‘what ifs?’ will get you nowhere. I’m sure he’s fine. If he’s not turned up by tonight, then I’ll come with you to look for him myself.”

  I squeeze Henry tightly and look up at him with adoring eyes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

  I follow Henry’s gaze as he looks around the apartment. It’s in a state. There is loose ash on the carpets and furnishings, trash everywhere, and the smell of weed still lingers in the air. Henry rolls up his sleeves. “Let’s get this place cleaned up, and then we can grab some breakfast before class.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I protest. “You’ve already done so much.”

  “Nonsense,” he says, in his curt English accent. “It won’t take long between the two of us.”

  We set to work clearing up. Henry digs in, picking up armfuls of wrappers and pizza boxes and shoving them into a garbage bag. I brush down the sofas, vacuum, and wipe down the table. We finish by opening all the windows to let out the smell and spraying liberal amounts of air freshener.

  As we come toward the end of our efforts, I catch Henry looking at the pictures on the wall.

  I stand behind him and follow his gaze. I point out a picture of my mom at twenty-five. “That’s my mom when she was my age.”

  “You look just like her. Beautiful.”

  “That’s Connor when he was a kid.”

  Henry follows where I’m pointing, then lifts his own finger to point out another picture of a little girl with pigtails and missing front teeth. “Is this you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Aren’t you a little cutie!” His eyes wander to a grainy photo of the three of us at Thanksgiving. “Christmas?”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  Henry’s eyes light up, and he turns to me in excitement. “I’ve never had a Thanksgiving.”

  “Never?”

  “Not a British tradition.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful!” I gush. “You have an amazing dinner with turkey and yams, followed by pumpkin pie. Mom, Connor and I all used to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade together, and talk about all the different floats, and which ones were our favorite.

  “We had this tradition where Mom would give each of us a shoebox, and we’d make our own mini-float. We’d put them on the table as centerpieces. Mom kept those old shoeboxes for years. I had to get rid of them when the house was sold—I didn’t have the room to keep them anymore.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun,” Henry says. “What else did you do?”

  “Mom used to put the football game on for Connor, and he’d sit and pretend to watch it, even though he didn’t understand the rules. Every now and then he’d jump up and cheer, then look around to see if we were watching. He wanted to look like the man of the house.”

  I smile but feel incredibly sad at the same time. The memories are bittersweet. They were such precious moments, but they’re all long gone.

  Henry takes my hands in excitement. “We should do it!”

  “Do what?”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  I laugh. “I haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving in years.”

  “All the more reason to do it now,” Henry persists. “Come on! This might be my only chance to experience a real, true Thanksgiving.”

  I chuckle. “You’ll be here next year, too. You’ll have another chance for an American Thanksgiving.”

  “Not with shoebox floats, though.”

  My heart pangs. The thought of making one of those little floats without Mom breaks my heart, but I also miss the fun and excitement of the grand reveals.

  “We’ll do it at my place,” Henry continues. “The whole shebang. I’ll get a turkey. We’ll do the yams—sweet potatoes, right? I’ll even roll up my sleeves and make a pumpkin pie if tradition calls for it.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “It’s not fair on Connor.”

  Henry takes a deep breath. I know he wants to tell me where Connor can stick it, but he holds his temper—then says something I’d never have expected in a million years.

  “Connor’s invited too.”

  “What?”

  “I want to spend time with you. If that means every now and then I have to spend time with Connor, too, that’s something I’ll do. For you.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t trust him, Henry. What if he ruins your apartment or gets high and ruins the day?”

  “What if, what if, what if? What if we all have an amazing day and save Thanksgiving?”

  I hesitate some more. “I’ll think about.”

  “Ask Connor.”

  “I will. Although I doubt he’s your biggest fan right now after you took down his friend.”

  “I doubt he even remembers it. Besides, his friend’s the one who did this.” Henry points at his bruised jaw. “You deserve to enjoy the holidays, Lissy.”

  “It’s going to be mayhem at the diner,” I reply. “It’s the best time for tips.”

  Henry holds up his hands. “I’ll leave it with you. Think about it, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Henry

  I open the door to find Melissa standing there with a couple of large bowls covered in tinfoil. She looks festive in a bright red smock dress with a green belt around the waist and thick-heeled black ankle boots.

  I’m wearing camel-colored pants and a grandad-collar white shirt.

  “No Connor?”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “You’re not worried about leaving him on his own?”

  “Of course, I am, but you’re right—I deserve to enjoy the holidays. I did ask Connor if he wanted to do Thanksgiving this year, and he rolled his eyes at me. I didn’t press him.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She smiles at me and walks past me into the flat. “Me, too.”

  “What did you bring?”

  Melissa smiles and heads into my kitchen. She lays her dishes down on the granite worktop and peels off the tinfoil to reveal mashed sweet potatoes and a bowl of greens.

  “Looks great! The turkey is in the oven.”

  She kneels down to peer inside and gasps. “You bought a whole turkey?”

  “Shouldn’t I have?”

  She laughs. “A quarter would have been plenty. You’ll be eating turkey all semester.”

  “I got something else, too.”

  I walk into my bedroom and return holding two shoeboxes and a bag full of craft materials. I hold them up. “I hope you don’t think I’m crossing a line here, but your old tradition sounded fun.”

  I see Melissa’s eyes fill with tears, but she smiles. “It’s been so long since I last made a float.”

  “I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I don’t want to step on a family tradition.”

  “No,” she says quickly. “It would be good to see it revived. Let’s do it. You can even put a football game on.”

  “American football,” I correct her. “You’ll have to explain the rules to me.”

  I lead her into the living room, and we sit cross-legged, side by side at the low, rectangular coffee table, our backs against the black leather sofa. We take all of the materials out of the bag and begin to make our floats.

  I sit at the other end and turn away from her, and she does the same. At a glance, I can tell we’ve both had the same idea—to conceal our creations from each other until they’re done. I can’t wait to surprise her.

  Melissa smiles as she works, poking her tongue out every now and then as she gets to something fiddly. I’m more liberal with m
y design, going mad with poster paints, shiny paper, and cotton wool.

  Occasionally, I jump up to add another component to the oven, putting some potatoes on the stove, preparing some stuffing and putting out a pre-made can of cranberry sauce ready to open just before serving.

  Melissa watches me with a smile. “You’ve done your research.”

  “I searched, ‘What do you eat at Thanksgiving?’ to figure out what I was doing. I even got a pumpkin pie for dessert.”

  “It smells delicious.”

  “What’s Connor doing today?”

  Melissa frowns. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “Have you had any trouble from him since I came around?”

  She laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Connor’s always trouble. But no more than usual, I guess. He hasn’t had any more impromptu gatherings, at least.”

  “Good. You know you can always call if you need me.”

  “Hopefully I won’t need to.”

  “No. Hopefully, you won’t.”

  “Connor wasn’t always like this,” Melissa tells me She looks down at her work as she talks to me, distracting herself with applying glitter and ribbons to her shoebox. “He used to be a really sweet boy. When Mom got sick, he was there for both of us in a big way. While I was helping Mom get washed and dressed, or putting her to bed, he’d be cooking dinners or going to the grocery store. We were always a team.

  “It was only after Mom got the terminal prognosis that he changed. That’s when he started hanging with a different crowd and doing drugs. I think he was trying to avoid the reality of what was happening. He was around less and less. I think it hurt him too much to see her in pain.”

  Melissa lifts her shoulders in a brave shrug and lets out a long breath. “Before she got ill, Connor was so much fun to be around. He used to play pranks on our mom and me all the time—I think you’d have liked him back then.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll get the old Connor back,” I say. I offer her a comforting smile. “Maybe this is his way of grieving. Maybe it will pass.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘maybes.’” Melissa bows her head. “I think what he really needs is rehab, but I can’t afford it. And even if I could, I know he wouldn’t go. He needs therapy. Professional help.” She looks up at the chrome clock on my wall and bites on her lip. “It’s almost time for the parade. I better call him before it starts.”

  Melissa digs around in her handbag until she finds her phone, then calls Connor. I pretend I don’t notice his raised voice on the other end of the line, or how her voice changes, becoming soft and sad.

  Eventually, she sighs. “I’m sorry I’m not there, Connor, but we could have spent the day together if you wanted. You said you were sick of me pretending everything was the same. Remember? Yes, I’m with him.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep, patient breath. “I wanted to check you were okay, and to tell you I love you. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “He’s still welcome to come,” I say after Melissa hangs up.

  She makes a face. “So he can throw a tantrum and ruin the day? It’s sweet of you to offer, Henry, but I know Connor would be on his worst behavior just to prove a point.” She picks up the remote and switches the channel to the Macy’s parade, then looks up at me with a forced smile. “Let’s forget about him. I’m having fun.”

  “Is it time to reveal the floats?”

  Melissa grins. “I think so. You go first.”

  I hold up my float with pride. I’ve painted the shoebox with the Union Jack, topped with a gold cardstock crown, in the middle of which stands a DIY queen made of styrofoam balls and some cotton wool I’ve colored grey with a felt-tip pen. “Behold my tribute to Britain.”

  Laughing, Melissa takes the shoebox from me so she can take a closer look. “Nice use of toothpicks as arms.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is a splendid first effort. My mom would have liked you.”

  Something about that comment touches me. I like to think that Melissa’s mother would have approved of me. I’d do anything to make Melissa proud.

  “I showed you mine; you show me yours. Come on—let’s see it.”

  Melissa holds up her shoebox with a gleeful grin. It looks like My Little Pony, Barbie, and the inventor of glitter came together to organize a prom.

  The shoebox has been painted a bright, shocking pink, and is covered in glitter hearts, pink ribbons, and pom-poms that all center around one giant love-heart on top of the float.

  I grin. “Wow. That’s—something. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

  Smiling proudly, Melissa flicks her hair back over her shoulder and lays down her float with contentment. “Beneath the glasses and ponytail is a woman who loves glitter as much as the next girl. I was always known for my tacky glitter sensations.”

  “I love it.” I pick up both boxes and lay them at the center of the breakfast bar where we’ll be eating. “Like this?”

  Melissa beams, both hands clutched over her chest like she’s holding onto something deeply sentimental. “Just like I remember it. Thank you, Henry.”

  I lean across to kiss her, placing my hand on her cheek as I do. She lays her hand on top of mine and holds me for a while once I draw back, looking into my eyes. She slowly looks side to side, like she’s searching for something in my gaze.

  “It’s good to see you smiling,” I say.

  “Today has been wonderful. I’m glad you talked me into it.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  The food is ready. I lay it all out on plates across the counter like I’ve seen in American movies. Then Melissa and I sit side by side on our stools, with mountains of food in front of us.

  I stare at the turkey looming like a monster above all the other piles of food and laugh. “I think you’re right about that turkey.” I look over at her questioningly. “When are you meant to say what you’re thankful for?”

  She smiles. “How about now?”

  “Okay. You go first.”

  Melissa bites her lip, her resting on the counter. She looks around as if for inspiration, a small smile playing on her face. Finally, she looks up at me and gives her answer.

  “I’m thankful to be at Harvard. I’m thankful I have the chance for a better future and that there’s a silver lining ahead. I’m thankful there are good things in life again—and I’m thankful I have someone new to share them with.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back.

  “I’m thankful for my father, and this chance he’s given me to be a better man. I’m thankful his persistence has lead me here; to Harvard, and to you.” I pour two glasses of wine for us and propose a toast. “To opportunities.”

  We drink, then dig in. As we eat, we talk ten to the dozen about everything and anything. We reminisce about past holidays and share our favorite festive memories. She seems distracted, and although it’s all delicious—odd to my palate, but good—she doesn’t eat much. I’d heard that Americans indulge on Thanksgiving, and was looking forward to it, but decide to take a conservative route. Besides, eating less now means mountains of delicious leftovers later.

  As we finish our last mouthfuls of pumpkin pie, I drink in the sight of Melissa; her cheeks flushed from the wine and heat of the oven, her face bright with a smile. I feel a surge of love for her.

  “You know,” I say, “I’ve felt more comfortable celebrating with you today than I ever have with my family. I like being with you, Lissy. I hope what we have will last. If next Thanksgiving is as wonderful as this one, I’ll consider myself a very fortunate man.”

  “I hope so, too,” she smiles. “I’d forgotten what it was like to really feel thankful at this time of year.” She nudges me gently and pushes away her barely-touched plate. “You’ve made the difference.”

  I pull her close, kissing her forehead. “You’ve got a wonderful future to look forward to. Don’t ever worry about that.”

  “Do you know what we forgot?” I look at her, seeing an oppor
tunity to spoil her and show her how affectionate and sexy I can be. At the thought of what I want to do to her, my cock springs to life.

  “What did we forget?” She continues to caress my arm with her fingertips, her tone almost passive and distant.

  “Second dessert,” I whisper.

  “I dunno—I have a lot on my mind. I think I’ll pass.”

  “I’m hungry for something else, Melissa.” My tone drops, and I look at her until she realizes what I’m saying. “I can’t have my dessert without you.”

  I swear that I see a slight tremble in her lips as they separate. I stand up and take her hand, pulling her to me. I bury my hands in her long locks of hair by the fistful as I devour her mouth with my own. She drives me crazy just from the way she looks at me.

  I lead her to the kitchen and hoist her up onto the counter. Opening the refrigerator, I fill my arms with several items, including the still-warm pumpkin pie.

  “Lie back.” I push her back gently, moving some spices out of the way. She obliges, and I smile, giving her a teasing look.

  I dig my finger into the middle of the pie and set it down at her head, smearing it on her chin and along her lips. I lean over her, lapping up the thick substance and sliding my tongue along her lips. She moans, her tongue darting out of her mouth, contacting mine. I stand up and look down at her.

  She pulls her top off and drops it to the floor, her fingers fumbling with her slacks as she tries to remove them.

  “Don’t,” I tell her. “Let me.”

  I unbutton the small button on the top of her slacks and unzip them, pulling them apart to expose light blue panties peeking out at me. “Such a tease,” I say. I grab a bottle of whipped cream and spray it on her stomach. She yelps and laughs at the coldness, but I warm her by devouring the cream straight from her tantalizing skin. I lower my tongue to her panties, hooking them down as I trail my tongue lower.

  “Chocolate syrup would be perfect right here,” I tell her, grabbing the syrup and squeezing a trail along the edge of her pussy. Her eyes are glued to my face as I lower myself to the chocolate and smear it around her pussy lips with my tongue.