I stayed close to him, still smiling for the cameras as a small army of black-suited men with earpieces ushered us through a VIP entrance. Kit kept glancing over his shoulder, making sure I was still there. Still okay.
Was his concern fake, like his smile? Or was he really looking out for me? Not that it mattered. All that did matter was making the people who saw us think our connection was real.
When we got to our table, I almost laughed. It was the best in the house, and absolutely gigantic; a long, plush velvet sofa was strewn with pretty pillows and prettier people, each cocktail table set with an elaborate bottle service—vodka, tequila, a magnum of champagne. We overlooked the dance floor, and I could feel the thump thump thump of the baseline in my chest.
Already people were holding up their phones to snap pictures of us. I was glad it was relatively dark inside; the attention was making my face hot.
Kit sidled up beside me, pressing the vodka soda I’d asked for into my hand.
“I want to introduce you to everyone,” he murmured. “I think it would look most natural if I had a hand on your back. Is that okay?”
I took a long, hard pull from my drink. We had to sell this thing. We had to touch. It would suck. But at least him touching my back was better—less intimate—than holding hands.
Baby steps.
“Yeah. That’s okay.”
He put his hand on the small of my back. I closed my eyes and I stiffened but I managed to not pull away. His eyes were still on me, but I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I had to focus on breathing. Staying calm. His touch didn’t mean anything. In fact, it meant even less than the bartender’s grabs and prods the other night.
All pretend. All fake. My mantra as of late.
Kit introduced me to the pretty people at our table. Our background story was laid out in the contract. It wisely stuck as closely as possible to the truth: we’d first met at the London School of Economics, where I’d been in Kit’s class. But we only started dating recently after we’d bumped into each other at an event for the foundation.
I don’t know what I was expecting Kit’s friends to be like. Snobs? Devastatingly sophisticated city people? Khaki-clad bros? Turns out they were all lovely and welcoming. They seemed genuinely excited for us. I got a couple comments, mostly from Kit’s guy friends, about how “absolutely thrilled” they were that Kit had finally found someone—and that he was out for a change.
By now, people had really begun to notice who we were and what was going on. There were camera phones everywhere. Kit looked meaningfully at me, the understanding passing between us: it was time to turn it up a notch.
Time to go to work.
I tipped back my glass and finished my drink. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.
Chapter Eleven
Kit
A waitress freshened our drinks. Emily and I settled into an empty corner on the sofa. We were alone, but not out of earshot; my friends were straining to listen in on our conversation. Everyone was out of their minds with curiosity, and for good reason. It had been years since I’d introduced a girl to my friends.
Knock wood, the evening had gone off without a hitch so far. The paparazzi had gone mad for Emily, just like I thought they would. She’d gone out of her way to charm my friends with polite and interesting small talk. That was a tough line to walk, and she’d performed beautifully.
I just had to make sure Emily didn’t charm me. Considering how fucking hot she looked in her little silk tank top, it’d been more of a struggle than I’d anticipated. Sex appeal rolled off this girl in bloody waves.
“What?” Emily asked.
I looked at her, confused.
“You’re scowling.”
“Oh.” I ran a hand down my face. “Sorry. I spaced out. How are you feeling? Everyone loves you already.”
She blinked when a flash on a camera phone went off. “They love you. Or maybe they’re just trying to kiss your royal ass—I couldn’t tell.”
“You really think I’d surround myself with royal ass kissers?”
“If I was a prince, I totally would.”
I cocked a brow. “Would you really?”
She laughed, cradling her drink between her hands. My eyes swept up the soft lines of her arms and shoulders. “No, I wouldn’t. I hate ass kissing—both giving and receiving.”
“I know. It’s one of the things I liked best about you,” I said, not thinking.
Her pale eyebrows snapped together in pleasant surprise. “Really?”
Bollocks. I hadn’t meant to say that.
I tore a hand through my hair. I had to backtrack. Keep the conversation as tepid as possible.
“You messed it up,” she said.
“Messed what up?”
Emily looked up, nodding at my hair. “Your part. You look like you got electrocuted.”
The bark of laughter was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I smoothed my fingers over my hair. “You know, most people tell me I’m the most handsome man in the room.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Noted. There. Is that better?”
“Worse.” Her shoulders were shaking again, like they had in the kitchen yesterday. Which of course only made me want to laugh, too. “Much worse.”
A thought formed. I probably shouldn’t. But our audience would love it. And I couldn’t very well walk around all night looking like I’d stuck my finger in a socket.
I bent my neck. “Help.”
Grinning, she set down her drink. She slid her fingers into my hair. Her touch was sure and deliberate as she used her nails to comb my hair back into place. My eyes rolled to the back of my head. What was it about a girl’s touch that felt so good?
This seemed a lot more intimate than holding hands. To me, at least. Strange that Emily didn’t seem the least bit bothered by it.
I’d spent more time than I should’ve wondering why she’d gotten so jumpy the other night at Jacob’s Club. She had to know that casual touching—harmless stuff, like holding hands and kisses on the cheek—was part of our deal. It was in the contract. The people wouldn’t buy our relationship if we looked stiff and uncomfortable together.
Yes, touching the person you were pretending to be in love with was admittedly weird. But I don’t think Emily was reacting to that weirdness. It was something deeper. More personal.
Whatever it was, we had to work through it. The distraction we were creating had to be a knock out punch. There was no room for error.
“There.” Emily leaned back to check out my hair one last time. “Much better. You can go back to being the most handsome man in the room now.”
I tried on Rob’s shit-eating grin. “Is it working?”
Emily squinted at me. I laughed. “Maybe if I down a few more drinks, yeah.” She waved her hand. “Meh, not worth the hangover.”
The camera phones were going crazy again. In for a penny…
“Honestly, what is worth a hangover these days?” I asked. “Mine have gotten pretty horrid.”
“Right?” she said. “Once you turn thirty, they’re bad. Like a stomach flu and an existential crisis, all rolled into one.”
I laughed. For real. Again. I knew I needed to reel it in, but…this was fun. I’d forgotten how fun it was to connect with someone.
“The last time I really went out drinking,” I said, “Christ, it had to have been a year ago now? More? Anyway. I spent the entire next day rolling around my bathroom floor in agony. Naked, of course. Although I can’t really remember why. I think I threw up on my clothes. Or my brothers stole them. One of the two.”
Emily crossed her legs, leaning into me. “Your brothers really have a thing against clothes, don’t they?”
“You have no idea.” I shook my head. “They’re born exhibitionists. It’s like a sickness.”
She grinned. “A sickness London’s female population doesn’t seem to mind one bit.” Emily’s eyebrows shot up. She bit her lip. God, I really wish she�
��d stop doing that. It was…distracting. “But you were the one who was naked that time, huh?”
Emily was flirting with me now. Fake flirting, obviously. But it was still convincing—convincing enough for our audience.
Convincing enough to pull me in.
“Quite naked,” I replied. I considered putting my arm on the back of the sofa behind her, but then decided against it. We were doing so well, and I didn’t want to spook her.
“I’m sorry to have missed the show,” she said.
“It wasn’t my best. But I’m happy to give it a go again. Minus the dry heaving, of course.”
Her eyes were glittering. I felt a familiar tightening between my legs.
Oh, hell no.
I reeled my body back in. Willed myself to remember that this was all an act. Crown and country. Cold showers. North Korea. I scrambled to think of anything except Emily and the shape of her body.
I wasn’t the only one being sucked in. I glanced around and saw a few others shamelessly eavesdropping, waiting with bated breath for her reply.
“How does tonight sound?” she said. “I could really go for a—”
Her eyes suddenly went wide when a new song came on. A cheer erupted from the dance floor.
“What is it?” I asked.
She turned her wide-eyed stare on me. “Justin Bieber,” she breathed.
“Justin Bieber is here? How’d that bloke get in?”
“It’s a Justin Bieber song,” Emily said, pointing to the ceiling. She started bobbing her head to the beat. “You know this one!”
I listened for a moment. I’d never heard this song in my life.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Emily looked at me like I had two heads. “But it’s the best song ever.”
“Is it?” I asked, dubious.
Before I knew what she was doing, Emily set down her drink and stood up. I hadn’t realized just how long her legs were until now. Long and lithe and strong—
“Come on,” she said, tilting her head toward the dance floor. “Let’s go dance. I can’t stand still when Justin’s on.”
My heart seized.
I did not dance. After an unfortunate episode at university when I’d been caught on film doing a Dad dance that, to this day, made me die a little each time I thought about it, I vowed I’d never dance again. As the future King of England, I had to take myself seriously. Making a fool of myself on the dance floor sort of undermined that, no?
I shook my head. “You go. I’ll stay here and hold down the fort.”
“Seriously?” Emily put a hand on her hip. “You’re not going to dance?”
“Not my thing.”
Her eyes bore into mine. “Sickeningly cute, remember?” she said.
I let out a sigh and glanced around. People were still watching us. Still waiting to see what we would do next.
It would probably look good if Emily and I danced together. And the dance floor was crowded enough that I doubted I’d have enough room to make a total ass of myself. A partial ass, maybe, but not a total one.
I’d also promised to make things easy for Emily. I couldn’t really leave her to dance by herself when she didn’t know anyone here. What if some random bloke tried something with her?
The thought made my pulse roar.
It was just one dance. One song that was already halfway over.
“Okay,” I said, managing a tight grin as I stood up next to her. “Let’s go dance. But don’t say I didn’t warn you that I’ve got two left feet.”
She tossed me a smile over her shoulder as we made our way across the club. “It’ll be fun, I promise. Don’t worry.”
But sneaking a peek at her ass—it did look just right in those jeans—I did worry.
I worried a lot.
Chapter Twelve
Kit
We burrowed our way to the center of the dance floor. The music was so loud—we were two meters, maybe less, from the DJ booth—the floor vibrated in time to the thumping beat.
I was careful to keep Emily close. She threw her hands in the air and swayed her hips. When she turned around to face me, she was wearing the biggest smile I’d ever seen on her. It was so big and so infectious it had to be genuine. This girl clearly loved to dance. I found myself smiling back, despite feeling awkward as hell.
It didn’t help that people were staring. A couple close by were whispering to each other and pointing at us.
I tugged a hand through my hair, realizing a second too late I was probably looking electrocuted again. Everyone around me was moving to the beat. My legs felt like lead weights. The song kept going on and on—bloody hell, was this a remix?—and I prayed for it to end. Dancing with Emily for longer than I had to was a bad idea. Especially when she smiled like that.
“Come on!” Emily shimmied her shoulders. She was completely unselfconscious. Easy enough for her. She was a good dancer. A really good dancer.
I glanced around to see who was watching. Everyone.
Brilliant.
I sort of swayed from one foot to the other. I hated every minute of it.
Emily leaned in. Do not look down her shirt. Do not—
Too late. My eyes flicked to her chest. The front of her tank top hung down. I caught a glimpse of pink. Her bra.
“Hey.” She tapped my chin. “Up here, highness.”
I had no excuse. I didn’t offer one.
“Sorry.”
She waved a finger in my face. “Get your mind out of the gutter and just move. You’re doing great.”
She rolled her hips to the throbbing chorus. How the fuck did she move like that?
I kept swaying like a wanker. Emily kept rolling her hips. I was so aware of everyone’s eyes on us I felt like I was burning up. I did not get flustered like this. The attention was nothing new, but being center stage on a dance floor with Emily was.
The crowd was pressing Emily and I closer. A bead of sweat rolled down my back.
My shoulders slumped in relief when the song finally ended. But just as I was about to turn and head back to the safety of our table, the DJ came over the speakers.
“Seems like we’ve got a few special Bieber fans in the house! Here’s another Bieber banger, just for you.”
I stared at the DJ over Emily’s head, daggers in my eyes. No, I silently pleaded. I will pay you one hundred million pounds not to play this song.
Emily, however, leapt three feet in the air when the song came on.
“I love this one even more!” She turned her smile on me.
For a minute I struggled to breathe. That smile.
I had to look away. The night wasn’t supposed to go like this. Control was slipping through my grasp. I had to—
Emily leaned in again our faces inches apart.
I had to what?
“You look like you’re having your fingernails pulled out,” she said.
I wasn’t even attempting to sway anymore. “Yes, I imagine this is what it feels like.”
She grinned. “Here, let me help you.” She raised her arms and looped them around my neck, pulling me close. A wave of her perfume hit me.
I felt a sharp jab in my chest. What the hell? Emily had nearly choked when I touched her hand. But now she was fine with some total body touching on the dance floor?
None of it made sense. I couldn’t—this could not happen. But I also couldn’t pull away from her without drawing attention.
I ducked my head to murmur in her ear. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you to dance,” she said matter-of-factly.
I pulled back and met her eyes. They were sparking with confidence, daring me to pull away.
Daring me to do it.
“I’m hopeless,” I said.
She shook her head. “You’re just not letting loose. So what if you look like an idiot? Everyone else does.”
To demonstrate her point, she nodded at a guy doing a terrible version of the worm. He looked like he was having an epilep
tic seizure on the floor. He still smiled. Still kept on worming.
“Here. Let’s start with the shopping cart,” she said. “Follow me—just keep putting stuff in your cart.”
Leave it to Emily to make the shopping cart look cool. She was smiling again, laughing at herself as she plucked invisible items from an invisible shelf and dropped them in her invisible cart, all while moving in time to the beat.
“Come on, Kit,” she said.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked at her. Sickeningly cute. We were supposed to be sickeningly cute together.
I had to admit the shopping cart was cute. It’d make a great headline.
Fuck me for life.
With a sigh, I pulled my hands out of my pockets and made a shameful first attempt at filling my cart. Emily’s face lit up.
“That’s it. Okay, now let’s toss some dice.”
Emily curled her hand into a fist, giving it a shake before she released the pretend dice with a swipe of her arm. “Toss it. Toss that dice, Kit, I know you can.”
I gave it a go, and despite myself, I started laughing. This was so bloody ridiculous.
Ridiculous. And sort of fun.
“You’re getting there. Okay, let’s try the sprinkler. Go!”
Emily went all in on that one. She leaned back as she waved her arm in the air, pressing her hips into my groin.
Oh, it was on.
I sprinkler-ed right back. I didn’t realize I was moving my hips, too, until they ran into hers again. She bit her lip.
“Lawnmower,” she said, her ass swerving in time to the beat as she pushed that lawnmower. Pushed it.
She’d finally managed to look as stupid as I felt. And she knew it. Her smile was bigger than ever and she was singing at the top of her lungs, like she didn’t give a damn about anything except enjoying the moment.
Like she hadn’t a care in the world.
But she did. Clearly. We were here for a reason. We had a job to do. She was as tired and worried and stressed as I was.
But she wasn’t letting that stop her. She lost herself in the throb of the music and the apparent magic of Justin Bieber.
Royal Ruin: A Flings With Kings Novel Page 8
