Waiting for Prince Harry

by Aven Ellis

  “While I see many things I like at this table,” Harrison says, leaning forward to smell Japanese Quince, “there’s one thing in particular, other than this candle, that I need.”

  He stands up straight but keeps his hand wrapped over mine.

  “What would that be?” I ask softly.

  “Dinner with you. At my place. Tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  The Pop Quiz Question: You are about to go on your first official date with your crush. How do you feel?

  A) Anxious. What if it goes wrong?

  B) Confident. He liked me enough to ask me on a date, so nothing to worry about.

  C) Excited. I feel like I’m about to go out with my own Prince Harry.

  I turn down Harrison’s street in Highland Park and draw an eager breath. I instantly know which house is his. He told me it’s to the right of a house that is undergoing massive renovations, and it would be impossible to miss the dumpsters and construction equipment.

  But there it is, a gorgeous Mediterranean-style home.

  Harrison’s home.

  And for the millionth time since he asked me to come over for dinner earlier today, I can’t believe that I’m here. That Hockey God Harrison Flynn—one of the most eligible bachelors in Dallas—wants me, Normal Girl Kylie Reed, here.

  I pull up into the driveway and look at his beautiful home with lush landscaping. It’s stunning, but not crazy huge like I expected his home to be.

  I turn off the ignition and pop open the mirror on my visor. Okay. I draw another breath and re-check all my makeup. Next I glance down at my outfit. For tonight I chose a pair of white Capri jeans, metallic sandals, and a beautiful salmon-colored silk tank top with tiered ruffles and spaghetti straps. I wanted something light because it was so hot out, yet casual because we are eating at home—

  We. We are going to be a we tonight.

  Calm down, Kylie, I will myself. This is a dinner date. Nothing more, nothing less.

  But I’m having dinner with my own Prince Harry.

  Okay, so focusing on being calm and thinking “it’s just dinner” is nearly impossible when dinner is with a hot ginger-haired Hockey God. My new bracelet obviously needs to be inscribed with KNTBC—Kylie Needs To Be Calm.

  I get out of my car, pick up my purse and the host gift I bought for him, and walk up the winding sidewalk. The flowerbeds are filled with huge lavender bushes, and I can smell them as I go up the steps. Bright pink hibiscus flowers are blooming in large pots on the porch, one of the flowers that will not wilt in the extreme Dallas heat.

  I can already hear the dogs barking as I get to the door. I smile, as I remember Harrison told me that he has two dogs named Cooper and Lola, both Golden Retrievers that he runs with nearly every day.

  My heart does a skip inside my chest as I stare at his doorbell. I draw another excited breath, exhale, and press it.

  I hear Harrison say “wait” to the dogs, who immediately stop barking. The lock turns and Harrison opens the door. The second I look at him all thoughts of being calm go sailing right out of my head. Because it is impossible to remain calm when this gorgeous Ginger Boy is smiling at me.

  “Hi, Kylie,” he says, grinning at me. “Glad you could make it tonight. Come on in.”

  My pulse is zigging and zagging all over the place as my eyes drink him in. Harrison’s ginger hair is perfectly tousled. He’s wearing a short-sleeved, green plaid shirt that lights up his gorgeous eyes and a pair of khaki cargo shorts, and gray Converse kicks. His hand is up on the door, and I see he has a skinny black leather bracelet on his left wrist.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling back at him, my heart fluttering inside my chest as I step past him.

  “You look amazing,” Harrison says, shutting the door behind me.

  “Thank you,” I say happily.

  Harrison smiles gently at me. “I’m afraid I don’t look as sharp as I did last night, but these clothes are more suited to grilling outside.”

  “I like casual Harrison Flynn,” I say. Then, before he busts me completely staring at him, I turn my attention to the dogs standing in front of me in his foyer, their tails swishing back and forth eagerly.

  “Can I greet them?” I ask.

  “Of course. They’re friendly,” Harrison says. “The one on the right is Cooper. The other one is Lola.”

  I stick out my hand for both of them to sniff.

  “I’m going to let them go, is that all right?”

  I smile at Harrison. “Yes. I love dogs, actually.”

  Harrison smiles back at me. Then he looks at Cooper and Lola. “Go ahead,” he commands.

  Both dogs come right up to me. I bend down and put my purse and bag down on the terra-cotta tiled floor and begin petting them.

  “They’re so well behaved, Harrison,” I say, letting Lola nuzzle my face. “Aren’t you a beautiful girl?”

  “Thank you,” Harrison says. “Because they are big dogs, I wanted them trained for the pet sitter when I’m on the road. Or for when VIP’s come over, you know.”

  I glance at him, and his eyes are shining at me. And my heart flips again in response.

  “I’ve always had dogs,” I say, now turning my attention to Cooper. “I miss having one now.”

  I stand up, picking up my purse and gift bag, and take in my surroundings. The hallway is painted in Spanish hues—light terra cotta on the walls and a soft turquoise blue is visible between the dark wood beams on the ceiling. There are wall sconces and a large, rustic wooden table with candles and lamps on it. And a handmade pottery bowl that is overflowing with mail, magazines, and advertisements thrown in every which way.

  I smile at that, as it reminds me of the pile of crap he had in the front seat of his Range Rover.

  I also hear music, a woman singing in a sexy, soulful voice. Very R&B, and not at all what I expected Harrison Flynn to have in his music collection. I’m about to ask him who it is when he speaks first.

  “Let me show you inside,” Harrison says, interrupting my thoughts.

  Cooper and Lola guide the way as we move down the hall. There’s an arched doorway on my left that leads into an office—again, decorated in that same rustic Spanish style. I see framed jerseys on the walls of the office—and there they are, two Olympic jerseys from TEAM USA. Of course I knew he had played in the Olympic Games, but seeing the jerseys makes it so real. Harrison is a professional athlete. I see three framed jerseys in total: One Dallas Demons Jersey, the two Team USA ones. The professional life of Harrison Flynn right there under the glass.

  And a big reminder of how different his life is from mine.

  I continue my look around his office and once again I see piles of papers stacked every which way on the desk, books thrown haphazardly in the bookshelves, but not arranged in any kind of height order like I would do—

  “You want to file my papers, don’t you?”

  I turn toward Harrison, who is smiling at me.

  “Actually, I want to reorganize your books in height order,” I blurt out. “Preferably by read books, and then unread books.”

  Harrison frowns at me. I feel my face grow hot in embarrassment. Oh God, did I really just say something that incredibly nerdy to Harrison?

  I told him I want to organize his books.

  I should go home right now.

  Harrison has dated supermodels.

  Not girls who talk about how to organize books in height order.

  “You really are Type A,” Harrison says slowly, rubbing his fingertips along his jaw line. “Because it bothers you if a tall book is sandwiched in between two shorter ones.”

  “Yes, it’s not visually appealing,” I admit, as there’s no point in hiding my nerdiness now.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Harrison says, his face
lighting up as if he’s putting together a puzzle. “Of course, you’re visual. So being a Type A personality and a visual person, that would bother you. I understand the thought process now.”

  I laugh, feeling at ease again. “Are you sure you’re a hockey player and not a psychologist? Because, yes, Dr. Flynn, I’d say your assessment is correct.”

  He laughs with me. “And the papers bother you, don’t they?”

  “Of course they do! I don’t see how you find things,” I say honestly. “It’s just so—”

  “Messy?” Harrison interjects, lifting an eyebrow.

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “It’s very messy.”

  “I can function in a state of chaos,” he says easily. “Now over here is the dining room,” Harrison says, and I glance at the room across from the office.

  But my brain is still stuck on him wanting to exist in a paper mess. “Why would you choose functioning in chaos when you can be organized?” I ask as we go down the hallway.

  “Chaos is more fun than filing papers.”

  “Oh, you are so wrong,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Are you telling me filing is fun?” Harrison teases.

  “No,” I say, laughing. “But if you do a little filing every day, it doesn’t stack up, and then when you need something, you can find it in seconds.”

  “I know where everything is.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know that,” I say.

  “I like chaos.”

  “Why would you like paper chaos?”

  Suddenly I stop speaking as we enter his living area.

  It’s spectacular. The terra cotta floor tiles are covered with a rich, burgundy and cream floral patterned rug. Light taupe sofas—huge, overstuffed, comfy sofas-are arranged across from each other in front of a large stone fireplace. A rustic wooden table is in between the sofas. There are potted palms placed next to the large arched windows, and the windows overlook a lushly landscaped backyard.

  The backyard has a patio and gorgeous pool, complete with a fountain at the end of it, made out of Mediterranean inspired tiles. Lounge chairs and large umbrellas are set up around the deck, making it perfect for a lazy summer day or for entertaining.

  I see a huge built-in grill outside, and rattan furniture with turquoise cushions are arranged around a fireplace pit. In a word, it’s fantastic.

  “Wow,” I say. “Harrison, your home is beautiful. I love the Mediterranean inspiration.”

  “Thank you,” Harrison says. “I went to Spain last summer and just fell in love with the whole vibe. I’d been living in a condo at the W Hotel until that point. But being in the Basque country inspired me to move forward with a home so I could recreate that feeling here, you know? So I bought this place, got hooked up with an interior designer, and now I have a Spanish-inspired home.”

  We turn and walk toward the kitchen, which is open to the spacious living area. It has dark wood cabinets, a Mediterranean-styled mosaic tiled backsplash, stainless steel appliances, and a huge island with a granite countertop.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Harrison asks as we head into the kitchen. “Chardonnay?”

  I feel my heart flutter. He remembers, I think. He remembers that is what I drank the night we met.

  “That,” I say happily, “sounds perfect.”

  Harrison nods as I put my things down on the kitchen island. I take a seat in one of the chairs while he opens his fridge and removes a wine bottle.

  “By the way, who are we listening to?” I ask, curious about the music he’s playing.

  “Jessie Ware,” Harrison says, shutting the stainless steel refrigerator door. “English R&B. I love this CD. It’s really soulful.”

  “I like it,” I say, smiling at him.

  “Well, let’s hope you like the wine equally well,” Harrison says, grinning. “The guy at the wine store said this was an inspired choice. I admit I’m not a wine drinker, so I took his word for it.” He takes the bottle and presents it to me like a sommelier would. “May I show you this Talbott Chardonnay from Sleepy Hallow Vineyards circa 2010?” Harrison says, making his voice sound snooty.

  I can’t help but grin. I love this goofy side he’s showing me.

  “Mmm, very impressive, Sommelier Flynn.”

  “So does this vintage meet with your approval, Senorita Reed?”

  I giggle at his presentation. “Yes, it does.”

  “Good. It should pair harmoniously with the orange-glazed salmon I’m making.”

  We both laugh, and Harrison opens a drawer. “Let me pour this for you, Senorita.”

  I watch as he rummages through the drawer. A crease forms in his brow as he begins pulling utensils out and tossing them on the island. “Hold on for a second,” he says, digging through piles of kitchen gadgets.

  “Yes, I can see that you know where everything is in a state of drawer chaos,” I tease.

  “No, I know it’s here,” Harrison claims as he continues to search. Then he glances up at me with a sheepish smile on his face. “Somewhere.”

  He looks back down and then his eyes widen. “Ah-ha! Found it.”

  As he goes about opening the bottle for me, I decide to ask him about his travels abroad.

  “So what did you do in Spain?” I ask, curious.

  “I did some amazing things,” Harrison says. “I went by myself—”

  “You went alone?” I interrupt, shocked. “To a foreign country?”

  Harrison uncorks the bottle and lifts an eyebrow at me. “Well, yeah. I wanted to go, I had nobody to go with, so I went alone. And it was incredible.”

  He pours me a glass and hands it to me. His fingertips graze against mine and electricity flows through me from that simple contact.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” Harrison says, his eyes steady on mine. Then he moves his hand and clears his throat. “But Spain was wicked cool. I traveled at my leisure. I read books at the beach. I toured castles. Museums. I went to markets and took cooking classes from world famous chefs in their kitchens using local ingredients—”

  “I didn’t know you were so passionate about food,” I interject. “My roommate is a chef. You two would have loads to talk about.”

  Harrison goes over to his fridge and takes out a beer. “I started learning about nutrition because of hockey,” he says, coming back to the drawer and pulling out a bottle opener. He pops the top off and goes to his cabinet, selecting a pilsner glass. “Then I began cooking for myself. I find it enjoyable, actually. And learning from world famous chefs was so cool. I loved it,” he explains, pouring the beer into the pilsner. “I intend to go back as soon as I can. And perhaps this time I’ll have someone I want to share the experience with,” he says softly, staring at me.

  I can’t help it. My heart leaps at the way he is looking at me, and I know this is utterly insane, every advice article I have ever clipped would advise against this line of thought, but I can’t help but picture myself in Spain with Harrison next summer. Walking hand-in-hand on the beach, exploring the local markets, with him picking up things for dinner and me searching for vintage textiles—

  “All right, I need to start cooking,” Harrison says, taking a sip of his beer and putting his glass down on the island.

  Oh, Jesus. I mentally slap myself for thinking what I just did. It’s dinner, Kylie. Be calm. Do not go researching villas to rent in Spain just yet. KNTBC.

  Refocus. Now.

  “Wait,” I say, shifting my train of thought. “Before you do, I have something for you.” I pick up my gift bag and hand it to him. “For having me over for dinner tonight.”

  Harrison looks stunned. “What’s this?”

  I smile at him. “Well, Mr. Flynn, the normal procedure is to open it and find ou
t.”

  Harrison unties the ribbon I have carefully cut and curled around the bag handles. He removes the tissue paper and pulls out a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

  “You remembered,” he says, his voice reflecting utter surprise.

  “Of course I did,” I say quietly. “And I know you like to go out and get it, but if you don’t feel like it one morning, you could make it at home. But there’s more.”

  Harrison looks back down and lifts up the bag of vanilla macaroon granola I had tucked in with the coffee.

  “I love that on Greek yogurt for breakfast with berries,” I say. “I don’t know if that is your kind of thing, but it’s excellent with coffee.”

  Harrison stares at me, and I can tell I caught him off guard with my gift.

  “Kylie, this is really thoughtful. Thank you so much.”

  “Making dinner for me is thoughtful,” I say honestly, staring at him. “So you’re more than welcome.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. I can feel my heart pounding inside my chest. Harrison walks around to me, where I’m sitting on the tall stool, and stands in front of me. He slowly puts his hands on my face, cupping it, stroking it with his fingertips. I feel the now familiar sensation of his skin against mine, slowly tracing his fingertips along my cheekbones in a very sensual way.

  “You’re different, Kylie,” he whispers, staring into my eyes.

  Oh God. I really can’t breathe. The way Harrison is looking at me, the way his vanilla and spicy scent wraps around me, the way the roughness of his skin feels so masculine against my face—

  “I hope,” I say, my heart racing, “that’s a good thing.”

  Harrison’s fingertips now reach up to my temples, slowly sliding down through my hair and tucking it behind my ears. “It is,” he whispers, as his fingertips now dance along my jaw line and toward my chin, “a very good thing.”

  Harrison tilts my chin up. He leans forward and ever so gently presses his lips against mine.