“Ready?” he asked.
There it was again, that viciousness. That urgency. I’d never seen it in him before.
It was so. Sexy.
“Ready,” I said.
Rob moved out onto the sidewalk. His stride was purposeful, confident, but he was still careful to keep me close.
A photographer rushed at us.
“Back up,” Rob barked at him. The guy scurried off, tail between his legs.
The paparazzi stood back, but they continued to take pictures. I tried my best to stay close to Rob without touching him. The last thing I needed were rumors floating around about us. Whatever we’d been doing, it was over.
A Range Rover with blacked out windows waited for us at the curb. The engine throbbed, a low, almost sinister sound. A man in a black suit and sunglasses, earpiece coiling up his neck, hurried to open the back door for us.
Rob’s other hand slid to the back of my neck. He ducked my head, helping me inside first before he followed. It all happened quickly: the door slamming behind us. The guy in the suit jumping in the front seat. Rob reaching across me, giving my seatbelt a hard tug and buckling me in. The driver punching the gas.
Breathless, I turned my head to watch the photographers recede from view. They were busy snapping pictures of the car. Several onlookers had stopped to watch, too. It was surreal, like the back window had turned into a TV screen and I was watching a Liam Neeson movie.
I felt a hand on my leg. I turned back to see Rob looking at me. His eyes were open. Soft.
My stomach dipped.
“You okay?”
I swallowed. Looked down at his hand, looked back up at his face. Our eyes locked.
Something moved between us then. I couldn’t explain it. It just felt…nice. I could see the desire behind those baby blues of his. But I also sensed concern there. Which made me feel safe. Jesus, I felt safe with Rob. He was looking after me—touching me—and I didn’t hate it.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his eyes changed. His whole being changed. He went from being open and soft to closed off and hard in the space of a single heartbeat. It was like watching a wall come down behind his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
He suddenly pulled back his hand, like I’d burned him, and turned looked out the window.
What in the world?
“I’m fine,” I bit out. “You?”
“I shouldn’t have dismissed my detail,” he growled.
The man in the front seat cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t have, sir. All due respect.”
“You were right, Marty.” Rob settled his elbow on the car door. “As usual.”
“Sir. I’m always right.”
“You’ve really got to rub it in like that, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do. It’s quite satisfying.”
Rob was silent for the rest of the drive, his eyes glued to the window. The sudden change in his mood was confusing. It actually hurt. And I didn’t like that I’d let Rob hurt my feelings.
We wove through London for a while. Marty wanted to make sure we didn’t have a tail. Satisfied we weren’t being followed, we finally made our way to my office.
The driver pulled up to the curb outside my building and put the car in park.
Silence, uncomfortable and heavy, swam in the space between my body and Rob’s as I unbuckled my seatbelt.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
Rob grunted in reply.
Ass.
I was about to open my door when Marty cleared his throat.
“Sir?”
“What is it now?” Rob spat.
“A gentleman usually escorts a lady to her door. Sir.”
Rob’s entire body went rigid. Like being asked to walk me to my door was a gigantic imposition after I’d just been scared shitless by the paparazzi.
Rolling my eyes—why’d he have to be such a dick?—I pushed open my door.
The next thing I knew, Rob was opening his, too, sighing heavily as he slammed it shut behind him.
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” I said, and turned back to my door.
I climbed the steps two at a time. I wanted to get away from Rob. Away from the things I was feeling. I dug my keys out of my bag.
I felt Rob standing behind me. This brooding, angry, impatient presence.
My hand shook as I tried to unlock the door. The keys fell through my hands onto the stoop.
“Need help with that?” he asked, sounding bored.
I grabbed the keys. “No.” Then I shoved the key into the lock and finally slid the bolt home. I couldn’t get inside fast enough.
Rob didn’t say goodbye. But as I turned to close the door behind me, I caught him looking at me. His eyes—they weren’t hard or soft. They were conflicted. Confused.
They lingered on me for one heartbeat, then another.
At last he turned and stalked down the sidewalk, his footsteps marking a loud, steady beat in the otherwise quiet afternoon.
I threw my keys on a nearby table and tugged off my jacket. I couldn’t catch my breath. Rob had been almost charming at lunch. Courteous. And then, seemingly out of the blue, he goes full dickhead.
Reason number eight hundred and nine why breaking off our hook up had been a good idea. Rob had his pussy. And I had Philip. Two totally opposite things, because that’s what he and I were—opposites.
Besides. Moody men had absolutely no place in my fairy tale.
Chapter Six
Rob
It’d been a total asshole move, shutting down on Aly like that. But it was the only thing I could think to do.
After I’d gotten her safely inside the car and asked if she was okay, hope had risen in Aly’s eyes like the sun, warm and real. I’d seen it, and I’d felt it, and it had scared the hell out of me. I wasn’t the sort of man to take that hope and run with it. Make it shine brighter.
I was the sort who blotted it out with disappointment. And the thought of disappointing Aly made my chest ache.
So I pushed her away. I was probably imagining her interest anyway. The adrenaline from our encounter with the photographers was fucking with my internal compass. She’d said point blank she didn’t like me. A single lunch—a single look—wasn’t going to change that.
I’d seen firsthand how hope in a girl like that could be crushed by a bloke like me. I was a flake. I had a wandering eye. I was restless. I was my grandfather all over again.
Which meant I wasn’t worthy of her or the things she wanted.
With a sigh, I dug my mobile out of my pocket and scrolled through my contacts. There had to be someone in here who could come over tonight. Someone who didn’t want “the real deal” like Aly did.
Someone who could make me forget the pleasure that had curled around my heart and squeezed when I’d made Aly laugh today.
I had to bloody forget.
“Everything all right, sir?”
I looked up to see Marty peering at me in the rearview mirror. He still wore his standard issue aviators, so I couldn’t see his eyes. But I could tell from the tightness around his mouth that he was concerned.
Did I really look as off-kilter as I felt?
“I’m fine,” I said, looking back down at my mobile to nonchalantly continue my scrolling. “Why?”
Marty cleared his throat. “Sir. I’ve never seen you quite so worked up.”
I speared a hand through my hair. Bloody hell.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Aly is my future sister-in-law’s best friend. Her maid of honor. I don’t want her getting spooked—it’ll upset Kit.”
Marty’s gaze was still on me. I felt it. I ran my finger inside my collar, still scrolling. Ah—here was a good option. Francesca Wickshire-Bolton was a regular at the polo fields. Her brother Nicholas, an Earl, was one of my mates from Eton, and often played with me at charity events. She was leggy. Fit. Best of all, she only wanted me for my cock.
“Whatever
you say, sir,” Marty clipped.
My thumb hovered over her number. I willed myself to press it. Send her a lewd little text that I knew she’d respond to.
But for some reason, I couldn’t. The thought of seeing Francesca tonight didn’t excite me the way it usually did. Instead it made me feel a bit…empty.
Which was fucking strange and off putting and confusing. Fran was exactly my sort of girl. I wanted to want her.
But I didn’t. And I didn’t understand why not.
I pressed the button on the side of the phone, blanking the screen. I pulled my thumb and forefinger across my eyes. Maybe I was just tired. A bit overwhelmed in my new position. It would pass.
So too would the feeling of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I’d done the right thing, keeping Aly at arm’s length. It was better if she hated me.
I just wished I didn’t want to tear her clothes off so bloody bad.
I was determined to keep my distance from Aly. But later that night, I got an email from my mate with the catering business. I’d reached out to him before Aly had shot down my offer to bring in food for the engagement party. He’d sent sample menus, along with some ideas on how to customize them.
Aly didn’t want me taking on the food. But my mate had a special connection to Kit and Em. I figured Aly would want to know about him at least.
It was just an email—I wasn’t calling her or anything. Emails were professional. Impersonal. They wouldn’t give her the wrong idea about my intentions.
Still, I ended up deleting the first email I typed out. The second, too. Was I a knob to even send one?
Fuck it. She could read it or not. That was up to her. But at least she’d have my mate’s info if she needed it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Caterer Idea
FROM THE DESK OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ROBERT
Aly—Know you’re handling the food for the party. But I have a mate who owns his own catering company—he’s done parties for us in the past, always a bang up job. Also works at Jacob’s Club, which is where Kit and Em had their first date. Could be a nice nod to their story? I’m attaching his sample menus.
My pulse skipped a beat when a reply popped up in my inbox a few minutes later. Aly’d always been punctual in replying to emails. Text messages, too, back when we’d been hooking up. But I supposed part of me thought she’d ignore my note after the way I’d behaved earlier.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Caterer Idea
Rob—didn’t expect to hear from you. You’re putting yourself out for me twice in one day? What a prince of a guy. *swoons* *just kidding I am not the swooning type and even if I were how could I swoon over your a-holeness?*
I checked out the menus. They look decent. The first date angle is actually sort of cute. I will reach out to him.
Aly
I should’ve left it there. But I couldn’t. Those first few lines—they made me laugh. But they also stung.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Caterer Idea
Aly—glad you like the menus. Seriously, I can do the food. I know Richard quite well. Let me take care of it?
I never pretended to be anything other than I am. A prince in title, definitely not in practice. I don’t make girls swoon. I make them come. As you well know.
How are you? After what happened today, I mean. I hate the press.
—Fast Cars & P**** (can’t type that word or I’ll get fired)
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Caterer Idea
If you really do have an in with this guy, I’d consider letting you take the lead on the food. I’m only doing this out of desperation. We landed a big project today and I have a very full plate. Plus I’d rather focus on fun stuff for the party, like the signature cocktail.
I’m fine. I was a bit shaken up. And you were a total jerk in the car. But I’ll live. I noticed you don’t like the media much. Makes me wonder why you’ve got it out for them? I imagine it takes a lot to make the playboy prince bark. Outside the bedroom, that is.
Also, princes can get fired?
—Can’t Be Bought
PS—Don’t you have a real job now to wake up early for? What are you doing up so late?
She was okay. Good. I let out a sigh of relief, even as my heart twisted at her question. I didn’t want to talk about my grandfather with Aly. That was family business. Something best kept close to the vest.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Caterer Idea
Can’t Be Bought—I’ll handle the food. Promise I won’t let our guests starve. What the hell is a signature cocktail BTW? Not being an as$, just genuinely curious. I’m terribly behind on my wedding lingo.
And yes, princes can definitely get fired. But only by the Queen. Good thing she’s got a soft spot for me (she actually doesn’t, so I’ve got to tread lightly).
I’m glad you’re okay. Our press office is at your disposal. I had a word with them earlier—they will be releasing another statement. Paps should leave you alone going forward. We’ll do our best to prevent another incident like that happening.
I only bark when provoked. Would you like to provoke me, Can’t Be Bought?
FC&P
PS—I think the better question is what are YOU doing up so late? Don’t you have a real job to wake up for too? Em told me you’re killing it as the new boss. How’s the transition going?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Caterer Idea
FC&P—Don’t think I didn’t notice how you ignored my question about the paparazzi. But it’s cool if you don’t want to talk about it. I can only imagine how weird it must be to have had photographers and journalists following you all your life.
The transition to CEO has been hard. But good. I’ve never worked more in my life. I’m exhausted. But I love what I do, and I feel lucky I get to do it all day. How’s your new job going?
A signature cocktail is a specialty drink served at a party or a wedding. So for Kit and Em—they both like bourbon, and I was considering doing a twist on a bourbon old fashioned for the engagement party. Could be cool, no?
Just like you ignored my question about the press, I’m going to ignore yours about provoking you. I think you know the answer anyway.
PS—I wish I could say I’m up late working. But really I’m just messing around on Pinterest looking for flower ideas.
PPS—I’ll be honest. Feel like I’m emailing with a different person than the one who was forced by his security guard to walk me to my door earlier today. Who are you?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Get some sleep
Don’t let me keep you up, Can’t Be Bought. Sounds like you’ve got loads on your plate at the moment. Go to bed! The flowers can wait.
Growing up in the public eye has been…weird. Sometimes the attention can be a good thing. Like when it brings awareness to a cause or a charity. But a lot of the time it’s just intrusive. It’s all pretty much lies anyway.
I adore the Old Fashioned idea. Kit and Em will too. You really are brilliant at this stuff.
New job is actually going well. No one is more surprised than I am. Amazing the difference six months can make.
As to your comment that I’m a different person: we don’t know each other very well, do we? If you remember, you put some rules in place way back when—one of them was ‘no talking’. Not that I minded it at the time. But it meant we didn’t ever interact outside of work (or the bathroom at the Rose & Thorn). Also—you weren’t the only one a bit shaken up today. I hate be
ing taken off guard like that.
Get some sleep. We can’t have our maid of honor burning out before the wedding even happens.
FC&P
Aly
I’d taken Rob’s advice and gone to bed. But I thought about our little email exchange a lot the next day. He’d reached out on his own. And to provide some actually helpful ideas for the engagement party. He’d been witty. Even kinda thoughtful.
It gave me butterflies. The kind I wanted to feel for Philip but didn’t. The kind I absolutely did not want to feel for Rob the playboy prince. He’d had his chance with me. If he’d wanted more, he could have said something when I’d ended our…er, sexual relationship. But he’d let me go. He’d been rude in the car after our lunch meeting. And that spoke volumes about what he wanted.
He didn’t want me.
My “rules” could’ve had something to do with that, sure. They’d seemed like such a good idea back then. Rob definitely wasn’t the guy for me. He was young, cocky, and impetuous. I’d wanted nothing from him but his dick. But that didn’t mean I had the right to shut him out like I had. He had made my job a hell of a lot more difficult. If I’d just taken the time to talk to him, though—maybe he would’ve told me about his grandfather. And maybe I could’ve pushed him toward a much-needed leave of absence or something.
Royal Rebel: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Flings With Kings) Page 5
