Almost My Prince

by Miranda King

  When I’d twisted to look up at him just now, I must’ve caused the material to spread out for inspection of what Divina had called my “assets.”

  Dear Lord, why always around this man did my undergarments show?!

  He cloaked my chest with his jacket. I thanked my lucky stars that chivalry still survived here because his jacket covered my embarrassment and surrounded me with his warmth, with his scent, with the essence of him.

  “Thank you.” And I meant it.

  He inclined his head in the barest of acknowledgements and strode towards the door.

  What?! This was how he was going to leave me?

  I had visions of the kids finding me tomorrow morning bound up like Ann Darrow in the movie King Kong.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me like this,” I commanded.

  He swung back around to stare at me. “Why do you think I’d walk away from you?”

  From halfway across the classroom, I could see something in his eyes akin to hurt, something in them probing me for an answer. “Well, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you do to Margarita Girls?”

  His lips curved in a slow, seductive smile that reflected in his eyes. “Thought you said you weren’t a Margarita Girl?”

  “Apparently you keep comparing me to one—and I’ll have you know, I am not a loose woman.” And I wasn’t just referring to the fact that I was tied up to this machine.

  His expression grew serious. “Good, because I tire easily of loose women.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Within minutes, he returned with some sort of metal tool—don’t ask me what kind because I’d get it wrong. He wasn’t walking away from me, but he could’ve simply said so before my outburst.

  In my classification of people, he fit into his own category—Little Talk, All Action.

  Guess a man with all those muscles couldn’t help it. We were each born with 206 bones in our body, but when it came to divvying up the muscles, God had given this man an extra helping.

  I had his jacket draped around me, so while he worked on the machine, he was stripped down to only his close-fitting, long-sleeved shirt. He hovered mere inches from me and his heat enveloped and protected me.

  He talked me through everything he was doing, and I reiterated the importance of saving Grandpa’s ring. But, beyond that, honestly, who could pay attention when the sheen of his shirt exposed the topography of all those curves, valleys, and ripples of his flexing muscles?

  I imagined what it would be like to explore my hands across the smooth ridges of his bare arms and naked chest. I ached deep inside, as if those butterflies in my stomach also wanted to roam across his body.

  He gazed into my eyes and asked, “Are you ready?”

  I bit down on my bottom lip and nodded.

  “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but we can’t go back after we do this.”

  I nodded again.

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “Yes.”

  Gasp.

  That was it. He’d cut the chain—and Grandpa’s Stanvard Law class ring, his most prized possession that he’d entrusted with me, was swallowed whole into the belly of that machine.

  Now all I had was Mr. Princeton’s promise he’d get it back for me.

  But the next morning, instead of sending the repairman as he’d said, he had the whole machine carted off! And, all the others, too.

  I rushed up to Ursula in the front office who said Mr. Princeton had ordered them removed and replaced by new machines that would arrive before class started. But what about my necklace in the belly of that old machine?!

  After I sought him out, Mr. Princeton gave a noncommittal answer, put on his sunglasses, and headed outside to interact with the kids at lunch. I followed on his heels and called him “heartless” to his back.

  He pivoted around to me so fast, I had a near collision with his hard broad shoulders. My breath caught. I couldn’t see his eyes—but by the slow, deliberate cross of his arms over his expansive chest, I’d hit a nerve with him. Good.

  I settled one hand at my right hip and asked him why he’d already broken a promise he’d made to me just last night, why he’d so quickly trashed the machine without at least letting me try again for the necklace, and why he never gave me a straight answer about anything I asked him.

  He waited until I finished and pulled off his sunglasses. My breath hitched again.

  His eyes shined like brilliant blue diamonds—even more so under the sun, as if light beams danced in his eyes. And when his eyes locked onto mine, I swear I could see Heaven.

  But he sounded like a taunting devil when he said, “You’re a sassy little thing.”

  “No, I’m not!” My other hand swung to the curve of my hip.

  His gaze left mine and went to my hips, and then up and down, all over me. I shivered. His lips curled up into a satisfied smile. Then he covered his eyes with those sunglasses again, and he was gone.

  I didn’t see him again for the rest of the day. But in the staff lounge after school, I found something in my mailbox: A red case.

  Inside: My necklace!

  Wrapped around it was a typed note from the jeweler explaining that the ring sustained some damage. Evidently, Mr. Princeton ordered the ring split open to lie flat, more like a wide V shape, and to have the chain fastened to the ends. He also chose two enormous princess cut diamonds to flank the original ruby of Grandpa’s ring.

  Plus, I found a handwritten note:

  SLT?

  What on earth did that mean? And then it hit me.

  Sassy Little Thing.

  “Prince Michael and Sass Want Kids Now”

  -Gossip Weekly

  “Prince Michael and Sass Work with Kids to Practice for Their Own Someday”

  -Royal Rumor Report

  I clasped my necklace around my neck and gingerly fingered it several times a day. It was still Granpda’s ring, but now it fit me, curving perfectly to my décolletage. It didn’t escape me that, in order to design it, Mr. Princeton knew my exact curves and how that necklace should’ve laid across me.

  But if he was interested in me beyond friendship, he didn’t show it over the following days and weeks that he’d brought lunch to my room. I’d told him it’d take about a week for us to design a dress for True Royalty Vanessa. Yet over the course of all these weeks, we’d never gotten past choosing the gown color—of course, red.

  Instead, we talked about almost everything else—except his family and the divorce. I never probed because of what Divina had told me. And we still called each other by our last names. Sometimes students came in and out of my classroom during lunch, so it just became “our thing”—and the way he’d say my name sometimes felt like a caress down my body.

  When no kids were around, he asked me every kind of question about myself. Once I’d almost told him who my father was, but then the bell had rung. Mostly my stories made him smile, and he’d say something like, “And that’s why you’re my SLT.”

  We shared. We laughed. We teased. We had to see each other every day, sometimes multiple times.

  I’d expected to see him after school today, but the mock trial kids, Fallon, and Michael piled into my classroom after the bell to discuss their quarter-finals competition results.

  Smart Sally had long forgiven me for missing her first performance, and now she was jumping up and down at her perfect “ten” score in the quarter-finals.

  “I owe it all to you.” She gave me a wholehearted hug.

  “No, that was all you.”

  Michael also stepped in to get a hug. “I need one of those.” He didn’t ask—he took. His hug was tight, possessive, and, if we weren’t in front of the kids, my hand might’ve slapped him again.

  And who would’ve walked in right as that happened?

  Yep, Mr. Princeton.

  He approached Michael and their eyes engaged in a Texas showdown. But only when Pierce called Michael over to the other side of the room did the stalemate end. />
  “I came by to work on our project,” Mr. Princeton said to me after Michael reluctantly had left us. “And leave these for Sally.” He had a tied suede pouch, probably containing the rhinestones he’d promised a while back. Since she was standing nearby, I called her over and he handed them to her. “Make sure you keep these after your project is done.”

  She embraced him. “Oh, I will, thank you, Princeton.”

  He also pulled out a piece of candy from his suit pocket to give to her. He often did that with the students. “Let me know if you need more”—he pointed to her suede pouch—“even when you’re in college.”

  “But why would I need more rhinestones in college?” she asked him.

  “You never know.”

  “I could use some on your wedding dress,” she said to me. “I think Prince Michael really likes you.” She cast a glance at Mr. Princeton for some reason and then back over to me. “And your royal wedding will be even bigger than Kate and William’s!”

  I choked on her words, and Mr. Princeton had a hard edge to his eyes.

  “I can see you’re busy,” he clipped.

  I’d opened my mouth to say that I wasn’t, when Michael called me over to the other side of the room to help critique Pierce’s closing statement. Smart Sally trotted there without being asked. I didn’t like the way she practically clung to Pierce’s heels, nor the way he ignored her. She deserved better.

  I kept my eyes on her for a moment and then turned to Mr. Princeton. “I’m sure I can go back and forth and work with both you and Michael.”

  “I prefer not to share you with him.” His words were laser sharp.

  “Do you have a problem with Michael?” I asked the obvious.

  “I have a problem with anyone who takes what belongs to another man without paying the consequences.”

  Wow, it was going to take a while to unpack that sentence.

  “I need to go.” He huffed and, as usual, raked his hand through his hair.

  I knew better than to stop him. Yet he surprised me before he’d left by walking over to my desk. “Mind?” He’d lifted up a pen and a stickie pad.

  “Go ahead,” I said, curious as to what he was doing, but I had three students come over and shepherd me to the other side of the room where Pierce was about to rehearse his closing statement.

  The next time I looked over at my desk, Mr. Princeton was gone.

  Once Pierce finished, Michael proclaimed that the team should practice for the semi-finals at the Royal Offices down the street where he had a huge press conference room.

  That was a splendid idea. His demeanor was genuine enough to quash any of my inward reservations that he might be offering it only as a favor to me.

  Then Fallon puffed up and offered access to his law office conference room. In the end, Michael trumped Fallon.

  Fallon’s face flamed red. He loosened the joints in his neck and shoulders. I half-expected him to throw punches.

  Instead, he smirked. “Ms. Wellborn, why don’t you go ask Princeton for permission to let the students practice off campus?” He cast Michael a smug look.

  I almost didn’t want to leave these two men alone, but then Fallon said he had a meeting he’d forgotten about, picked up his day planner, and walked with me out the door.

  When we got into the hallway, he stopped me. “If you ever need me for any reason,” he said. “I’m here.” He clasped his clammy hand on my bare forearm. “I’d do anything for you.”

  Ewww!

  I managed a noncommittal response and jerked my arm away. In the process, I knocked his day planner to the sandstone tiles at our feet, and loose papers scattered everywhere.

  I bent down to help pick them up, and my mind took instant pictures of everything I saw. I stored the data away in my head for later, but the words “take out the king” caught my attention.

  Afterwards, I headed to Mr. Princeton’s office. But I just knew Fallon’s eyes were watching me from behind. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I shuddered. I thanked my lucky stars when I rounded the corner, and he could no longer see me.

  The front office still buzzed with life. But maybe I should’ve waited to talk with Mr. Princeton. His mood from earlier only worsened when I told him about Michael’s offer for our mock trial team to practice at the Royal Press Conference Room only one block away after school.

  Repeat: One block away. After school.

  Mr. Princeton gave me a flat-out, “No.”

  “Why?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.

  We were standing near the secretaries in the Admin building. From her desk, Ursula lifted up an eyebrow at me—her friendly way of warning me to back down. She was the one who’d told me on my first day that Mr. Princeton was fair, but firm.

  “Because I said no, Ms. Wellborn.” He walked down the hallway back to his office, leaving me with only those words. His all-business tone hit me like the harsh lights that come on after a movie at the theater, signaling it was time to leave.

  But my SLT side was not about to give up, not about to take “no” for an answer. So I marched my “sassy” butt after him. Besides, one thing I’d learned growing up watching Granny negotiate at yard sales—don’t back down if you really want something.

  So I didn’t back down, but maybe I should have. I was forgetting my place. I wasn’t with Granny at a yard sale. I was at school—and he was my boss.

  But did that faze me at the time? Nope.

  Hot on his heels, I asked, “Why are you being like this?”

  Mr. Princeton already had opened the door to his office, yet stopped to turn back to me. I was only steps behind him, but I was intercepted by Ms. Krusher, that assistant principal with the pursed lips, who’d opened her office door.

  I’d heard someone call her Barbara, so I’d been privately referring to her as Brunette Barbie in my head because she was pretty, but her face rarely altered from the same expression—and hers happened to be sour.

  Brunnette Barbie said, “That one”—inclining her head towards me—“giving you some trouble? Want me to take care of her for you?” Her mouth puckered whenever she spoke, like she was tasting spoiled milk.

  I stopped right in front of her. “I’m a teacher. Not a troublemaker.”

  She smirked and opened her mouth about to say something, but Mr. Princeton interrupted and filled her in on what I wanted.

  “But you forgot to mention, Mr. Princeton, it’s only a block away,” I pleaded. “And I’d get parent permission slips.”

  I heard Mr. Princeton draw in a long breath. He was thinking about it!

  But then I had to open my mouth. “Michael really wants us there.”

  Then Brunnette Barbie had to open her mouth. “You don’t say?” She leaned against her doorframe. “Did you hear that, Christian?”

  Christian… that was his first name. I didn’t care to learn it from her sour grape lips.

  With her attention on Mr. Princeton, she said, “Seems like Michael”—she tossed a brief look at me—“I mean, Prince Michael, really wants her.” She smoothed out her hair. “Who knows, he might even slap himself this time, if he doesn’t get to have her.”

  I arched my brows at her. She knew about the tabloid scandal involving me slapping Michael, but how with the media blackout here?

  As if she could read my thoughts, she said, “Surprised I know?” She arched a brow in return at me. “I know lots of things.” She crossed her arms. “My daddy is friends with the king and a powerful man.” Her lips drew like a slingshot. “I hear nobody even knows who your—”

  I opened my mouth to stop her, knowing she was going to throw a low blow about me not having a father—or at least not one that acknowledged me.

  But Mr. Princeton beat me to it. “I don’t think Ms. Wellborn cares about your family’s connections.”

  “The king sure does,” she said.

  He threw her a who-cares look that didn’t even seem to disturb her, and then he turned his attention to me. “
Ms. Wellborn, the answer stands. No.”

  “I so agree,” she purred, “Christian.”

  Really? Was it necessary to say his name like that?

  “I see I’m getting nowhere here,” I said sarcastically to Brunette Barbie. “Maybe I should petition your friend, the king, myself instead of asking”—I exaggerated a purr—“Christian.”

  Mr. Princeton closed his eyes for a couple heartbeats. I could only imagine what he was thinking.

  Yep, I’d actually threatened to go above my boss’ head if I didn’t get my way.

  Could I take that back?

  I thought not.

  Oh, and I’d called my boss by his first name in front of everyone in the office. Never heard anyone call him anything other than Princeton, the name on his door, except for today when Brunette Barbie called him Christian.

  No one else called him by his first name, so why did she? Did he also have a special name for her, like SLT? That possibility rankled me.

  “Ms. Wellborn.” His tone was not what I was used to. “As your boss, I’d like to talk with you.” He opened his door and beckoned me into his office. “Right now.”

  Brunnette Barbie seemed like she was about to step in, too.

  “Alone,” he said to her. She took her pursed lips back to her own office.

  But now I was stuck in Mr. Princeton’s office with the door shut, and he looked every inch my boss—and a tad bit frustrated one at the moment.

  So I scooted back against the door and placed my hand on the doorknob behind me for a quick escape.

  He never raised his voice, never made me feel frightened—none of that. It was just that I could tell I’d disappointed him, and it was hard to face him for some reason.

  So I cut to the chase. “I’m sorry, Mr. Princeton, for making it appear as if I disrespected your decision.” I was examining the carpet like it was the most interesting shade of gray in the world, not daring to look up to see his expression.

  “So you do respect my decisions?”

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  “Imagine that.”