by Imani King
When I saw a sign for Capital Airport I perked up. I knew Capital Airport only because I sometimes had to arrange pick-ups for clients who were flying in from Europe or further abroad. Nobody I knew used it – it was for private flights only. A little flutter of excitement started up in my belly when the car pulled up next to a small terminal and there was Killian, opening my door and holding out his hand to me.
"Oh," he said when he saw me, his eyes widening as he took me in. "Oh, Eva. You look stunning. Absolutely stunning."
"I presume this is your doing?" I asked, gesturing down at the dress.
"Yes," Killian confirmed. "It's my doing. Well, it's Millie's doing – she's the fashion maven – but it was my idea. I wasn't sure about that color but damn if she wasn't right. I'm not sure I even trust the pilot to be able to fly with you looking like that, you know."
He leaned in and kissed both my cheeks, lingering a little on the second kiss. Killian was a gentleman, raised with all the manners of his class, but I saw his eyes flicker down over my body, just briefly. A little warm hum started up in my belly at the feeling of his eyes on me.
"Thank-you," I replied. "This is already the best date I've ever been on, you know. I don't even feel like I can walk properly after that massage. Thank-you for everything. The dress, too. I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I'm just – thank-you, Killian."
"Babble all you like," he responded, grinning that billion-watt grin. "You're a delight, Eva."
A delight. My God, could the evening get any better? It could. Killian took my hand again and gestured into the darkness. I squinted my eyes for a few seconds and then saw it – a helicopter.
"Oh Killian – is that – are we –?"
"Yes, it is. And yes we are. The Capital is beautiful at night, from above. I thought you might like to see your adopted city from a new angle. You're not afraid of flying, are you?"
"Well, not really," I answered. "I'm a bit nervous. On planes, I mean – I've never been on a helicopter before."
Killian slipped his arm around my waist and I couldn't stop myself from leaning into him a little. "Well the pilot is ex-military, the best of the best. It'll be perfectly safe."
"I can't believe this is happening," I murmured, not entirely intending to say it out loud, as Killian led me to the helicopter. He looked at me.
"Can't you?"
"No, I really can't. This – Killian, this kind of thing doesn't happen to me. I'm just Eva James from Oshwego. I worked at McDonald's in high school. I'm an assistant makeup artist. No, this doesn't happen to me."
"Well," he pronounced, opening the passenger side door, "apparently it does."
There was only one seat beside the pilot, and Killian appeared to be guiding me into it. When I hesitated he reassured me. "I want you to sit up front, Eva, so you can see everything. Don't worry, I'll be right here."
When the pilot turned the rotors on and they roared to life above me I instinctively reached back, not even aware I was doing it until Killian took my hand.
"It's OK, Eva. Just relax. I'm here."
The helicopter lifted off and I sucked my breath in and held it, squeezing Killian's hand hard as the field slowly began to recede from view and the Capital's unique combination of ancient buildings and glossy, cloud-piercing skyscrapers slowly came into view underneath us. I couldn't even speak for a few minutes, so taken was I at the sight of the city spread out below me like a blanket of light.
"There," Killian shouted over the sound of the rotors, leaning forward in his seat and pointing with one finger. "There's St. David's, do you see it?"
I followed his gaze with mine and spotted the dome of the famous church, surrounded and almost dwarfed by the modern city rising up around it.
"And there's the river."
The river looked like a dark snake winding its way through the Capital, spanned at several points by brightly lit bridges. The pilot swooped down, flying between some of the city's iconic towers, and I caught a reflection of the helicopter in the glass, laughing out loud because what else could I do?
Conversation was difficult, but I wouldn't have been able to say much anyway. I was too captivated, and not just with the spectacular views. In fact I wasn't just captivated, I was utterly overwhelmed – the massage, the beautiful dress, the dazzling city beneath me and... Killian. Killian, who had made all of it happen.
After about an hour of aerial sight-seeing we landed on a helipad on top of one of the tallest buildings. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I found I was actually out of breath. So out of breath that the Prince asked me if I was OK when we got out.
"Yes," I replied, shaking my head. "I just still can't believe this. That was amazing – the city, everything. But not just that. I – I don't know. I'd never do something like this on my own, even if I had the money. Never. And now I have. This is one of those experiences you tell your grandchildren about, you know?"
I was gushing, I knew I was. And yet I couldn't stop. Killian took it all in stride, beaming at me, obviously pleased with himself.
"Hmm, grandchildren," he said, offering me his arm and walking me over to where a uniformed waiter was standing beside a steel door. "Do you plan to have many of them? Thirty, maybe? Fifty?"
I laughed. "I don't know. Maybe not as many as fifty."
The waiter bowed respectfully in front of us. "Right this way, Your Highness."
We followed him down a staircase and then out into a completely empty restaurant with three walls made entirely of glass, all of them overlooking the Capital. One table, set with white linen and a single candle, had been situated in the best spot.
"Do you know who Harold Blumenthal is?" Killian asked.
"I don't know. Do I? I think I recognize the name. Is he a chef?"
Killian pulled out my chair when we got to the table before taking his own seat. "Yes, he is. He's the chef who's responsible for the rebirth of traditional Rhennish cuisine, you've probably seen him on TV – short, funny hair, a bit of a mad scientist vibe?"
"Oh yes, I know who he is," I answered. "I think I read an article about him in the Sentinel. Wait. This is his restaurant?"
The Prince of Rhenland could not keep the smile off his face. "Yes, this is his restaurant. And he'll be our chef tonight – he's prepared a special menu just for us. I hope you're hungry, Eva."
I stared at him from across the table, watching the candlelight dance in his sapphire-colored eyes until I regained the ability to speak. "Killian, you're kidding. Oh my God!"
"What?" he asked, shrugging, playing innocent but clearly loving my reaction.
"This can't be real," I told him. "Nope, I'm dreaming. The dress, the helicopter, this. It can't be. I'm not – Killian, I told you I'm not the kind of person this happens to."
"Nonsense," he replied, reaching across the table and taking my hand. "Look at me, Eva." I did as he asked, even as I was afraid it was all going to disappear in a puff of smoke and I was about to wake up in bed in my run-down little apartment. "You are the kind of person this happens to. Because it is happening. I wanted it to, I wanted to do something for you. You were so kind on Saturday, after my awful day, I just had to –"
"What?" I cut in, laughing. "You're doing this because I had a conversation with you? Damn, Killian, now I wish I'd baked you cookies or something, you might have taken me to the moon!"
I was doing it again. That thing I do when I'm slightly uncomfortable with my own emotions – making little jokey comments to try and lighten things up a little. Killian didn't laugh, he just kept looking into my eyes, his expression serious.
"Why not?" he asked, signaling the waiter to come and pour us each a glass of white wine. "I'm not joking, Eva. You were kind and it meant a lot to me. I mean, that's not the only reason. I'm doing it because I can't get you out of my mind. Because you're beautiful. Because you look like a goddess in that dress. It's all I can do not to crawl across this table right this minute. So be skeptical if you like, I understand. But you're not dreaming, and I'm not doing this
for any nefarious reasons. I'm doing it because, well – because you're you."
What does a person say to something like that? Especially a person who isn't used to being told, by gorgeous princes, that they're beautiful and kind, that they deserve meals cooked by Michelin-starred chefs and helicopter rides and wildly expensive designer dresses? Killian sensed my bashfulness. "It's OK, you don't have to say anything. In fact, look, here comes the first course. I hope you're ready for this – a Harold Blumenthal meal is an epic event."
A waiter appeared tableside and I immediately did a double-take. In each of his hands was a plate. And on each plate was what looked to be a Coney dog, like the ones I'd grown up with in Oshwego. I glanced at Killian, waiting for the joke to be revealed, but none was.
"Coney dogs," the waiter said, placing a plate in front of me, and then the other in front of Killian. "In honor of the lady."
Killian raised his eyebrows at me, waiting for a reaction. "How did you –" I started, before trailing off. "I – I used to eat these when I went to football games with my dad. How could you possible know that?"
He winked at me. "Don't ever say I don't do my research, Eva. Go on, try it."
I bent down over my plate, noticing the distinct absence of the familiar onion-y smell of a Coney dog. "This smells fruity."
"Why don't you try it and see?"
I almost picked up the hotdog in my hands before thinking twice about where I was and picking up a knife and fork instead. I sliced through one end of the hotdog and popped it into my mouth. Whatever I was eating, it wasn't a hotdog. It was fruit – the sweetest, most intense fruit I've ever tasted in my life. "Oh!" I squeaked, shocked by the juxtaposition between what it looked like I was eating and what it tasted like I was eating. "What is this? It's – oh my God, it's so good. How did he even do this?!"
"It's kind of his thing," Killian told me, watching as I picked up a tiny chunk of 'onion' and sniffed it. "Chef Blumenthal likes to play with expectations. Doesn't it just mess with your brain? Last Christmas I ate here and the 'fruit' was really pâté coated with sherry jelly. What do you think? Were you fooled?"
"Of course I was fooled," I giggled. "I still can't even tell what this stuff is!" I dipped the tines of the fork in the 'mustard' and sighed, finally recognizing a flavor. "Mango. That's mango. But I still don't know what the onions are. Or the hotdog. Or the bun."
"Starfruit," Killian said, taking a bite of his own. "The onions are starfruit chopped small, the hotdog is raspberry puree with some kind of molecular plum paste on the outside, the bun is ice milk, spray-painted with an edible paint the chef made from toasted sesame seeds, and the mustard is mango, as you said."
After the tribute to my home state, the courses came one after the other, each one seemingly more fantastical than the last. I ate 'roast beef' that turned out to be a kind of tempered chocolate marbled with coconut cream and drank champagne spiked with slivers of iced celery purée. There was a dish served wreathed in a horseradish smoke that concealed a tiny, perfectly seared square of Wagyu beef. And the whole time, Killian was observing me, enjoying my delight. I want to say it was like a fairytale but it wasn't like a fairytale – it was a fairytale.
The helicopter ride, the dress that swished and sparkled like the Capital itself, the meal – all of it added up to an experience I knew I would never forget. And then there was Prince Killian with his oceanic blue eyes and his deep, posh, baritone laugh and his ability to focus in on me like I was the only person in the whole world. What could a girl do in the face of a man like that? Of a night like that?
The waiter left us alone as the dinner-slash-theatrical-production came to an end, leaving us each, as a final course, an oyster shell filled with what was described as 'sugar-citrus caviar.' I was way beyond trying to figure out how the chef had done any of the things he'd managed to do, but the caviar almost looked alive, the tiny, clear balls shimmering under the candlelight.
"I know you're full," Killian said, reaching out and pushing a stray curl off my cheek, "but you have to try this. This one is my idea – now, obviously I can't take credit for the actual work – but this one is mine, inspired by you. Not by Michigan or the Capital or Rhenland – you, Eva."
I scooped up some of the caviar on a teensy silver spoon and tasted it. Lemon, lime, an echo of sweetness – the little bubbles burst in my mouth, each one a little explosion. It was perfect. And I was running out of words to describe perfect things, that night.
"Do you like it?" Killian asked, finally digging into his own. "It's like you, Eva. Bright and bold and cut with just the right amount of sweetness."
I put my head in my hands, laughing unabashedly. Killian cocked an eyebrow at me. "What?"
"What?" I repeated back to him. "What, Killian?! What am I supposed to say? If I don't laugh I might cry, or freak out. How am I supposed to respond to this? No one has ever done anything like this for me before."
"Nonsense," he demurred. "I'm sure there are countless men who would do something like this for you. The only difference is I can afford to, because of who I am. It's one of the few real benefits of being me – I can do things like this for the people I care about."
He was playing it down. I shook my head, adamant. "No, Killian," I insisted. "No, there hasn't been another man who would do something like this for me. Not even close. Even if they could afford it."
"Well then they're idiots," he replied simply, scooping the last few spoonfuls of caviar out of the oyster shell. "And I'm glad they're idiots, because it means I got to spend the evening with you."
I laughed. Partly because I was happy, but also partly at myself – at all my resolutions not to give in too quickly, not to give him my body – or my heart – before I was sure of him. Where before there had been uncertainty there was now a feeling of utter inevitability. It was going to happen, because it had to – because it would have been a joke to keep telling myself I was in control of anything. There was no other place to end that night other than in his arms. And I wanted to be in Killian's arms, more than I've ever wanted anything else.
We rode down to street level in a glass elevator, alone, with the Prince's ever-present but ever-discreet security team riding separately. As soon as the door closed behind us I simply turned my face up to his, knowing what was coming. He kissed me slowly, carefully, savoring me. And as we kissed, the heat in my body that had been there all night quickened and intensified. I leaned on the wall of the elevator, opening my body to Killian, pushing myself forward against him and burying my fingers in his hair as he slipped his tongue between my lips.
Just before the elevator reached the ground floor he pushed me back against the wall a little harder, until I suddenly felt him against my belly, hard and obvious.
"Killian," I gasped, closing my eyes tightly and then opening them again, wide, to look at him. "Oh my God, Killian."
When I kissed him once more, it felt different. I was hungrier now, needier. I opened my mouth wide for his tongue and angled my hips towards him. And then the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors opened to the lobby. I spotted three of security guys waiting there for us before Killian pushed the 'doors close' button and looked down at me. His face was flushed and his breathing was audibly heavy. I reached for him again but he caught my wrists and shook his head.
"No, Eva. I –"
"Wait," I cut him off. "What do you mean 'no?'"
Killian suddenly took a step towards me and took my face in his hands. "I mean no. I told myself no. I told myself that tonight wasn't about me, it was about you. I know what you want, I can see it on your face. I love seeing it on your face. It's killing me. But this isn't how I want it to happen. I don't want you to do this because I got you a massage and bought you a dress and took –"
"Killian!" I squeaked, trying and failing to extricate my wrists from his grip, because all I wanted was to put my hands on him again. "This – it's not that, that's not what's going on."
"I know," he said. "I know, Eva. That
came out wrong, Jesus, I can't even think right now. I don't think I've got any blood left in my brain. What I want to say is this – I like you, OK? A lot. And you've got me thinking about things I don't ever think about – things my parents have been trying to get me to think about for years. There's nothing I want more than to take you home right now. Nothing. But I'm not going to, because I don't want to be that person with you. Do you understand? I don't want to start things that way, I want this to be different."
He meant what he was saying, I could feel it. And even though he was being serious, I couldn't help chuckling. "I – Killian, I hear you. But this is not how I expected this to go, you know."
He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling for a few moments and breathing deeply. When he looked back at me his expression was tender. "Oh, Eva. Look at you. You're beautiful. And you're smart and funny and warm and just generally wonderful. And I'm so fucking hard right now I don't even know if I can physically walk out to the car."
Once again, I tried to reach for him, as something deep inside me reacted to what he'd just said. He easily held me off.
"This weekend," Killian said. "This weekend. I want to take you somewhere. Are you free? Just – Eva, you need to tell me right now. I'm not going to be able to stay in control of myself for much longer, not with you standing there looking like that."
"Yes," I replied, without even stopping to think if I actually was free. If Killian Chatham-Hayes had asked me, at that moment, if I wanted to trek across the Arctic with him on pink elephants, I would have said yes.
"Good. OK. I'll call you. Now kiss me one more time before I go."
He was rushing, and I knew the reason why – it was as obvious as the bulge in his dress pants and for some reason it just made me want him even more. There's something about a man controlling himself like that that just makes me crazy. So I kissed him again, as told. He didn't need to tell me how much he wanted me, because I could taste it in that kiss. It left me breathless and weak-kneed, leaning back against the elevator walls because I wasn't sure I could stand up anymore.
