His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  “Of course I am. That’s why you have my last name on your name tag. I like the way that looks. It’s true, you know. I only ever had one grandson, but if I could have picked a granddaughter, I would have wanted her to be just like you.”

  If his goal was to make me stop crying, he’s doing a piss-poor job.

  Now, I’m sobbing against his chest. He’ll have to change his hospital gown with all the snot I’m smearing across it.

  “I promise you I’m going to be fine. The doctor already assured me of that. I didn’t have a heart attack. He called it a Tako-something cardiomyopathy. Apparently, it mimics the symptoms of a heart attack, which is why Ava insisted on calling an ambulance this morning, but they’re going to give me some medicine and that should do the trick. They’re even letting me go home. Well, kind of. I’ll have to have a nurse with me and some of these machines will go too. Now, stop this. C’mon. Tell me about the parade. How did it go? Did Derek play his part?”

  “I did just fine, thank you.”

  I jerk away from Cal, shooting back to my feet and taking a step back. I hadn’t realized Derek was there. I wipe at my eyes and my nose, thanking Cal after he passes me a tissue from the stash beside his bed.

  I don’t turn around and meet Derek’s eyes, though I can feel him watching me. The hospital room feels too crowded with the three of us in it.

  “A nurse gave me a fruit cup and some walnuts,” Derek says, stepping up beside me and dropping Cal’s food on his nightstand.

  “Oh good. Squirrel food.”

  “We’ll have Ava fix you something better at home. They’re preparing everything to transport you there now. Heather has booked a care team for you, and we’ll have a nurse stationed at the house. Your cardiologist is happy to check on you there as well later tonight.”

  “Good. When can we leave?”

  “In an hour or so. I want to make sure they have everything set up.”

  Then, ever so gently, Derek reaches over and wraps a hand around my waist, tugging me against him and dropping a kiss to my hair.

  Tears spring back to my eyes, but they don’t blur the grin spreading across Cal’s face.

  “Well then, we’ll all go,” he says, sounding extremely pleased with himself.

  Though I offer to go back to my dorm—not wanting to intrude—Cal and Derek both insist otherwise. “It’s been a long day” and “You haven’t eaten” come from Derek, and “What if I take a turn for the worse?” from Cal. I shake my head then, fighting back a smile at his audacity before I nod and agree to it. After we tell Thomas and Carrie of the new plans, Thomas assures us he’ll get Carrie home safe and they walk out of the hospital hand in hand.

  It’s a blur of activity during Cal’s transport back to the house. A nurse is already there to help him get settled. His doctor arrives shortly after we do. Cal doesn’t think another checkup is necessary, but his doctor insists on it. He’ll be back in the morning as well.

  I linger in the kitchen, unsure of where I’m supposed to be. I feel kind of useless, tired. I watch Ava move around, finishing up dinner. She’s already sent some food up for Cal, but there’s homemade chicken soup on the stove and cornbread muffins turning golden brown in the oven.

  “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

  She’s putting away spice jars, wiping the counters, tidying up the kitchen. I pick up a dishtowel to help her and she steals it back, swatting away my offer. “The soup’s just keeping warm until the muffins are done. Don’t do a thing. Can I make you some tea? Chamomile?”

  She doesn’t even wait for my reply before she starts turning to the cabinet. I realize then that Ava is doing what the rest of us are trying to do: staying busy, being useful, keeping it together.

  I slide off my stool and round the island toward her, putting my hand over hers as she tries to open the box of tea bags. She’s shaking.

  “I’m okay. I can’t stand tea. You know that.”

  She laughs and sighs, and it’s as bone-weary as we all feel today.

  “Whitney?” Derek’s voice calls behind us. He’s at the doorway of the kitchen, motioning for me to join him. “Come on.”

  “Don’t be long,” Ava warns. “Dinner will be ready soon and by the looks of it, you both need a decent meal.”

  His hand reaches for mine and I let him lead me down the hallway. Though I’ve been in Cal’s penthouse a hundred times before, I rarely go into the private spaces, down the hallways that branch off from the main rooms. Still, from snooping, I know Derek has a room here, the one from his childhood.

  That’s where he leads me, closing the door behind him. All the personal items I wanted to find in his apartment are here instead: an old TV with video games stacked beside it, a small framed picture of him playing T-ball. I hold it up and he smiles.

  “Had the best batting record in the league.”

  I hum, sounding impressed.

  There’s a faded Fairytale Kingdom name tag beside the frame. It’s the style the company used years ago. I hold it up and he nods.

  “That’s from when I used to sell balloons. Remember?”

  How could I forget?

  I place it back on his dresser gently and then glance up and catch his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. He’s unbuttoning his jacket, probably anxious to get out of the stuffy costume.

  There’s a duffle bag on the bed, no doubt courtesy of Heather. I’m envious. I wish I had a change of clothes. I wasn’t there long, but I still smell like the hospital.

  “I need a shower,” Derek says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  He lays his jacket on the bed and then tugs his white shirt out of his pants. I catch a glimpse of his tan torso.

  “Come with me?”

  My stomach dips as I jerk my gaze back to his. “In…in the shower?”

  My voice breaks midsentence.

  He nods.

  I know it might seem odd, but I don’t get the sense that Derek wants me in the shower so we can get it on. I know he’s a warm-blooded man and I’m a girl who’s waited eight years for him to look at me like he’s looking at me now, but still, there’s no lust in his tone. Not tonight. There’s a vulnerability about him, in the way his frame is slightly sagged, and I realize however hard this day has been for me, it’s been harder on him.

  Cal might feel like my only family, but for Derek, he really is.

  He turns and heads into the en suite bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, the stream spraying across tile. Steam starts to spill out into the bedroom.

  My stomach quivers with nerves, but his invitation hangs like a lasso around my neck, tugging me into the bathroom. The shower glass is already fogged when I peer around the corner and see Derek’s head ducked under the stream. His eyes are closed and the water beats down on his broad shoulders, rolling down his back. I unbutton my jeans and push them to the ground, fold them into a neat stack along with my sweater, and place them beside his on the counter. I keep my panties and bra on, unwilling to part with a small modicum of modesty.

  Half of me wants to knock on the glass door before I open it, like, Oh, hello. Mind if I come in?

  Instead, I pull it open and step inside. Derek’s head lifts and our gazes lock.

  Then his hand shoots out and he tugs me under the water with him.

  We don’t kiss. We hug, our bodies completely wrapped around each other. My bra is soaked in seconds and the material is silky smooth against his hot skin. His face is buried in my hair and my cheek is pressed against his chest. My arms wrap around his waist so tight I might be cutting off his circulation.

  He turns us, shielding me from the spray of the shower with his body. His hands brush the hair away from my face and he cradles my chin, looking down at me.

  I press up onto my toes and kiss his neck, his cheek, his brow, his forehead.

  He smiles and reaches for his soap, lathering some in his hands and stepping back so he can wash me.

  I stand perfectly still, letting his lar
ge hands glide over my skin. He sweeps his sudsy palms up my arms and around my shoulders, dipping his fingers under my bra straps but avoiding my chest. I shiver and he turns me, getting more soap so he can wash my back. The stuff he’s using has a masculine, woodsy clean scent, the kind of soap sold in a dark blue bottle with a picture of a mountain on the label. When we finish, I’ll smell just like him. I won’t want to shower ever again. A small price to pay, I think, to keep his scent on me.

  His hands trail down my spine until his fingertips skim the hem of my panties. He stops there and curves his hand around my waist, tugging my body back against his again. I feel him there, hard against me. I blink, all innocence wiped clean.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised, though how on earth I am, I don’t have a clue.

  He might not have invited me in here for that, but I doubt he has any control over his body’s reaction to me.

  God, I hope not.

  Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

  “Just let me finish bathing you,” he says in response.

  It’s the earnest way he speaks, the fact that I know without a shadow of a doubt that he means what he says. He’s not trying to take advantage of me during an emotional time. He’s trying to lean on me, to use me as a rock. I want to comfort him. I want to feel him. All of him.

  His hands curve up my stomach and I watch the suds spread across my skin. He climbs higher and his fingers skim the lace on my bra. This time, he doesn’t shy away.

  I reach my hand back between our bodies and grip his thigh, slowly moving upward.

  He doesn’t move.

  Somehow, it’s easier with him behind me. Without having to look at him, I can be as bold as I want to be, moving up even higher to grip his length in my hand, stroking him as my eyes flutter closed and my head leans back against his chest.

  A shudder breaks through him and he grinds into me like he can’t help himself.

  One arm wraps around my waist, pinning me tighter against him. The other skims across my wet bra, feeling my full breast in his palm. He moves to the other side, brushing across the delicate fabric and using it to torment me. My body writhes, and that’s only doing more for him considering each time my hips shift, I grind against him. His mouth falls to my neck as he drags my wet bra away from my breast, finally baring me.

  My eyes pinch closed as his hand covers my nakedness, trailing the warm drops of water across my chest.

  A wave of pleasure racks through me and he does it again, starting at my breast, barely touching really, like he’s too scared he’ll hurt me. I’m a fragile piece of art and he’s a curious observer, stepping over the boundary rope so he can touch the frame. His hand skims across my ribs and down the center of my abs. He can feel me shaking, my stomach clenching as he brushes over it, and then he continues down, pushing past the wet material of my panties. Then, lower.

  When his hand covers me there, I grip him tighter in my hand, slowly pumping up and down, almost languid in my movements.

  A husky groan tickles against the shell of my ear as his middle finger presses inside me. He swirls his hand so the base of his palm hits me in exactly the right spot, sending a delicious tingle up my spine. I speed up as he speeds up, pumping my hand while he slides his finger in and out of me. I writhe, needing more.

  Please.

  He can hear my plea and a second finger slips in beside the first, stretching me. His thumb joins, circling deftly while his fingers drag in and out. Faster. Harder. A whimper escapes me and it spurs him on. His thumb drives me closer and closer. His fingers push inside, the deepest they’ve been, and hold there as I shake against him, arching my back, crying out so that the sound reverberates around the tiled shower.

  My pleasure feeds his. My hand moves on him quickly and I can feel the hot wetness coat my back as he groans deeply, guttural sounds of pleasure reverberating through him as he keeps his fingers buried inside me.

  We stay like that until our breaths even out, until my spent body can muster up just enough energy to reach up and stroke his cheek, comforting him.

  It’s in this moment, before we break apart and clean ourselves off, before we step out of the shower and re-enter the world, that he leans down and presses a firm kiss against my mouth, whispering a truth along with it. “I’m falling for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Derek

  Whitney doesn’t say a word as we step out of the shower and towel off. I think she might be in shock. If I waved my hand in front of her face, I doubt she’d react. Her green eyes are vacant, focused on the ground as she blinks, lost.

  It’s not as if I can go back and rescind what I said.

  It’s the truth.

  Though now I see I might have considered waiting to tell her on a better day.

  We’ve had a busy twelve hours. We started on that float, nearly at each other’s throats. Then I kissed her. That shut us up for sure. Then everything happened with Cal and how are we still standing? How much longer can this day last?

  I cringe when I glance over at her. She looks kind of pitiful standing there.

  She has my towel wrapped around her like a cape, pinning it closed with her fists right under her chin. She doesn’t move. I walk out of the bathroom and rifle through the duffle bag Heather brought me. I told her to pack extra, unsure of how long I’d be staying at Cal’s, and now I’m grateful for the spare t-shirt and boxers. After I’m dressed, I bring both into the bathroom and step in front of Whitney. She seems smaller than usual.

  “Are you still alive?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Cold?”

  “Very.”

  “I brought you clothes.”

  She hums but makes no move to take them. Like I said, I think she’s in shock.

  I bend down in front of her.

  My hand touches her ankle. “May I?”

  She doesn’t speak, so I reach up underneath her towel and take off her wet panties. I try to make it nonsexual. By all accounts, this should be the least sexual day with everything we have going on, but it’s Whitney, and she can stand there comatose and still, I want her. She steps out of the wet material and I grab my boxers, holding them open for her.

  “They’ll be big, but maybe you can roll them up?”

  No response.

  I pull them up her long shapely legs. They sag on her hips, so I roll them twice. Good enough. With the t-shirt in hand, I stand back up and tug on her towel. She lets me pull it away and, with her arms at her sides, all I see is smooth ivory skin from her waist up, still flushed from the shower. A wet bra pasted over…

  Jesus.

  Quickly, I step forward and reach around her for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it and dragging it off her. It’s tossed on the ground and my t-shirt is yanked down over her head with a tad too much force. I might have lopped off an ear. I should be gentler, but I’m trying hard to be a gentleman here and the sooner she’s covered, the better it’ll be for the both of us.

  It takes her a moment to register that she needs to put her arms through the holes. For a second, she stands there armless. I lose the fight with a smile. How can someone so damn pitiful be so damn cute?

  “I’m hungry,” she says, sounding far away. Sleepy.

  She finally forces her arms through the sleeves.

  I nod. “Me too. I’m going to go get us dinner. Do you want to stay in here?”

  As an answer, she walks out of the bathroom and heads into my room, reaching for the throw blanket on the bed so she can wrap it around herself. I hurry out into the hall, feeling rushed to get her food and to check on Cal. His doctor should be gone by now. Hopefully he’s asleep. He needs rest.

  Ava’s not in the kitchen, but she’s set aside a tray of food for Whitney and me. I reheat the soup in the microwave and then carry the tray back to my room, devouring two cornbread muffins on the way. Once there, I find Whitney curled up on my armchair in the corner, head resting on her palm. Asleep.

  I bet she was out the second I closed t
he door.

  I smile and set down the tray of food before turning down my duvet and tossing a few stray pillows aside to make room for the two of us. When I lift her up off the chair, I expect her to stir, but she doesn’t make a peep. I tuck her in and carry the food out with me, heading to check on Cal.

  I was right about his doctor having left already, but he’s still awake, propped up on his bed with pillows. A nurse sits in the corner, looking at her laptop, and when she sees me, she smiles and stands, leaving us.

  There’s a small lamp on beside his bed, but most of the light streams into the room through the windows. Though the sun set hours ago, the streets inside Fairytale Kingdom are lined with lamps, illuminating the overnight crews who are working away: mowing the lawns, watering the flowers, emptying the trash cans, fixing benches, repainting buildings—doing anything they can to touch up the park so it looks as good as new when guests arrive again in the morning. Cal watches it all from his perch on his bed.

  He looks better than he did a few hours ago. Color has returned to his cheeks. The hospital gown has been swapped for pajamas and a thick white robe.

  “Hungry?” I ask, setting the tray beside his bed.

  “Ava brought me some food a while ago. It was good. Sit. Eat.” Then he glances over my shoulder. “Where’s Whitney?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. In my room.”

  He nods then looks back out the window.

  “I’ve been careful with her over the years,” he says. “She had a unique upbringing. The forgotten child in her family, you could say.”

  “She told me about that, years ago.”

  I was reminded of it the other day at rehearsals when her phone kept going off. It was her sister, Avery, wanting to know if she was still coming up to New York for a visit. I’m not sure Whitney would have told me anything about it had I not been standing there while she read the texts.

  “Her sister is performing on Broadway now,” Cal shares. “Whitney’s parents are proud. Their world revolves around Avery. It always has. You know in all the years I’ve mentored Whitney, I’ve never met her parents. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”