by J. J. McAvoy
He nodded as we pulled onto the main road. “You have no idea. Some hardcore loyalists even started to switch their diets. The people were split on it. It got so big that the palace wasn’t sure whether it was worthy of an official royal statement or not. Prince Arthur wasn’t even vegan. He just hadn’t eaten it because he and his wife were trying to eat a little cleaner.”
“So, how did the Vegan Crisis of Ersovia come to an end?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. It was so silly.
“Prince Arthur went to dinner with his wife, where he ordered a grilled balsamic chicken cobb salad.” He grinned again like he was really proud. “Not an official royal statement, but it was a statement. Eat meat if you want but also be healthy was the takeaway. He got a lot of praise, but vegans were disappointed.”
“Wow.” I leaned against the door. “All of this from rumors?”
“Yep, which is why Iskandar was so harsh, and His Highness accepted. He is used to it, but the last thing he wants is for you to be hounded from the get-go.”
I smiled. “From the get-go? What about not getting hounded at all?”
He frowned and met my eyes for a second in the rearview mirror. “Sadly, that’s not possible. But at least you have a little experience with the media.”
I did—especially when my father was alive.
However, it had always been directed at my mother, really. She never seemed affected by it, but I wondered if she just hid it from me when I was young.
“I apologize, ma’am.”
“Huh?” I focused back on him. “For what?”
“You looked worried. I didn’t mean to frighten you or anything—Iskandar always tells me to talk less for this exact reason.” He cringed.
“No, you’re fine. I’m not worried. And you can just call me Odette.”
“Iskandar would have my head.” He laughed. “It’s either ma’am, miss, or my lady.”
“My lady?” What? “So, you all really still do that?”
“Never stopped. As I said, Ersovians really like our monarchy and traditions,” he answered, and I made a mental note of that.
“Ma’am or miss is fine then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glanced out the window, and only then did I even think to ask, “Where are we going exactly?”
Chapter 12
“You are fidgeting, sir.”
“I am not. Fidgeting is a nervous habit, and I am not nervous. I am only fixing my cufflinks.”
“For the twelfth time.”
I glanced up at him. “Do you have to be so close to guard me? No one else is here.”
No one else was here because the only way I could take her out to dinner was to rent out the whole place for the night. I was starting to think all of our money over the years was used only for security. Instead of answering me, he took a single step back as if that really made any difference. Trying to ignore him, I shifted the watch on my wrist to check the time. Rising from my chair, I glanced out at the décor of little Italy above the city, as her mother described it. Sapori D’italia was her favorite restaurant. It was massive, two levels in fact, and in the middle of the winding stairs was a giant tree, and old-fashioned lanterns hung inside of it. There was a Roman-style water fountain at the entrance, and the walls were made of aged cobblestone, even though I had yet to see any in this modern city at all. To top it all off was the view, the lights from every building and car glimmered like a million fireflies from way up here. She had said she was cold and wasn’t easily moved, but if this was her favorite place, I had a feeling she was much more of a romantic than she wanted to admit.
“She is here,” Iskandar stated, but he held out his hand to stop me. “Wolfgang will bring her up.”
“You will not even let me meet her at the door? What? Are journalists waiting at the entrance?” This was ridiculous.
“Remember it is for her sake, not your own, sir,” he said, walking around me and the table toward the top of the stairs. “Besides, you do not want to seem too eager, sir.”
“Once again, with the romantic advice, Iskandar? Are you sure you aren’t secretly married since you know so much?”
He ignored me and walked to the top of the stairs.
I inhaled and shook out my fingers, not sure what the hell was wrong with my hand as I heard what could only be heels as they climbed the stairs.
Relax. This is simple. You’ve gone on plenty of dates before. This is just—holy shit.
She was merciless.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
I wasn’t sure if Shakespeare was talking about a woman then. But seeing her, it was what came to mind. She walked toward me in a crimson-colored, V-neck dress that hugged the top of her breasts before flowing down at her waist. But as if that was not tempting enough, it had a slit on the side, showing her endlessly long, smooth legs with each step. In her thick, curly hair, there was a single rose at her ear.
“Ahem.” Iskandar made a noise from behind her. For the first time ever, he gave me an expression, and it was one that could only be described as what the hell, man?
“Are you okay?” She tilted her head, looking me over.
I shook my head. “I knew you were beautiful, but I was not expecting you to look so beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Thank you, but you’re exaggerating again.”
“Exaggeration is not necessary,” I replied, offering her my arm.
Her eyebrow rose, but she took it as I led her three feet over to her seat and pulled out her chair. To say I was tempted to touch her bare skin exposed by her dress would have been minimizing how I felt. Swallowing the clear and obvious lust, I was getting lost, and I moved back to my seat.
“Thank you for coming.”
“You sent five hundred roses. It was the least I could do.” She laughed.
“So, you counted them?”
“No, my mother did,” she shot back quickly, and I hated to say it, but it stung a little.
I guess my face exposed all of my emotions.
She quickly said, “I did find the silk one, though. Thank you.”
“I wanted to send a thousand, but they could not get that many on such short notice,” I admitted.
“Oh, my God.” Her shoulders dropped, and her red-stained lips parted. “I was trying to think of what to do with the other four hundred and ninety-nine roses. I would have been completely lost if you had sent a thousand.”
“What do you mean, lost?”
“As you said, the roses wither and die. I really like them. But thinking about watching them fade day by day and only end up in the trash one at a time bothers me. It’s such a waste,” she explained.
“Do you always think of the end before you appreciate the beginning?”
“Huh?”
“Well.” I thought about my words carefully. “It takes days for cut roses to die, and until that moment happens, you are supposed to look at them and smile. You appreciate the beauty of them while they are in front of you. And then when they are gone, you forever remember the day you got them and the feelings you felt in having them. If you focus on the fact that they will die, then you miss out on all the beauty while they were alive.”
“It sounds like you are talking about a person, not a flower,” she whispered, brushing the curly strand of her hair that came lose back behind her ear.
“Oh, I apologize—”
“No, don’t. You are right. I never thought about it that way.”
I grinned. “Did you just say I was right?”
“What? You’re not used to being right?” she teased.
“No.” I shook my head. “I am not used to people telling me I am right because everyone tries to outwit me in conversations.”
She laughed. “I can actually see that.”
“What? Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. There is just something about you. You give off this vibe of confidence and...�
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“That is a good thing. Thank you.”
“And,” she leaned in to add, “a bit petty. So it feels like you are teasing people, and then they want to defend back.”
“Well, I am teasing them,” I admitted, unable to stop smiling.
“See,” she replied. “So who’s just going to let you tease them even if you are right?”
“Maybe you will?”
“Me?” She actually pointed to herself, and a sinister smirk appeared on her lips. “I am far too bossy, temperamental, and prone to outbursts for that.”
I sighed heavily, my shoulders dropping. “You are never going to let me forget I said that, will you?”
“Never,” she said with her chin up.
“Well, I cannot have that,” I said, sitting. “You are allowed to label me with three words then, too. So we are even.”
“What if I don’t want to be even?”
“You are not petty.”
“You just don’t know me well enough.”
I smiled. “So you are petty, bossy, temperamental, and prone to outburst.”
Her mouth dropped, and I tried not to laugh. “You are supposed to be apologetic for that, not add to it!”
“You are the one adding to it. I said you were not petty, and you disagreed.” I was truly enjoying how flabbergasted and ruffled she looked. “I can only take you at your word, Ms. Wyntor.”
“You know, it would be wiser just to tell me that I was none of those things at all.”
“Wiser, yes, but not the truth, and I promised you I’d do my best to tell you the truth,” I explained. When she frowned, I also added, “No one said those traits are bad. I am also a bit bossy and temperamental. I’ve gotten better at the outburst part, but I have my moments. So, you are not alone. Though I’m enjoying how you puff up when I say it.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but luckily, the server came over, and she held back her comment, sitting straighter in her chair.
“Your menus,” he said to us with a thick Italian accent, handing us both a menu before filling our glasses with water. “Is there a wine I can start you with?”
“I should keep away from it after yesterday. You go ahead, though,” Odette said to me, but something told me she really wanted it. Maybe it was way she sucked the corner of her lip for a brief second before rejecting the offer.
I leaned forward. “Enjoy the beauty of the moment. Besides, I am not familiar with their selection, so I am in desperate need of your help.”
She shot me a glance before looking back up at him. “May we have the Vietti Barolo Riserva Villero?”
“Of course. What year?” he asked in reply. “We have 1989 and 2003 to 2010.”
“2009.”
“I’ll bring it now.” He nodded to her before walking away.
When her eyes shifted to me, I felt a little enthralled, watching her be so decisive.
“What?” she asked.
“You really know your wines, it seems.”
“Yes and no. You grew up in Europe, and you are impressed I can order wine?”
“When you do not have a skill, you appreciate it in others. I am so bad at picking wines that my family will never allow me to choose for Christmas.”
“You can’t be that bad,” she said as she lifted the water.
“As you said, I grew up in Europe. In Ersovia, people love and know their wine. There have been a few times when I picked white, too sweet or too bitter. In my mind, I always tell them it is not Goldilocks and the three vineyards. Just drink it.”
She laughed. “Goldilocks and the three vineyards? You should be a writer.”
“I wanted to be,” I muttered, thankful the server came back with the wine, and I picked up the menu.
“May I have the bucatini with butter-roasted tomato sauce and meatballs?” she asked him at a lightning-fast speed. She looked incredibly eager for it, as well.
I wanted to know why she loved it so much. “I will have the same.”
“Right away,” he said, taking our menus.
The moment he was gone, she picked up right where I left off. “You wanted to be a writer? Why didn’t you write?”
“We are going for the deep questions first? Already?” I asked, reaching for the wine.
She nodded. “It is the least we can do since you already have a full profile on me.”
“Touché.” And I walked right into it. “Well, to answer your question, yes. I wanted to be a writer, and I am not because...because my father did not think it was suitable for a prince.”
“Not suitable? Aren’t most princes like art history majors and stuff?”
“How do those two things relate?” I asked, drinking.
“I mean, when I think of the education of princes, I think the arts, like poetry, music, paintings...fencing and polo come to mind, too.”
“I want to say I do not know how to fence or play polo so badly, but unfortunately, you are right,” I said, watching the smugness appear on her face. “I was required to learn all of those things because of tradition, but I ended up truly enjoying them. However, instead of focusing more on them, my father had my brother and me study politics, the economy, and law. Things he believed were more beneficial to know in the modern world...and my brother shines in all those things.”
“But your heart was with the poets?” she whispered softly.
“When you say it like that, it sounds very...”
“Cheesy?” There was her favorite word again.
“Yes.”
“What type of things did you want to write?”
“Everything,” I said, but I really thought I gravitated more toward literature. “I enjoy poetry. But I would have also written about drama and romance.”
“So, you don’t write at all?” She looked so hurt by that.
“I do. But never with the intention of people reading it—at least in my lifetime. You write as well, correct? For your music?”
“It’s not Shakespeare, though,” she replied, brushing her hair behind her ear again. “It’s just my random thoughts or feelings or sometimes from what I learn from other people.”
I wanted to listen to her sing now. “It’s enough to make an avid fan out of my sister. She’d love just to be here to talk to you. She begged me to allow her to say hello.”
“Why didn’t you let her?”
“She would have never got off the phone.” I groaned. “Believe me. I spared you. That is the story. Anyway, I did what I was told, too. So that is the reason I am not a writer.”
She frowned and glanced at her wine. “You did what you were told to do. Like you are now? You were told to marry me. So, you are trying to make it work with me?”
“Yes and no.”
Her brows came together as her head came up. “No, to which part?”
“Yes, I was told to marry you. But I’m trying to make it work because, well, I am a sucker for a beautiful face. And yours in the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“Oy.” She hung her head. “You are drowning me in these lines.”
“Good!” I shot back. “But honestly, you have the most power between us two.”
“How so?”
“Our parents and families can push us. I will listen. However, you can refuse and marry someone else and still get your inheritance. There is nothing my family or I can do about it. I need you more than you need me. If I did not like you at all, then I would push to end this.”
“Are you confessing that you like me?” Her eyebrow rose, and a grin spread over her lips.
I was not sure if she was excited at knowing that or just teasing me. “And if I were?”
“Already?”
“I’ve always been good at knowing what I want. Whether or not I get it is not always so certain.”
“So, you know you want me?”
“Yes, and if I told you exactly the ways in which I did, you would throw your wine at me,” I replied, fighting to keep the lust that made me want to stare at the
curve of her breast inside me. I needed to calm down.
She did not need to see that side of me—not yet, at least.
“Throw my wine?” she whispered back. “Nothing you could say would make me do such a thing.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Do not tempt me.”
Her brown eyes were dead set on me, and I could only stare back at her. “I kind of want to, though.”
God, help me.
“Your dinner.” The server appeared like a bloody ghost.
I stared at him, annoyed.
When I said God help me, I did not need it urgently.
It was hot.
It was freezing outside. But here at this table, I was heating up from the inside out. And it was all his damn fault.
No. No, Odette. So, what if his eyes are like kryptonite and he has a seductive accent. You are still flirting back! What is wrong with you? I shouldn’t have asked myself that because I knew the answer. It had been a very long while since anyone had made me hot. So apparently, all a man had to do was fan a little subtle desire my way, and I just went along.
“This is good,” he whispered, eating from the plate in front of him.
I wasn’t sure if he really meant that or if he was trying to change the subject.
“Y-yeah.” Ugh, my voice! Get it together, Odette! I sat up a little in my seat as I twirled the pasta with my fork. “Do you have a favorite food?” Let’s get back to basic questions.
“Cherumoran Kosowens,” was what it sounded like he said. However, I had no idea if that was right.
“And in English, that is?”
He chuckled. “I am not sure if there is an English name for it. But it would be like chicken and quail in a smoky tomato and rice stew.”
“How do you say it? Cherj-u-ogan?” I tried, and he just laughed at me. “Stop. I’m trying.”
“That is why I am laughing. Your face is hilarious. You look like you’re trying to cast a spell.”
“Whatever.” I pouted before sticking more pasta in my mouth.
“Okay, I’ll help you pronounce it.”
“Nope. I’m on to my next question.”
“Am I on a job interview?” he asked.
“Husband interview.”
“Well, that is serious.” He smirked, looking me over. “Please, ask away.”
