Royal Marriage Market (21 page)

I take a long drag from the bottle. “I’m surprised you notice. Most of the time you’re not even here.”

He grins, dropping into one of the chairs across from me. “I’m not
Prince Perfect.
” Then he tsks, the grin widening. “No avoiding the question, Chris. Have you at least hooked up with some of the girls?”

I take another sip and lean forward, dangling the bottle between my legs. “Is that what you’re doing, Luk? Hooking up?”

“If I’ve got to be part of this farce, I might as well enjoy myself.” He angles his drink in my direction. “You’re avoiding again.”

Part of me doesn’t want to tell him anything, because it’s none of his business. But there’s also no way it’ll ever get back to the She-Wolf, as Lukas has just as many heart-to-hearts with her as I do. “Fine. I’ve been spending time with someone.”

He slaps his knee. Looks pissed. “It’s that Vattenguldian girl, isn’t it?”

Am I really so transparent? “Actually,” I say slowly, “it is.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Have you lost your mind? Why in the world would you hook up with her?”

I’m taken aback by the level of disgust in his voice. I’m also not down with how he makes it sound like I’m making a horrible choice when I already know just how messy the situation is. But it’s my mistake to make. And now I’m pissed at my brother, because nobody is going to malign Elsa in my presence.
Nobody
. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you caved so quickly to the She-Wolf’s demands. Weren’t you just the one who insisted I take a stand?”

Before I can say anything, he continues, “I admit the Vattenguldian spare is a looker, but Jesus, Chris. I could have sworn you wanted nothing to do with her. When you’re together, you act as if she has a contagious disease. And now you’re hooking up with her? What gives?”

He’s talking about Isabelle. Thankfully, I don’t have to knock some sense into him. “You’re talking out of your arse. When have I ever given any indication I’m interested in that woman?”

He blinks in confusion.

“I am not hooking up with Isabelle, and if I have my way, I never will be. To be honest, I’m not hooking up with anybody, at least not in the way you’re thinking.”

He waves a hand in front of him. “Wait. Are you hooking up with her sister? The heir?”

That reminds me. I’m going to see Elsa naked soon. My pants grow way too tight, forcing me to shift in my seat. Being turned on all the time is not a very comfortable state to be in. “Did you not just hear me? No, I’m not
hooking
up with her.”

Although, I wish I was. And just the thought makes me shift in my seat once more.
      

“Let me get this straight. You’re sneaking out in the middle of the night to
spend time
with this woman?”

I’m annoyed at how disturbingly confused he is by this. “She has a name, Luk. It’s Elsa.”

Now his eyes widen. “What does
spending time
together even mean, if not shagging one another?”

I go to answer him, but it hits me. Really hits me. It means more than just me obsessively lusting after her. I think . . . no I know . . . oh, bloody hell. I’m falling for her, aren’t I?

Shite
.

“Because, if you guys were simply shagging, I’d get it. Okay, yes. She’s sexy as all hell. But she’s also your equivalent and the heir to another throne.
And
your future sister-in-law. Are you purposely trying to piss the She-Wolf off? Is this some kind of game to see just how far you can push her before she backs down? Because there is no way she’s ever going to approve of you two”—he flashes air quotes—“hanging out. Not when it could mess up her plans.”

Maybe I ought to knock that sense into him after all. “First of all, anything that happens between me and Elsa has nothing—and I repeat, nothing—to do with the She-Wolf. And secondly, I don’t give a flying shite if she approves of whom I’m friends with or not—let alone if it screws with her master plan.”

He scoffs. “You’ve been sneaking out in the middle of the night like a bloody teenager to hang out with your
friend?”

“I’m not sneaking out. And we haven’t hidden the fact that we know one another or spend time together.”

“Sitting in your boring meetings is one thing,” he argues. “But doing whatever you’re doing in the middle of the night is another. Just what the fuck are you two doing, Chris?”

It’s enough to lend pause.

“I don’t know,” I tell my brother quietly. “I really don’t. But whatever it is, I don’t want to stop.”

He nurses his beer for a long moment before taking a sip. “You like this woman. I mean, Elsa.”

My forced laughter is quiet. Bitter. “Something like that.”

“Do you know if she feels the same?”

“Does it matter? Considering, as you pointed out, I’m most likely going to be forced into marrying her sister?”

“Hell yeah, it does,” he says softly.

It surprises me he says this. And I feel like a lousy brother that I misjudge him far too often.

I take another long drag of my warming beer. “I haven’t kissed her.” Another bitter laugh. “I’m falling for her and I haven’t even really kissed her. How’s that for fucked up, Luk? I feel like some kind of goddamn teenager right now. I don’t know what is up and what is down anymore.”

He doesn’t know what else there is to say. It’s okay. I don’t either.

chapter 30

Elsa

The reflection from the alabaster lamps glows warm gold against the cool sapphire water, and with genuine gilded tiles scattered throughout the room, the effect is magical. Most of our peers are enamored with the pool outside, and rightfully so. It is truly magnificent. But this one here, beneath the tennis courts?

This is the one that lures me in like a siren.

The entire room is covered in cobalt and golden mosaics alongside marble statues, leaving me debating whether I am in California or ancient Rome. There is a liquid effect, one fragile and tentative, as if words alone might splatter it away in a dream.

On quiet toes, I wander to where Christian leans against the black tourist railings surrounding the edge of the pool.

“This place,” he murmurs, “is truly a portal in time.”

I focus on a diving platform before us, resplendent in golden mermaid mosaics. It is funny for him to say such a thing, considering this pool is an infant compared to the palaces he and I both reside within. And yet, he is absolutely right.

My words are just as hushed as his. “It’s perfectly enchanting.”

He nudges my shoulder. “Too bad we didn’t think about bringing the cocoa down here with us.”

We drank two cups apiece, so every word uttered to one another now is sweet and chocolaty. I have never, ever enjoyed hot cocoa as much as I did tonight.

“For RFCers,” I say, “we have poor planning skills.”

He rocks back on his heels. “Speaking of, are you ready for your first, Els?”

No, I think, because now that I had the time to think about what we are to do, I realize it’s possibly the worst idea I have ever had. But I refuse to tell him that. “Of course.”

He grabs the towels looped around the railing and meanders to the far side of the pool where a white diving board protrudes across the deep water. A small black gate is unlatched, allowing us access denied to so many. I trail after him, straight to the edge of the pool, where marble steps lead into glassy blue. My shoes shucked off, I dip my toes in.

The water is cold. Frigid, to be more exact.

“Verdict?”

I glance up at Christian, loving how his navy sweater makes him appear as if he belongs in this room. “Perfect.”

He smirks, pretending to shudder. I nearly shudder, too, at the thought of what we’re about to do. Only, not so much shudder, but shiver in anticipation.

We loop behind decorated walls, where statues guard the pool, to discover a much more shallow alcove and twin stairs ascending to the diving platform. He points to one of the sides. “There are dressing rooms in the back.”

One of my hands sweeps before us. “The pool is icy. The night is chilly. Are you truly desiring to enter a cold dressing room and prolong the torture?”

He feigns shock. “You said the water was perfect!”

My hands settle upon my hips.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.”

I arch an eyebrow up.

The towels are dropped near one of the stairs. “You have nothing to prove to me.”

“I did not believe this was about proving anything. I thought this was about firsts.”

“My point stands.”

“Do you find me a prude?”

He laughs, and I swear the waters around us ripple in response. “That’s one of the last things I could ever call you.”

I ought to be horrified. Embarrassed at the very least. But from him, this sounds like a beautiful compliment.

“I was simply mentioning that you have nothing to prove to anybody, let alone me. If you don’t feel comfortable jumping stark naked into a frigid pool, then you most certainly don’t have to. We’ll still have our cocoa experience to qualify the night as a success.”

“That was only one first—yours. Doesn’t the RFC allow each member a new first during the witching hour?” I tap my chin. “Perhaps it’s
you
who has doubts, and to save face, it is easier to place blame on me.”

Although, truthfully, I’ve never been more nervous in my entire life. I’ve stood in front of cameras and crowds and know the weight of expectations and crowns. Yet here I am, in the black of night, with cricket songs the only noises to be heard outside of our voices, and my knees are perilously close to quaking.

“I don’t think it’s chlorinated.”

I tear my eyes away from the mosaics glinting up from the bottom of the shallow waters in the alcove next to us, back to meet his. And now, another golden treasure in the room appears —his amber eyes glow just as stunningly as the lights and gilt around us. “I suppose that means we best not pee in the pool.”

“Do you tend to pee in pools often, Els?”

I shuck off a sandal and chuck it at him. He dodges easily.

“Okay.” He claps his hands together. “No peeing. No swallowing, either.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Do you tend to drink pool water often, Chris?”

He stills, wide-eyed, and it occurs to me this is the first time I have referred to him as anything other than his full name, despite his request days ago. And yet, doing so feels intimate and natural and familiar all at the same time.

Chris to his Els.

But then he recovers and tugs off one of his shoes to lob at me. I dodge just in time to watch it sink into the water.

“Well, now you’ve done it,” I say as it settles on the bottom. “We must go in, even if it is only to save your shoe.” The corner of my mouth crooks upward.

He chuckles again. “No shallow end. We go in big or go home losers.”

I bet he goes in big.

Thank goodness the light is dim in here. I clear my throat and motion toward the diving platform above us. “If we are to do so, it must be from up there.”

He cocks his head and studies it. “Ten feet up, maybe?”

I nod. “And the pool is ten feet deep. Toes touch the bottom before we get out.”

Amusement is such an appealing look on him.

“I feel like we are sixteen, defying our parents.”

His amusement grows. “We’ve forgone our adulthood this week, remember?”

I smack my forehead. “Right. Of course.” And then, because I cannot help myself, “Did you skinny-dip at sixteen?”

He bites his lip. It’s another delicious look. “Fifteen, actually. At Lake Como. Lukas and I met some local girls and decided it’d be fun.”

“Was it?”

“Bodyguards found us nearly immediately. The She—” It’s his turn to clear his throat. His following grin is rueful. “My mother was not pleased. Thankfully there are no pictures, and it stayed out of the press.” He kicks off his other shoe. “What about you?”

I follow suit. “Ah, now here’s the moment you find out I am actually a prude: a true skinny-dipping virgin.”

He tugs his sweater over his head, revealing a white t-shirt clinging to well-defined muscles. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re a twenty-eight-year-old virgin running amuck?”

I tear my eyes away from his chest and focus on unbuttoning my jacket. “Alas, at least in this instance, I am.”

“And what we’re really doing is popping your cherry tonight?”

Oh, goodness. We are in a refrigerator, and I am sweating up a storm, I’m overheating so badly. “Put out or shut up already, won’t you?”

He grabs the hem of his t-shirt with one hand and tugs upward. I blurt out, terrified of losing what little propriety I possess, “No peeking, though.”

He pauses, shirt halfway up. Attempting to not ogle what appears to be the most perfect abs I’ve seen on a man is a difficult feat, indeed. “How do you expect us to get up to the top of the platform?”

“Not like keeping your eyes closed up the stairs or—” Holy hell, am I feeling like our proverbial virgin running amuck right now. “Oh, forget it. Please proceed.”

And he does.

And I wonder why I believed it cold tonight.

He tosses me one of the towels; I catch it before it hits the water. Christian is uncharacteristically quiet, serious even. I cannot determine if this is good or bad—our banter, as cutting or flirty as it has grown to be, always leaves me feeling as if we’ve been friends for ages rather than mere days.