Royal Marriage Market (25 page)

“Do you think it’s possible we can stroll right out of this party, straight down the drive, and disappear before anyone knows what’s going on?” she asks me. But there’s humor there, too.

I groan quietly. “Don’t tempt me.”

“What time do you fly out tomorrow?”

Not soon enough and yet too soon all at once. “Eight
a.m
. You?”

“Five-thirty in the morning. My father is clearly insane. We are to fly to LAX with Lichtenstein, and apparently he’s an early riser.”

Tiny bits of ugly panic grip the muscle in my chest. That’s only eight hours away. Eight hours before Elsa boards a plane and flies away from me.

“I have it on good authority,” she continues, “that there is pie in the kitchen, a kind specific to the region, sent over by a local town but deemed too countrified for tonight’s gala.”

“Are you part of a secretive pie information network, Els?”

She smiles, and it hits me way harder than my mother’s hand from earlier this morning. “Naturally. Here is the first I want tonight: we ought to try some before we leave. After all, isn’t pie a quintessential American experience?”

“I believe it’s specifically apple pie that’s the true slice of Americana.”

She mutters, “Har-har.”

      
I continue, undeterred, “I doubt the local pie you’ve heard about is apple. How delightful. We have a pie mystery on our hands.”

She gently presses against me, like she’s shoving me. And I chuckle, because the look of amused frustration she lets me see is so adorable. “Are you game?”

“What would this pie mission entail? Should I dress in all black?”

“Sneaking into the kitchen, of course. But that is old hat for you and I. We are to eat as much pie as we can without vomiting afterward.” The corners of her lips slyly curve upward. “Unless you’re watching out for your girlish—excuse me,
mannish
figure.”

I feign outrage. “I bet I can eat you under the table.”

Damn, her smile is gorgeous.

“If I join you on this mission, will I be allowed to join PIN?”

She releases a ghost of a laugh, and I feel this tiny breath all the way down to my bones—and pants. “PIN as in Pie Information Network? Certainly. You will receive all benefits entitled to full members, including the opportunity to eat the best pies on the planet.”

I’d like to eat her.

“The security guard is making a tidy sum off of me this week, isn’t he? I shall have to pay him another visit,” I tell her.

She blushes, and just the sight makes my pants all the more uncomfortable. By the time the song finishes, I’m so dangerously turned on that it’s a miracle I can even walk.

chapter 37

Elsa

We are alone in the spacious kitchen, leaning against one of the stainless steel islands. Christian located old-fashioned lanterns to illuminate the place where we became more than strangers; the soft glow lends the room a hazy, magical countenance. “What do you call these?” I poke my fork in the berries spilling out of the slice of pie on my plate.

He was right. There was not a single slice of apple pie to be found anywhere.

Christian lifts the flap of the pie box and angles it toward me. “Olallieberries.”

“Is that even a real word?”

He laughs, and I resent the sound. It’s gorgeous and rich and sexy and unfair to any woman in its vicinity, including me. And that’s the rub, because I’m not sure how I will ever be able to resist Christian and all of his lovely, addictive
too-
ness.

“It’s here on the box,” he’s saying, “so I’m thinking yes.”

I refocus on the pie below me, because no good can come of lingering on Christian’s perfect laugh or how the urge to drift closer to the warmth floating off his lean body is oh so strong right now. Or about how the thought of him and my sister, hanging out in a kitchen at three
a.m
., gorging themselves on sweets, makes me want to break every dish I can find. “Anybody can make up a word.” I shove a large spoonful of pie in my mouth. “Farfleggle.”

As sordid images run wild through my mind, I am thankful Christian is too busy cutting himself another slice of pie to notice my flaming cheeks. “Pardon?”

I swallow and take a deep breath, wishing I could just fan myself already. “Farfleggle. I made it up. See? It can be done.”

His mouth curves upward at this; it is patently ridiculous how attractive I find him right now, all ease and grace and charm whilst stuffing himself full of pie in the middle of the night in an empty kitchen.

Why did I have to keep on talking to him this week? Why did he have to be so bloody wonderful and easy to be around, my own Prince Charming come to life?

A silver fork points my way, laden with rich berries and flaky pastry. “What does it mean?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. It is a made-up word. That’s my point.”

He chews his bite slowly as he considers this, and I suppress an urge to touch his mouth. His lips are stained a tiny bit from the berry juice, and I am too weak in the moment to deny that I would like nothing more than to lick them clean.
      

I have no doubt the women who have been lucky enough to feel that gorgeous mouth against theirs lose track of time or swoon or feel like they’re flying or any of the other banal descriptions people read about in books, because that mouth promises so very, very much.

I think I could hate my sister for all the kisses she’ll get from this man.

“But the thing is,” he’s saying, forcing me to look from his mouth to his eyes, “olallieberry means something. It’s a type of berry. Its existence in the lexicon is warranted.”

I am daydreaming about kissing. He is thinking about etymology—which is a good thing. One of us must remain focused on the task at hand.

As I take another bite of pie, I search for a proper definition for such a gloriously ludicrous word. And then it comes to me.
Farfleggle: a noun—a princess whose knickers practically drop every time a certain Aibolandian prince looks at her.

What I tell him is, “Farfleggle: a noun meaning a prince addicted to secretive organizations.”

That absurdly attractive smile of his reemerges, and now I am more than just squirmy; I am hot and achy and focused on his sinful mouth again. “So, you’re saying
I’m
a farfleggle?”

No. I am.
I pray my smile is gracious. “You are most welcome.”

At the bemused look on his face, I am unable to hold it in any longer. All the laughter he has sought from me for days now bubbles up and out of me, like fizzy champagne shaken for celebrations.

I laugh. I giggle and laugh and flat-out chuckle. My sides hurt. My mother would be horrified.

Christian’s smile slowly fades until he stares at me as if I am nothing more than a stranger who barged into the kitchen and stole his pie.

Was my mother right after all? Is such behavior really so tawdry? All of my frivolity dissipates into awkwardness and another overly large bite of olallieberry pie.

His chest rises and falls slowly, his attention on me in a way that disconcerts. Because he isn’t merely looking at me—he is
looking
at me, and I have no idea what it means. It isn’t the first time he has done so meaningfully, but even now, even days after immersing myself in all things Christian, I am unable to decode the words behind his eyes.

Which means, naturally, I must shove another bite of pie into my mouth, futilely attempting to ignore how I wish I were shoving something else in my mouth, instead.

After what seems like forever with a fortnight tacked on for good measure, he murmurs, “It’s not fair when you laugh like that.”

I try not to choke as the glob of pie I just shoved in so quickly fights to slide down my throat. “I am sorry if I offended you, Chris.”

He shakes his head, holding out a dismissive hand. “No. Not that.”

I try to play it cool. Stifle the hurt his rejection births. “You never told me what you want your first to be tonight.”

I am horrified when he stiffens. Even more alarmed when he shoves away from the shiny, metal island, his pie and fork suddenly forgotten. “I should go.”

Before I can even form a word, he closes in on the doorway. What just happened? We’d been eating pie and joking and I laughed, which he told me before he wanted to hear, yet now he feels he must leave?

Can he sense how my feelings toward him have shifted in ways I fear I no longer can control?

I do not want him to go. Not yet. Not when our time together is so preciously limited. Two hours from now, I will be on a plane, and the next time I see him might be at his wedding.

Just as he reaches the door, Christian skids to a halt. His palms slap against the wooden doorframe, the sound reverberating throughout the still kitchen.

I want to disappear when my voice trembles as I say his name.

And then Christian strides back across the kitchen, back toward me, his eyes serious and apologetic and hot all at once, and I honestly have no idea what to do. Or say. I haven’t the foggiest if he is angry or pulling my leg or any other variation of any emotion, and it’s . . .
unnatural
. Because everything else after the first day has been natural, so this is unacceptable.

But then he kisses me.

Finally
.

chapter 38

Christian

Hearing her laughter was my death knell. Or rather, not necessarily
my
death knell, but that of all of the bloody protections and resistances I’ve attempted to maintain against Elsa and her charms over the last few days. Her laughter was a gift, all warm and bubbly and wonderful, and it smashed through me, overtaking my very cells until all I felt was joy.

I like this princess. I like her very much. I fear it’s more than that, that I’m in love with her. And this absolutely terrifies the hell out of me. We’ve both been ordered to marry people we don’t love. Today, in fact.

But I’m done trying to convince myself I don’t feel something for Elsa, or that what I do feel is nothing more than friendship or even lust. I don’t want just her friendship. I want
her
. So now here we are, and my lips are touching hers for the first time, and God almighty, she’s absurdly delicious, all tangy sweet and sour like the berries. But she’s more than that, too. As I deepen the kiss, I have no idea how to explain it other than what I’m tasting is just Elsa, despite never having savored her before this moment. I cup the back of her head, my other hand drifting to her lower back so I can tug her closer, and, thank all that’s good in the world, she comes willingly, the strength of her kiss matching my own.

It’s the headiest feeling in the entire bloody world.

We’re kissing, noses bumping like we’re teens experimenting for the first time, but it’s more than just my lips on hers. I can’t explain it, but my heart’s pumping too fast, faster than it ever has when I’ve kissed a woman.

I’m instantly hard. This woman, no matter what she does, turns me on like no other.

“This is my first,” I murmur against her mouth. “This is the first I’ve wanted all week.”

Any restraint I might possess beats a quick retreat out of the kitchen when her fingers dig into my shirt so she can tug me closer. I moan, and so does she, and these sounds have me pressing her up against the island until I fear I’m going to come in my goddamn pants like some arsehole during his first time. I’m on bloody fire, all hard and hot and aching and desiring nothing more than to peel her clothes right off her body, have her do the same to me, and shove the pie off the island so I can climb up there with her and take my time learning every inch of her body.

Things turn frantic, tongues tasting and stroking, hands tugging off shirts and sweaters, mouths seeking out necks and clavicles, and I swear that the ground below us disappears entirely and I’m part of one of those clichés I’ve always scorned, because I’m fucking floating on air.

I need to be in her. Now.

She unbuckles my belt, tugs at my zipper. I nearly lose control when she cups me.