Page 85 of Underground Prince

Theo, never one for jerks and jumps, made a quiet “mmm” sound at the back of his throat at my order, his version of a twinge of surprise, I suppose. “I do. Make mine the same,” he said. He flashed his most beguiling smile at the waitress, closed-mouthed yet enticing, a come-hither through lip-language.

Blimey, I thought. No one was safe.

He lifted his beer and sat back, relaxed in this atmosphere. “Her name’s Black Beauty.”

My casual sip turned into a slurp. “Excuse me?”

He inclined his head toward the paneled windows of the restaurant to the shining black beast, resembling a jewel among dented rocks on the potholed Flatbush Avenue. “My car. You were about to ask me what I called her, am I right? Before you almost toppled off the sidewalk when you saw it?”

Bastard. He missed nothing. “You’ve been chauffeuring me around in town cars when you have that hidden in a garage somewhere? Forgive me for thinking an alarm would go off just for ogling it. And your name for the thing. Very…original.”

“Thing.” He looked at me like I’d said his car belonged in a trailer park. “A GranTurismo is sex on wheels. And her name isn’t merely because the car’s black and she’s beautiful. The book.” He shrugged. “It was read to me as a child and I’ve always liked it.”

Theo drank, his brows becoming some sort of barrier between him and me.

“I have the same kind of memories,” I said, hoping he wasn’t spooked. Know him. “My mom always read to us before bed, every night without fail. I had a way with tantrums.”

“No doubt.” His studied me over the rim of his glass. “You have siblings?”

The rip in my stomach was unexpected. I didn’t realize what I’d said, how casually it left my mouth, and I wasn’t prepared for the aftermath. Stupid, stupid. “So do you,” I said, throwing it back at him, praying he’d catch on and leave it be.

Theo threw an arm over his side of the booth. “Two,” he answered, and I sagged into my seat, the tension releasing in my gut. “Trace, who you saw, and Ward.”

“Ward?” The name was so foreign on my tongue that I inadvertently made a face.

He shook his head after a slow, deep chuckle. “My father has a sick sense of humor. He made it a point to give his sons what he thought were weak names, to see if we’d grow out of them or be sucked in by them.”

I raised my brows.

“Either we’d fold into our true names, become soft, spineless, or—” He paused to take a drink. “We’d own them. Change them into something strong, make him proud. A fucked up test of will, but that’s my father for you.”

I pondered this. “So your full name is—”

“Theodore. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, grinning over my beer. “You didn’t tell me your name. You told me your chipmunk.”

His answering smile was so gradual—revealing his teeth and creasing his eyes, as if he didn’t expect to react in such a way—that I realized, with such sharp surprise, how much talent he put behind his expressions. Even his smiles contained a kind of skill in that they conveyed only what he wanted. Genuine emotion was forbidden.

But here, now, he was revealed. That smile was for me. And it was true.

Understanding dawned and he stilled, the smile lost in our silence. I wanted nothing more than to bring it back. He was beautiful, lit up and gorgeous, when he did that.

He said, “All right, smartass. Figure out the rest.”

“Easy,” I said, allowing him his retreat. “Trace would be short for Tracey.”

“That’s a given. Come on, impress me.”

I squinted a glare at him. “Ward…okay, Ward. I got it. Edward!” I raised my glass in salute.

“Wrong.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

His mocking response was stated with such blank-faced flatness that I met it with giggles, choking on liquid and laughter. He was like a robot learning preschool insults for the first time. I actually pointed at him before I covered my mouth to stifle more escaped giggles, then attempted to meet his serious face with one of my own but failed miserably.

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