Page 36 of Lace 'em Up

She lifts her brows, then opens the binder, rings down, fingers wrapping around the bottom and top hoop, like she’s preparing to?—

“Stop,” I order, all amusement fading.

“Oh, so you don’t want to play this game after all, Mr. Spreadsheet?”

“Ror—” I begin, moving toward her.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she tuts, shaking my binder—my life—threateningly. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

I freeze. “Princess?—”

“Don’t you mean Prickly Princess?”

“I—”

But I don’t get to finish what I was going to say because?—

She gasps and I watch in horror as the binder slips from her hold, the flash of horror on her face, clinging to her voice. “Shit!”

She dives for it.

So do I.

Our bodies collide.

She gasps.

I grunt as her elbow hits my ribs, but I react fast enough to ensure that I don’t crush her, rolling so that I land first and my body breaks her fall.

The binder bounces off my shin, skittering away, the sickening sound of papers flying making my stomach twist.

“Oh my God,” Rory whispers, pushing off my body in a rush, making me grunt at the contact. “Oh my God,” she says again. “I’m so sorry. I was just messing around.” She clambers over to my planner on her knees, hands darting out this way and that. “I didn’t mean to ruin it. I-I?—”

It’s the break in her voice that finally unsticks me enough to push up from the floor, to move over to her, snagging her hand when she reaches for one of the papers scattered around. “Princess, it’s fi?—”

“I ruined it,” she says and I don’t miss that her eyes are glassy with tears, that regret is painted into the lines of her face. “I fucking ruined it and?—”

I take her hand. “Ror?—”

Her eyes lock onto mine. “I’m so sorry.”

“Princess—”

“Really. I—” She swallows hard and looks away. “You’ve been so nice to me. This whole time you’ve been nice to me, and I’ve been a total bitch because I assumed you were what social media and the blogs say you are, and I believed the reputation?—”

I touch her cheek. “Everyone does.”

“That’s not you,” she says. “The playboy”—she lifts her hands, makes air quotes—“King Bang. You’re not what they say you are?—”

“I’m not a fuckboy, no,” I say.

But the rest of it?—

You’ll never be half the man your father is.

My eyes close and this time I’m the one looking away, those words a razor-sharp slice of memories.

“King—”

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