Page 69 of Thrones We Steal

I turn the knob and step inside, able at last to satisfy my curiosity about the prince’s lair. Candles flicker on the available surfaces, making shadows dance on the dark walls. I briefly consider running, but—let’s be honest—wild horses can’t drag me away before I see more. I’ll leave soon enough.

His sitting room looks much like mine, except it’s decorated in shades of navy and taupe. There’s also a baby grand piano hogging an entire side of the room. A small grouping of candles mimics their reflection in the glossy black lid.

The most incredible melody surges from its depths: dramatic, sad, hypnotic. I stand mesmerized, watching Henry play, a hot ball of emotion welling up inside as his fingers draw out the haunting music. Despite the years of lessons I’ve taken in both piano and violin, I’ve never produced anything this beautiful.

He is unaware of my presence, of that I’m certain. He’s playing with complete abandon, eyes closed, his body leaning into the music like they are one. I know he feels it in the depths of his soul, the same way I do in mine.

Watching him is magical.

After several more minutes of playing, he pauses, and in doing so, notices me standing there. The serenity drops from his face. I’ve embarrassed him.

“That was beautiful,” I whisper and approach the piano. “I didn’t realize you still played.” I’m having trouble reconciling the picture of Henry, playboy prince, with Henry, heartfelt musician.

He rises from the bench. “It’s my escape.”

“Don’t stop on my account.”

He walks around the piano, wearing a thin white T-shirt and soft jeans. He looks nothing like the Henry that decorates the front of the tabloids and every bit the boy he was at seventeen. Unease trickles down my spine. I can handle Playboy Henry, but the one standing in front of me scares me senseless.

He studies me like he’s selecting just the right book from his vast collection. His eyes on me feel just like his fingertips did, and he may as well have been trailing them down the whole length of me.

His extensive perusal ends at my feet, which are bare—a choice I regret as his eyes linger on them. I curl my toes under. A subtle little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he knows something I don’t.

“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?” I double check the fly of my jeans.

“Nothing.” The small smile turns into a full blown one. “You look perfect.” He moves to the bar near the window. “Want a glass of wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Look at us, all civil like normal people.

He uncorks the bottle and pours my glass. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come tonight. I was expecting a text saying you weren’t feeling well.” His eyes sparkle as he hands me the wine.

“I almost did.” Now my cover is blown. I’ll have to think of a different reason to leave early.

He chuckles and motions for me to proceed him to the sofa. “You’re as predictable as the sunrise.”

Despite my apprehension, I’m also strangely excited. I clutch my wine glass like it’s a life preserver.

“When was the last time you had fun?” He sits at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a very appropriate amount of space between us. A small buffet of snacks is spread across the table in front of us. The tub of cookie dough does not escape my notice. Henry reaches for a bowl of peanuts.

“Hmm, let me think.” I take another sip of wine. “When I slapped you. That was exhilarating.”

His laugh sounds glorious, rich and full of depth. “That’s not quite what I had in mind.” He tosses a handful of nuts into his mouth.

“No? Too bad. It’s such a stress reliever.” Am I flirting with him? The wine must be going to my head. Time to slow down. I set my glass on the small table and grab a scoop of cookie dough.

“I have a better idea. Be right back.” He walks to an armoire on the far side of the room. When he returns, he’s carrying a dilapidated Monopoly box. “You up for a little trading?”

“You still have that game? I haven’t played in years.”

“You annihilated me every single time.”

“It’s all in the hustle.” I drain the contents of my glass.

“Well, let’s hope my hustling skills have improved in the last ten years,” he says and hands me the box.

“I’m doubtful. But if you really think you stand a chance …”

“Bring it on.” He refills our drinks while I set up the game on the table. “No cheating, either. I need all the help I can get.”

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