Page 28 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘What the hell happened to your hair?’

The gruff question had her gaze shooting back to his face so fast she almost got whiplash. Horrified heat seared her collarbone.

‘Y-y-you...’ She cleared her throat as the lava flow rose up to incinerate her cheeks—and dry her throat to dust. ‘You happened to it,’ she managed, beyond grateful to discover he had been focussed on her hair and was unaware of her checking out the contents of his boxers.

His gaze dropped to her flaming face. ‘Uh-huh? How exactly is the Leaning Tower of Hair my fault?’

The asinine comment had her anger surging back to cover her mortification. Especially when his gaze roamed over her cleavage again—with that arrogant entitlement that had derailed her common sense earlier in the evening.

Well, he wasn’t going to derail it again, she told herself staunchly. Despite the continuing lava flow from stretchy-boxer-briefs-gate.

She was now fully focussed on her main priority—which involved making this marriage work for the duration of the year they had agreed upon, and not risking torpedoing it for the reckless pursuit of temporary pleasure, which was clearly his priority.

She would have to be the adult here, because it was becoming increasingly obvious Travis Lord had never had to think about anything but himself and the pursuit of his own gratification.

Her spine stiffened with self-righteousness. Unfortunately, even standing tall, it didn’t do much to decrease his massive height advantage, especially when he levered himself off the door, and stared down at her from his full height.

She lifted her chin, so she could glare at him—and not his left pec.

‘It’s your fault because you were so rude and obnoxious to Elsa earlier, she was scared to stay in the same room with you,’ she said, upset all over again at the way he had spoken to her maid. ‘And I’ve never had to do this without her.’

To her utter astonishment though, instead of mocking her for being unable to handle dismantling her own chignon, flags of colour appeared on his tanned cheeks. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I screwed up,’ he murmured. ‘So I called her and apologised.’

‘You... Youdid?’ she asked, so surprised by the admission she wasn’t sure she could believe him.

But when he began to speak, his contrition was unmistakable, and disarmed her temper completely.

‘I lost my cool. I’m not great at being on show for eight hours straight,’ he said, the weary tone forcing her to admit she might have misjudged him. After all, she was used to official events, and today had been extremely taxing even for her.

‘But I behaved like a dick and there’s no excuse for that,’ he continued. ‘Plus my mom would have given me hell if she’d ever heard me talk to the help like that...’ He trailed off. The dark sincerity in his gaze—and the mention of his mother, who Isabelle recalled had been a cleaner—made her heart slow and guilt prickle at the back of her throat.

Shehadmisjudged him.

She had assumed he was one of those rich, entitled men who treated the people who worked for them with contempt, and she had disliked him intensely for it—on very little evidence. Which forced her to question her own motivations.

She could see now, she hadwantedto judge him because over the last two months—during all those silly texts—she had found his blunt sense of humour so enjoyable, his irreverence so exhilarating and the way he saw her—as a woman and not a queen—impossibly exciting. And it had scared her. Because wanting him to kiss her again, to make love to her even, wasn’t nearly as terrifying as acknowledging how much she had enjoyed his attention and approval.

It would be pathetic if it weren’t so cowardly.

‘I apologised to Arne the Stickler as well,’ he said. ‘Cos I was kind of a dick to him, too.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ she said, humbled by his honesty, and his willingness to admit his mistake not just to her staff but also to her.

He shrugged. ‘You’re welcome, Your Majesty,’ he said with the wry humour that she found incredibly beguiling. As well as annoying.

He stared at the bird’s nest on her head again. ‘How about I take a crack at it?’

The sharp tug under her breastbone at the bold request was complicated by the heat sinking deep into her abdomen.

‘Seems the least I can do after scaring off your maid.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she managed, far too aware of his state of undress and the slow thunder of her heartbeat.

Admitting how much she had come to enjoy certain aspects of his character only made him more dangerous to her peace of mind... And her flagging boundaries.

‘You got a better idea?’ he said. ‘Cos it’s close to midnight now, so hauling Elsa out of bed to do it is only going to make us both look like dicks.’

She huffed out a laugh, despite the rising tension. Why did she find the familiar way he spoke to her so appealing?

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