Page 37 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘We have eleven hours,’ she countered.

‘It’s a longboringstory...’

Which is none of your business,he wanted to add. But didn’t, because he was the dumbass who had made it her business and it sounded way too defensive.

‘And I’m shattered,’ he added, unclipping his belt.

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Royal duties are often more taxing than they look.’

‘You’re telling me,’ he said, ignoring the prickle of unease that she was treating him with kid gloves now—as if he were some kind of hothead who couldn’t keep it together under pressure.

But then he’d created that rod for his own back, by behaving like a jerk this morning—not just to the press, but also to her.

He’d accused her of judging him, when what he’d really been doing was judging himself—just as he had as a kid. No wonder he’d gotten all bent out of shape about nothing.

He thrust his fingers through his hair as he stood up, the pressure of the last twenty-four hours taking a toll.

He’d never been a guy to overthink anything, especially not his own emotions, but then he’d also never had to spend eight hours straight pretending to be in love with the whole world watching, while wearing a monkey suit and not being able to touch what he was already supposed to have.

Note to self: marriage in name only totally sucks when you have the hots for your fake wife.

He still didn’t know why Isabelle had run off like that, why she hadn’t wanted the quick stress fix that great sex could provide. Because one thing last night had proved was that she had the hots for him too.

But he had ten days in Colorado to figure out if there was a way they could make their chemistry work as a stress-relief valve without having it blow up in both their faces.

He’d also been pretty arrogant thinking the duties of monarchy were nothing. He could see that now. After less than twenty-four hours of living in the full glare of that spotlight he’d somehow managed to dredge up stuff from his childhood that he’d gotten over years ago.

He had to give her some credit for holding it together this morning when he hadn’t. He was also pretty curious now about how she did that, while also being so artless and unworldly. Maybe it was just an act, but he wasn’t as convinced about that any more.

‘I’m gonna head to one of the bedrooms at the back and crash,’ he said. Then, because she was still looking at him like a stick of dynamite that might explode at any second, the devil got the better of him again. ‘If you want to finish what we started last night, you’re welcome to join me.’

Her face flushed a deep shade of pink—and her eyebrows rose. ‘I... I don’t think so,’ she sputtered.

He grinned at her reaction. Good to know he could still unsettle her—because she sure as hell unsettled him.

‘Lady’s choice, Your Majesty.’ He gave her a mocking bow, then headed to the bedroom. Alone.

One thing was for sure, he needed to get some shut-eye if he was going to stop himself from behaving like a dumbass again.

But as he showered, the thought ofactuallyfinishing what they had started had a predictable effect, and it occurred to him he needed to find a way to handle this hunger, if he was going to get what he wanted out of this deal—without crippling himself in the process.

‘I understand.’

Isabelle stared after Travis as he strolled to the back of the plane, his teasing offer of finishing what they had started only making her feel more insecure and confused... And hopelessly turned on.

Why on earth had she said she understood him, when she didn’t understand the man at all? Admittedly, her knowledge of men and relationships was extremely limited, but Travis Lord was already turning out to be a great deal more complex than she had assumed.

The revelations about his father had shocked her, but also saddened her—the curt, clipped tone when he talked about that relationship, or rather the lack of it, so unlike the relaxed, confident, and frankly shallow man she had believed him to be.

Because she had seen the strength of feeling even as he had boasted about his lack of emotional engagement and heard the suppressed rage in his voice, even as he had pretended his father’s rejection had meant nothing.

How could that be the case? Surely no one could be treated with such casual cruelty by their own flesh and blood and come out of it unscathed?

But what had moved her even more was the sense of connection.

After all, she had suffered a similar loss in her childhood too, when her parents had died so suddenly. At the time, the one thing that had helped her recover from that loss was the knowledge they had died together, and that they had loved her very much—even if they had been unable to show it in demonstrative ways.

How did you survive the loss of a parent, though, when their absence in your life had been a choice, not an accident? Had Travis survived it by persuading himself he couldn’t be hurt by it, even though he clearly had been?

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