Page 49 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘I...’ She paused again. ‘Thank you,’ she said graciously. Then she climbed onto the stool opposite him. Relief gushed through him. Maybe this didn’t have to be that big a deal after all. If he could just get last night into perspective again. She’d said it was just sex. And that was what they both wanted. Wasn’t it?

‘I appreciate it,’ she added, then lifted her knife and fork and sliced off a corner of the sandwich. She tucked the bite-sized piece into her mouth—and licked the sheen of melted butter off her bottom lip. The inevitable bolt of lust shot straight into his groin.

He set about demolishing his own sandwich while ignoring it.

He finished way ahead of her and poured himself a cup of black coffee. ‘You want some?’ he asked, lifting the pot.

She nodded. He poured her a cup then pushed the cream and sugar her way and watched her add a generous helping of both to the coffee. She took a hefty sip, before tucking back into her sandwich. Making him wonder if her throat was as dry as his.

Probably.

‘Thank you,’ she said for about the tenth time between bites. ‘This is absolutely delicious. What do you call it?’

His lips quirked, the question as cute as it was surprising. ‘You’re pretty sheltered, aren’t you?’ he said. Then felt like a jerk when she stiffened.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ she said with her typical honesty.

‘Hey...’ He reached across to place his hand over the fingers she had clenched tight on her fork. ‘I didn’t mean that as a criticism. Or an insult. Just an observation. Okay?’

She nodded, and her fingers relaxed. Resisting the urge to stroke the soft skin, he shoved his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants.

‘It’s grilled cheese on rye,’ he said while she polished off the last of the sandwich. ‘My mom taught me how to cook them when I was around seven. It was one of our favourites. I’d make them for both of us on Christmas morning and we’d eat them in our PJs. It was our favourite Christmas tradition—right up there with grabbing the last tree on the lot next to our trailer park and decorating it on Christmas Eve.’ He paused, realising he was the one babbling now. ‘So it felt appropriate today, that’s all...’ He trailed off, feeling kind of dumb. Why was he rambling on about his mom and their Christmas traditions? Especially as he hadn’t even been there to cook the grilled cheese sandwiches she loved for her on her last Christmas because he’d been too busy being a selfish bastard to read the signs then, too.

‘That sounds like so much fun,’ Belle murmured, the understanding in her eyes something he knew he didn’t deserve. ‘You must miss her terribly, especially at Christmas, then.’

‘Yeah.’ He shrugged, uncomfortable with her sympathy. After all, she’d lost both her parents long before he’d lost his mom.

‘Did you have a lot of Christmas traditions?’ she asked, the warmth in her gaze turning her green eyes to a rich emerald.

‘I guess. Doesn’t everyone?’ he said.

‘Yes, I... I suppose they do,’ she said, but the curiosity in her eyes died as her gaze slipped away from his—to land on the tree across the room.

Reaching across the bar, he covered her hand again.

Her head turned back to his.

‘What’s the issue with the tree?’ he asked, aware of the unhappiness swirling in the emerald green even as she tried to mask it.

She drew her hand out from under his. ‘Nothing.’

He propped his elbows on the bar and studied her face.

‘You do know you’re a crummy liar, right?’ he countered, and her face went an interesting shade of pink. ‘Is Christmas when you lost your folks?’ he probed, wanting to know what had put that wistful look in her eyes.

Which was a novel experience for him—normally he wouldn’t be interested in figuring out what made a woman tick.

But Belle had always been different. She fascinated him on so many different levels. Not just the livewire chemistry they shared, or that captivating innocence—his OTT reaction to which he was still trying to figure out—but also all her contrasts: the shyness behind the competence, the innocence beneath the reserve, and all those tantalising glimpses of the reckless girl, the vulnerable woman behind the mask of the confident queen.

‘No, they died in a helicopter crash right before my ninth birthday in July,’ she said.

‘That must have been really tough,’ he said, his chest tightening at her carefully guarded expression. He knew what that felt like, trying to hold it together, so no one could see you bleed.

‘Yes, the country went into deep mourning. It was a dreadful day for Androvia,’ she said, her voice still carefully devoid of emotion. ‘They were both such exemplary monarchs—always so focussed on their duty to the throne. I’m not sure the country and its citizens have ever really recovered from the loss.’

He frowned. ‘I meant, it must have been tough for you. You were just a little kid. And you’d lost both your parents.’

Her brows rose slightly, almost as if she were surprised at the question. ‘Yes, but...’ She paused. ‘Of course, I missed them terribly,’ she said, but her voice sounded hollow, almost as if she was trying to persuade herself. ‘But ultimately, I was glad they died together, as they loved each other very much.’

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