Page 6 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

With another grin, she drifts back off to work, and I take a sip of the drink. Immediately, I get hit with the warm taste of rum, and an aftershock of absinthe, and I smile. I’m not sure what it says about her that this was her choice of drink to give me, but clearly she thinks I can handle it.

Next time, Chloe passes back by me, I grin at her to catch her attention. “Everything good?” she asks.

I smile. “It’s all perfect with me. How about with you?”

She shrugs. “Oh, just another day at work.”

“I feel you,” I say, despite the fact that I’ve never really felt that in my life. The closest I’ve got to a tedious day at work has been charity balls, and even then I’m allowed to drink the champagne. “When do you get off your shift?”

I’m hoping I’ve pitched it so it sounds more like genuine concern for her welfare than trying to chat her up to go out afterwards. To my relief, it looks like I got it just right because she shrugs again.“Not much longer now. I was on the day shift today. Honestly, I’m just grateful I’ve got a job at all.”

I force a chuckle at that. We live in such different worlds. “A nightmare, huh?”

She laughs and the sound is like pure honey to me, sweet and smooth and something I feel like I could drown in. I want to make her do it again, a hundred times. “What do you do for work?” she asks.

Aha. I’ve got her now. I don’t bother to hide my smile. “I’m in business,” I say, hoping that if I keep the subject broad enough she won’t ask me any more questions about it. I have got a backstory, but it’s not detailed enough to hold up under any heavy scrutiny.

“Business, huh?” she repeats. “What do you actually do all day, then? Having an office job has always sounded really boring to me.”

“I muddle through,” I say, and notice how my turn of phrase makes her smile at me. “There’s a lot of spreadsheets.”

“That makes me wish I paid more attention to math at school,” she giggles. Then she leans forward on the bar and fixes me with a look that searches deep into my soul. “If you don’t mind me asking, I notice you’ve got a bit of an accent there. Where are you from?”

“Bellamare,” I say confidently, then realize that I have to pretend that she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I shrug bashfully, looking away from her eyes even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to overdo this. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a tiny island near Italy. Most people don’t know where it is.”

Her mouth drops open and I make another quip to fill the silence. “If it helps, my geography of the US is terrible too.”

“No, no. Sorry,” she says, almost stammering out the words. “It’s not that at all. It’s just… well, you’ll never believe this, but my dad came from Bellamare.”

“Really?” I say raising both eyebrows. I’ve been practicing this reaction in the mirror for the last few days, desperately trying to figure out what a realistic expression would be for realizing that you have a connection with a complete stranger to your home country.

My expression needs to convey that it’s more than an interesting fact because no one’s ever heard of Bellamare, but I can’t go making a pantomime of it. That’ll just make her think I’m weird.

“Wow,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound too forced. “Barely anyone round here has heard of Bellamare, let alone comes from it. We’re a pretty tiny country.”

“I know,” she says. “I hardly ever tell anyone about my dad because I don’t usually have the patience for having this conversation. It’s no fun when you have to pull out a map to explain your roots.”

“I’ve been there before,” I chuckle, and fortunately that’s true.

“I can’t believe this at all. You’re from Bellamare.”

“Have you ever been?” I ask.

Her face falls. “No,” she says, shaking her head, “But I would love to go. I have the passport and everything. It was one of the few things Dad managed to do for me before…”

“Before…?” I push. I need her to open up to me. I need her to feel like she can trust me.

“He died when I was young,” she says, drawing back from me a little. “I’ve always wanted to go because of him. It would be really easy for me too; I wouldn’t even need a visa or anything.”

“I hate to sound forward,” I say, not feeling bad at all about pushing the conversation on, “but do you want to go for a drink after this? No pressure, no expectations. Just good company. I’ll tell you stories of home.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and I think for a second that she’s going to reject me, but then her face softens and she nods. “Okay,” she says, pushing some stray hair back behind her ear. “My shift is nearly over. If you’re willing to wait until nine, then yeah. I’ll go for a drink. Why not?”

“Sounds perfect,” I grin. And it does. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

“Chloe,” she says with a smile, and I have to stop myself from sayingI know.

Without even realizing it, she’s stepped straight into my scheme, exactly where I want her.

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