Page 73 of Please, Stay

He shifted his hand to rest on the back of her neck under her hair, his fingers caressing her skin. “I’m used to people doing things to get something in return.”

They approached the diner, and Juliana’s focus stayed on her dad. When he spotted them, the Scrooge-look he’d perfected over the years darkened. His lips pressed tighter together. Poor Nash got a pamphlet with the Christmas carols shoved into his gut as he walked by.

Nash rubbed his stomach, keeping a hand in Lexi’s, and veered away from her dad toward Juliana and Grayson. “Your dad is extra sweet tonight, isn’t he?” Nash asked.

She hitched a thumb at Grayson. “He’s angry that I brought him here.”

“Still scared you’re going to run off and leave him?” Nash flipped through the paper he’d been given. “Our Jules doesn’t go anywhere. Hometown girl. Born here and will die here.” He winked. “He should know that.”

Lexi rolled her eyes. “Ignore him.” She tugged Nash along.

Juliana watched Nash as he left, feeling an ugly frown on her face and not caring. Was that really her? She’d never leave Statem? Her passport would never have any stamps.

The whiz of the camera clicks started up again. Great. Now they hadthatlook for a picture. Juliana wasn’t dramatically vain, but it would be nice if people around the world didn’t automatically wonder what someone like Grayson saw in her. She wondered that enough herself.

“Let’s go inside.” Grayson led her into the diner by the elbow and past a big sign in red and green letters that statednocameras.

Becky stood behind the counter, dozens of her creations set out for anyone to try. She waved at them, but then her “war” face dropped into place. “Can’t you read? No cameras in here.”

“Oh, but I figured that was people taking photos of him,” said a small woman with gray hair and thick, black glasses as she took a step back and pointed at Grayson. “I’m from theSouthern Culinary Magazine. My niece works in the library down the street and told me I had to come and taste these desserts. Do you mind telling me who the baker is?”

Juliana grinned and stepped in front of a shocked Becky. “I’m sorry about that. We’ve had an unusual amount of people trying to take pictures over the past few days.”

The woman’s eyes lingered on Grayson. More like his chest and arms. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Right. Well, Rebecca Gallagher is the creator of all the delicious treats laid out here. She also sells her desserts out at a store on the edge of the county.” Juliana paused a moment until the woman tore her eyes away from Grayson’s body. “Did you see anything you wanted to try?”

The woman’s gaze darted back to Grayson.

“To eat?” Juliana added to make sure there wasn’t any confusion in her offer.

Becky laughed, in what sounded like a forced laugh to Juliana, and stepped up beside her. “I’m Becky Gallagher. I’m sorry about before.” She held out her hand.

The woman, a little flustered, shook her hand. “Martha Kinsdale. Nice to meet you.” She glanced back over her shoulder and dropped her voice. “Do you know him well enough to ask a favor?”

Grayson crossed his arms.

Becky didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Yes. We’re best friends.”

Juliana snorted and then slapped her hand over her mouth. Best friends? That was a stretch.

“Can he tell me which one of these he likes? I can print that in the article.”

“No problem.” Becky aimed her ice blue eyes at Grayson. “Grayson, be a sweetheart and come over here and try these.”

“That’s Prince Alfred, dear,” Martha said with such awe, that Juliana took a second look at Grayson. Nope. With that beard, his sock hat, and longer hair than usual, he didn’t look anything like the clean-cut prince he played.

“Please,” Becky said with more emphasis than necessary. “Dear Prince Alfred, I would love it if you’d honor me with your opinion on my royal desserts.” Her sarcasm didn’t seem to enter Martha’s mind. Not even with the little bow she gave at the end. Martha only had eyes for Grayson.

Grayson didn’t speak but sauntered to the counter. Martha snapped a picture. From behind.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, my finger slipped.”

Juliana subtly took Martha’s camera. “How about you go stand with Grayson in front of the desserts? It would make a nice picture to insert in the middle of the article. Pull the reader farther into the story.” This should keep her from snapping any more butt pictures of her guy. It was a perfectly good, picture-worthy butt, though.

“Oh,” she said, patting her hair and leaning around Grayson to look at the mirror behind the counter. “Do I look alright? I never in a million years thought I’d run into Prince Alfred. I hated it for you when Princess Leddie decided to run off with your driver. In fact, even though she’s not royal and I know the King has told you several times that you need to marry a princess, I think you and the little maid, what’s her name?” Martha tapped her finger to her chin as Grayson gazed down at her with nothing but patience. The man had plenty of it.

How many people called him by the name of his character on the show? It’d be like meeting the actor that played Batman, whoever it was now, and asking “Batman” for an autograph. Although Becky would probably do that.

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