Page 30 of How To Please A Princely Fae

"Nothing you can say will dissuade me from pursuing you," he replies just as calmly as though he was foreseeing reticenceon my part. I cough, completely uncomfortable and, I’m embarrassed to admit, amused.

“What if I told you you don't even like me?" It's my turn to raise my eyebrows and I relish the perfect occasion to do so, pursing my lips and waiting for a reply from the cocky fae prince. "What if I told you you could barely stand my company?" I challenge him.

He doesn't answer right away, his smile fading into some expression that makes me regret saying anything at all.

"Then I would tell you that you are sorely mistaken, because there's no way that I could be in the same room with the creature such as yourself and see all you do for the people of this town and feel anything but the utmost admiration for who you are."

My jaw drops and he has the audacity to chuck his hand under my chin, to close it for me with familiarity that leaves me just as breathless as his handsomeness.

"Now, about that lunch," he says breezily, as if he hasn't just turned my entire world upside down. There are so many things wrong with everything that he said, with all the ways that he is acting, and yet I can't bring myself to not want to believe him when he tells me something so beautiful.

“While you were speaking with the last customer, I took the liberty to go through your kitchen and assemble the best lunch that I could for you.” The put-upon expression he wears is so much more familiar than the besotted one as he turns away that its sight is bittersweet.

“And what I found is that you need to take better care of yourself, Miss Willow,” he says while traipsing through my hallway with the swagger of a man who thinks he owns the place. Were it anyone but Kieran under some sort of amnesia curse, I might be offended by it, but as it is, I am thoroughly amused, which might say something more about my character that I'd like to admit.

“I did the best I could do with the meager contents of your cupboard,” he calls over one shoulder, and I have to bite back a laugh at how thoroughly put out he seems by my admittedly poor selection of food.

“I've been busy,” I say by way of protest and he snorts in apparent disagreement.

"How do you expect to take care of anyone else if you're hardly taking care of yourself?” he asks me, swinging wide the door to my kitchen. I try to stifle my gasp but it comes out anyway, hand over my mouth, staring around wide-eyed at the spread he's managed to put together while I finished up with the customer suffering from hair loss.

My table’s laden with fruits from the greenhouse arranged elegantly, strawberries sliced to resemble roses, the last pot of summer’s honey sitting like a sign in a circle of yellow cheese slices. The last dregs of the ham I made a few days prior has been sliced into succulent pieces and set beside a fresh bread he must've baked between his store chores.

"Don't worry, I've closed the door, locked it, and changed the sign to say you're closed for lunch," he tells me. He seems slightly twitchier than normal, his eyes laser-focused on me, his arms crossed elegantly across his chest. It takes a moment to realize he's nervous. He wants my approval. I’m not sure how I could give him anything else.

“This is fabulous," I tell him. "No one's ever done anything like this for me."

"Well," he drawls. "That certainly makes my job easier."

How does that make your job easier?" I ask, amused and mystified. My face scrunches up as I study him trying to make heads or tails of it.

"Because that means all the idiots who came before me have set the bar so incredibly low that making you fall in love with me will hardly be difficult at all."

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but he simply turns around and fixes me a beautifully arranged plate and hands it to me with an entirely self-satisfied expression. This isn't right. I shake my head, gathering my thoughts, trying to deliver the news to him in a way that he can get through his thick Unseelie fae prince skull. He might be stubborn but no one's more stubborn than the willow tree. We bend in the wind, we dance with it, but we don't snap and break.

"It's not right for me to take advantage of you right now,” I tell him firmly.

"Oh," he says with a satisfied look on his face. “I didn't know you wanted to take advantage of me."

I sputter, growing more annoyed by the millisecond. “You are not in your right mind," I enunciate carefully. "You don't even like me. Your normal self can hardly stand to breathe the same air as I do. You can't keep up with this. It wouldn't be fair to either one of us for you to start something with me while under a spell. It's unethical,” I tack on at the last minute as he opens his mouth, looking like he's about to argue with me yet again. Not on my watch. I’m not about to take advantage of him. I'm not about to delude myself for one minute into thinking that this man, this fae, actually wants anything to do with me. It will just end up hurting us both. I suck in a breath, waiting for him to argue, preparing myself for more, but all he does is shrug his shoulders.

"If you insist,” he says agreeably.

“It just wouldn't be right,” I start, and then stop, pulling myself up short. I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you're so bothered by the idea of me liking you and so concerned with the ethics of it, then that's fine, I'll respect that,” he says, blinking his eyes carefully. I wish he wouldn't do that. He has very nice eyes, very nice everything. I heave a sigh that comes out somewhere between resignation, despair, and exhaustion.

"Eat,” he says easily, “it will make you feel better."

"And you don't expect anything in return?" I ask. So what if I'm untrusting? He hasn't given me any reason to be anything otherwise. He is an Unseelie fae, after all.

He shrugs one shoulder, casual, elegant, flippant, beautiful. Hiring him was a mistake.

“I want you to feel well,” he says breezily. “I want you to be able to conduct your business and not collapse while doing it.”

"Hmph," I huff.

“Well, if you're this suspicious all the time,” he announces, piling his own plate high with food, “no wonder no one's ever made lunch for you."

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