Page 8 of The Princess Trap
Cherry pushed that thought away. It was her birthday, for God’s sake. She could take a day off from being sensible. Couldn’t she?
“You’re welcome,” she managed to say. “Um…” Her voice trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “Did you mean now?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. And beneath the sweetness of his smile, she caught something low and warm and intense that made her breath hitch. “I most definitely meant now.”
Chapter Four
Ruben couldn’t believe his fucking luck.
Even the knowledge that Hans was loitering along this street somewhere, dogging their every step, wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from his face. He was walking into town with Cherry Neita.Cherry Neita.This morning, he hadn’t even known that name. Now it held as much significance to him as Jan Amos Komensky’s.
Although, he’d never wanted to fuck the father of modern education senseless. So maybe not quite the same.
She strutted beside him, her hips twitching within the confines of that tight, knee-length skirt—not that he could see much of it, thanks to the coat she wore. Bloody January weather.
But his imagination was filling in the gaps just fine.
“Are you sure you want to walk?” he asked. “It’s cold.”
She gave him an odd look. “The town centre’s just around the corner.”
True enough; he could hear the busy traffic already. But he didn’t want her to walk a metre if it wasn’t necessary. Ruben cast a worried glance down at her high heels. “Don’t your feet hurt?”
“No,” she smiled. Not enough for the dimples, but enough to make him feel slightly dizzy. “They aren’t that high.”
He raised his brows, sceptical.
“Theyaren’t,” she insisted with a laugh. “I’m just tall.”
“How tall?”
“Five-eleven. How tall are you?”
At home, most women knew his exact height. It was part of his supposed eligibility, and one of the only positives about him. But here in England, no-one gave a fuck about the royal family of a tiny Scandinavian island—which was why he came here so often. No-one knew him until he knew them. That was how it should be.
“I’m six-four,” he said. “I like that you’re tall.”
“Oh, well ifyoulike it, I can rest easy.”
He looked over to find her pursing her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Feel free to laugh at me,” he grinned back. “I know I’m arrogant.”
She chuckled. “As long as you know.”
“What I meant,” he said, “is that I like talking to people who are at eye level.” They turned into the town centre, rightonto the little high street. “Where do you want to eat, by the way?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really mind. Somewhere with cake.”
“You like cake?”
“I love cake. Plus, it’s my birthday.” The word ended quietly, her voice fading away, as if she wanted to snatch it back. Her eyes flew to his, and he had the distinct impression that she hadn’t meant to tell him that.
Well. Too late now.
“Your birthday,” he repeated slowly, coming to a stop. He caught her hand in his, swinging her around to face him. Every time he touched her, something inside him snapped to attention—as if, now they’d made physical contact, the party could really begin.
Right. Because women always went from hand-holding to the bedroom in a matter of minutes.
She looked up at him—but notupup. She really was tall, and he really did like it. A lot.
