Page 9 of Prince Charmless
I stare at him as things register.
“Then you stuffed it in your bra,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to jog my memory. However, my memory has already been jogged.
“I know what I did with it,” I say quickly. “This dress doesn’t have pockets.”
I take a breath. So, the reason Taylor didn’t laugh at the joke was because he already knew the punchline. Or he doesn’t know how to laugh. I could believe it.
“Why would you rewrite my speech?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I was bored, I guess. I made it a lot better than what you originally had.”
He’s cocky but right. Address-giving is his whole job. I would expect a bridesmaid speech to be a walk in the park for him.
Taylor takes the paper from my hand. “I like the picture you drew of me, by the way.” He holds it up to his face. “I think the resemblance is uncanny. Do you mind if I keep it? I would like to have it framed.”
My teeth clench. I’ve been nothing but embarrassing in front of him already, and filling Rachel’s maid-of-honor duties has rendered me too tired to overreact over this icing on the cake.
“Do what you want,” I say before taking a well-deserved sip of wine.
He looks over at Julien, who’s mingling at another table. “I’ve been instructed to dance with you.”
I put my face in my hands. “He’s trashed already, isn’t he?” Though I feel like I’ve been with Julien this whole day, I haven’t seen him drink hardly anything.
“Yes, I believe so.”
I look above my fingers. “You know, it’s less flattering when someone says they’ve beeninstructedto ask you to dance.”
“Who says I have time to flatter? We’ve got,” he looks at his watch, “A couple more hours left in our truce, so it’s now or never. It’s honestly inevitable.”
“What’s inevitable?”
He shrugs. “You’re a bridesmaid. I’m a groomsman. And you’re by far the most attractive person here.”
I choke on my drink a bit.
“Christ, get a hold of yourself.” He takes the wine from me. “You’re not one of those painfully naive women who are unable to fathom why anyone would compliment them, right?”
“I can’t tell if you’re complimenting or insulting me.” I’m getting whiplash again.
“I just asked you to dance,” he says. “What do you think?”
Okay, so Taylor’s a dick. There’s now been enough evidence to definitively deduce this. But he’s also a mysterious dick. I have to admit I’m interested in the enigma. What are the chances I’ll ever get to dance with a prince again? I think I can handle him. It’s a wedding, after all. Dancing is what people do at weddings.How are you going to find a man if you never do anything spontaneous?my mother said to me once. Though I am verysure that advice isn’t applicable tothisman, I don’t think there’s any harm in a little spontaneity.
“I guess that would be fine.” I try to sound as unenthusiastic as possible. Taylor’s frustrating yet very nice-looking. I can endure the personality for a couple of minutes, right?
He gestures in front of us. When I turn, he places a hand on my back. My dress is an open-back, so I feel him on my skin. Except he barely touches me, just enough to create goosebumps and guide me toward the crowd of people swaying to the music. My heart quickens when he takes my other hand in his. Our height difference is mitigated now that I’m wearing heels. I take the opportunity to examine the face I’ve seen so many times before but never this close. His details and imperfections, like his slightly crooked nose bridge or the wrinkle below his hairline, make him all the more real and all the more attractive.
“It’s been a while,” I say. “So don’t try to spin me or do anything fancy.” By ‘been a while’, I mean I can’t remember the last time I danced with someone.
“It’s actually not that hard,” he says, like he’s bored out of his mind.
Taylor’s hand shifts. He flips my wrist and pushes his thumb into the back of my palm like he’s done it a million times. The only thing my arm can do is follow his guidance, so I perform a quick little rotation before his hand is back on my waist. Obviously, I tell him not to do something, and he goes ahead and does it anyway. I wonder if he just did that to look at my ass. I wouldn’t blame him. It’s a great ass.
“And I didn’t even throw up on your shoes,” I say, probably blushing.
His faint smile feels like a prize I’ve won for enduring him this long.
“How often do you do this, then?” I ask. “Woo women with the art of dance?”
