Page 24 of Coronation
Even so, as my eyelids grow too heavy to stay open, I feel my arms band tighter around the woman resting there.
I fall asleep listening to the sound of her breathing.
Ten
Zelda
“Well, if the hungry animals don’t do it, my security will certainly finish me off for this stunt.”
Despite his wry words, Benedict looks at ease as we stroll down the darkened lane which leads to the house, moving in the direction of the small village we saw as we arrived this morning. Our hands are laced together, swinging casually between us in the warm evening air.
We’re breaking the rules.
Today, I learned there are a whole host of things kings are and aren’t allowed to do. As one of the few remaining members of the royal family, the precautions put in place to keep Ben safe are stricter than is typical. One of the big no-nos is going anywhere without a security team.
By the time we woke up from our sex coma, it was late in the morning, and it became apparent that the property manager didn’t have time to stock the kitchen. The cupboards were barren, and the fruit basket left for us was very kind, butone can only subsist on pears and grapefruit for so long. Apart from that, the only other option was tinned fish, which prompted an amusing discussion with Ben about being vegan.
I tried to ignore my underlying hunger, and for a while, I could.
If I’d gone back to the hotel this morning—or worse, not gone to the party at all—no doubt I would be deep in a self-pity hole right now, replaying my horrible workday in between bouts of crying and panic texting my agent.
Instead, I spent the day exploring Fernmoor House and beating Ben at Go Fish—I had to teach him the rules—four times in a row. I can hardly remember the last time I had such a simple, happy day.
My stomach had started growling audibly by late afternoon, and Ben completely ignored all insistences that I was fine, proposing we head into the village to get something more substantial to eat. He waved off my worries about security, assuring me it would be fine, so long as we were discreet. After all, what could they do, fire him?
Discretion was easier to come by than expected. We discovered a whole wardrobe of old-fashioned garments in a back bedroom, and it was actually a lot of fun to put together our disguises for the evening. In his knit hunting cap pulled low and moth-eaten sweater—or jumper, as he called it—Benedict really only resembles the king he is if you look hard enough. My own ensemble, a polka-dotted wrap top and cigarette pants, doesn’t do much to disguise my identity.
All in all, the result is questionable, but we’re counting on the darkened light, chaotic atmosphere, and overconsumption of alcohol at the village pub to work in our favor. At the very least, we should be able to sneak in for a hot meal—one not consisting of long-expired green beans—without having our pictures splashed all over the cover of every tabloid in the world.
Who would suspect the king to be dining at a three-star pub in the middle of nowhere, wearing old clothes and accompanied by an American actress? Not me, that’s for sure.
“We did a service to the sheep of Stelland this very morning,” I tease, my heart full to bursting as the lights of the village come into view, shining between the trees in the distance. “Surely we’ve earned ourselves some goodwill from their countrymen.”
Benedict offers me a withering look that only makes my smile widen. “Ever the optimist, Miss Flowers.”
“Ever the pessimist, Your Highness.”
His hand tightens on mine, and I suck in a sharp gasp of surprise as he pulls me around unexpectedly, my shoes shuffling over the dirt road as I find myself against his broad, hard chest. Our lips meet in a soft kiss, and my heart’s low, steady pulse feels like a warning call. Never have I felt so comfortable with someone I just met, nor have I so easily been able to dismiss the omnipresent blanket of anxiety, which seems to cling to me day and night.
It’s been twenty-four hours.
We barely know each other.
This isn’t a fairytale.
God, what is wrong with me? I went out looking for unattached sex, and this isnotunattached. On the contrary, I am getting far too attached, far too quickly, and no amount of self-directed scolding makes even the slightest difference.
There are too many reasons to count why it would be so foolish to even hope this could be something real, something that would last beyond a few secret nights, but I can’t help it. Especially now, as I’m warm in his arms, butterflies erupting in my stomach as he kisses me in the middle of this quiet country lane, a blanket of stars scattered over our heads.
It’s no use. I’m doing it. I’m hoping.
My stomach’s loud growl has Ben pulling back with aquiet chuckle, and he releases me so we can continue on our way, our hands swinging casually between us.
It isn’t difficult to find our destination. The Drystone Arms, a small pub located at the edge of Fernhill Village, looks exactly as I imagined it would. The building itself has to be about as old as Fernmoor House, constructed of the same weathered stone and covered by a slate roof. Warm light shines through every window, and when the large, wood front door swings open for a couple to leave, the sound of voices, laughter, and a fiddle can be heard clearly from where Ben and I have paused to survey the scene.
It’s a world away from the polished event of last night, and when I look at Ben, I see his expression is wary. If I had to guess, the king’s social life has been a lot like mine, and considering an experience like this will be a first for me… “Come on.” I squeeze his hand and smile when those dark eyes meet mine, endeavoring to appear more confident than I am. “It’ll be fun.”
He allows himself to be pulled forward, but still looks as though we’re heading for a root canal. “The last time someone said that particular combination of words to me, it was my brother, and I ended up with three pins in my wrist.”
