Page 61 of Coronation
“Okay,” I agree at last, because there doesn’t really seem to be a way around it. “So, we go. No big deal.”
Ben leans forward, staring up at me with his forearms braced on his thighs. “It would be an official, public appearance together, which is outside the scope of our contract. My people were concerned it would be too much.”
I don’t think there is such a big difference between going to an event with the king and being seen canoodling with him all over the country. The pictures from our first outing confirmed that the infamouslookwas not an isolated incident, and even without making out in public or even holding hands, our romantic connection is being treated as fact rather than speculation in every piece of media I’ve seen.
“I don’t mind,” I assure him with a weak smile. “We’re in this together, right?”
Looking extremely relieved, Ben nods. “I appreciate that, and all of this, actually. You’ve been, well…” His words falter, and he lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “You’ve handled the situation with a good deal more grace than I have.”
Needing something to do with myself other than look at him, I cross to the cabinet containing the few glasses provided by the hotel. “Can I get you something to drink? You look like you’ve had a day.” I take the bottle of wine resting on the countertop and glance back at him, lifting it in wordless question.
I’d been meaning to offer it to Davina, as god knows I won’t be using it for a while, but the grateful look I get from Ben makes me glad I never got around to it. His gaze is heavy on my back as I turn away, busying myself with the corkscrew.
Since the news of our possible relationship took off, and I got the positive pregnancy test, I’ve been doing my best not to think very much about how we got into this mess to beginwith. The memory of how his fingers dug into my waist and the desperate, hungry way he kissed me is a difficult thing to forget, however.
At times like this, when I know his eyes are on my body, it’s even harder. A warm weight drops into my pelvis when I turn back to face him, stepping across the small kitchen area to hand him the wine, and it grows heavier as our fingers brush on the glass.
“Thank you.”
I’m not sure how two perfectly ordinary words can be hot, but Ben manages it. Seeing the need to put some distance between us, I draw back, helping myself to a glass of water.
There’s a vulnerability that always comes in moments like this, when I realize I may not be as entirely in control of my feelings as I’d like, and it’s a tiny bit humiliating that I can’t just turn them off. The memory of the regret and shame that followed those first few encounters should be enough to put this attraction to rest, and I hate that it isn’t.
Now, with the reality of my resulting pregnancy setting in, I’m paranoid on top of that. As if Ben is going to look at me andknow, or go snooping through my bathroom cabinet and find the prenatal vitamins.
“Where are we going tonight?” I ask, eager to break the silence.
Ben lowers his glass, the masculine column of his throat working as he sets down the wine to give me his attention. “There’s an outdoor production ofA Midsummer Night’s Dreamin the park. I’m told people take picnics and the like. I thought you would enjoy it.”
Wow. That isn’t at all what I was expecting. It’s public, yes, but it’s also surprisingly humble and intimate, and there’s an obvious effort to do something that appeals tome. In fact, this fake date might be better than any real date I’ve ever been on.
I want to ask if it was his idea or if he merely gave a stamp of approval. When no possible good can come from having one’s question answered, however, it seems better not to ask. “That sounds amazing,” I reply at last, taking another sip of water. “Do I need to bring anything?”
The room around us is so quiet, I can hear my breath catch as, slowly, the man before me leans forward. His stare is so intense that I can barely breathe, and it may take five seconds or five minutes for him to respond. “I’ll save us some time, and tell you when you’re with me, the answer to that question will always beno.”
Twenty-Six
Zelda
Though I’ve passed the gates to Brackenwood Park on the way to and from my hotel, I haven’t ventured inside. Between work, the terrible weather we’ve been having this summer, and now my pseudo-relationship with Ben, I haven’t had many opportunities to go exploring.
Tonight appears to be the night for it, though, as we’re shown out the back service entrance to the hotel, avoiding the swarm of paparazzi and press camped on the sidewalk out front. One of the palace’s dark SUVs is parked beside the loading dock, and Ben pauses beside it, pulling open the trunk. Inside is a small picnic basket, a woven blanket, and a canvas tote bag filled with what appears to be a bottle of cider and two plastic cups.
My mouth is dry as I hurry to help him, pulling the bag over my shoulder as Ben takes the basket and blanket, closing the trunk with a heavy thud. “Shall we?” he asks, completely casual as he pulls on a baseball cap. The ends of his dark hairstick out from beneath it, and even with the sunglasses he adds, I don’t think we’ll be fooling anyone.
I guess the point isn’t to enjoy a quiet, romantic evening together, it’s to be spotted appearing to be. This isn’t a date, it’s a publicity stunt. Why am I having such a hard time remembering that, even after signing a whole stack of legally binding documents to back it up?
“Let’s go,” I agree, my tone firm and businesslike as, with an almost vicious determination, I shove aside my sudden influx of fluttery feelings.
Ben stays close to my side as we walk to the road at the end of the alleyway. As I’ve learned is typical for Dalmore on a Friday night, the city is bustling with activity, and nobody pays us any mind when we emerge on the sidewalk. I’m positive security is close, there’s no way they would let either of us out of their sight in public like this, but I don’t see anyone who strikes me as an undercover royal guard as we make our way toward our destination.
There are four blocks between my hotel and Brackenwood Park, and we don’t speak a single word to one another the entire walk there. It’s not until the large brick pillars that flank the entrance to the park come into view that Ben finally breaks the silence.
“How was your work this week?” The question is awkward and stiff, as if he’s reading off a card of prepared “date” topics.
“Um.” I blink, gazing at the traffic light. “Good. We were behind schedule because of all the rain, but we’ve mostly managed to catch up. Everyone is exhausted, as you can imagine.”
The crossing light turns, and we move forward, keeping close together amidst the small crowd of strangers. Most of them turn off in either direction down the sidewalk, but a few lead the way into the park. There are gnarled old treesscattered along the pathway, but straight ahead, there is a wide-open lawn situated beside a duck pond. At the end farthest from us, a beautiful stage has been set up, its deep-red curtains still closed. Dozens of people are waiting before it, some on folding chairs or even tables, but most lounging on blankets.
