Page 41 of The Impossible Princess
“They’ll just have to be furious,” I say, passing him, catching his hand, pulling him into the cottage as I walk backward, “but you’re a trained military professional. I’m sure you can vouch for my safety.”
His hand is rough and calloused and I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that, though our text messages have blazed a fiery trail from our phones to distant satellites these past weeks, we have rarely touched. I’m conscious as well that this started as an attraction—despite this friendship we’ve decided to have—and he is too busy trying to hide his interest in me to do things like check the perimeter.
I should withdraw, slipping my hand away and socking him in the arm or something, but I’m still chased by the thought of some girl waiting for Max’s ship to come in, being caught up and kissed; still fighting off the visceral realization that I want it to be me.
Clearing his throat, he asks, “What do you want to do?” He scratches the back of his head and looks around. “We could watch a classic movie or I could make a fire or—”
“Classic movie?” I ask, swallowing back my first answer to the question. I put some space between us, kicking off my shoes by the door and taking up my spot on the sofa. “What kind of classic movie?”
He picks up the remote and clicks, displaying a drop-down menu. “Lots to choose from.”
But I see it’s mostly old Sondish black and white films featuring witchcraft and angry Protestants or mid-century cinema with games of checkers played out on empty beaches.
“Do you have any of the Aksel Kroner comedies?” I ask, tugging him down beside me.
He laughs. “Like the one where the penguin has an office job and delivers his reports by vomiting them up?”
Was that a dismissive laugh? I toss the pillow at his head, and he catches it, setting it on his lap, giving it a pat.
Oh good. I swing my legs up for a foot rub. My polish is chipped, but he runs his finger over one of my pink painted toenails. I force down a shiver.
“The dress code is closed-toed shoes at evening events so it doesn’t matter—” I scrunch my face. “I know it’s strange that my mother sometimes gets to decide how I dress.”
He scratches his neck, the short bristles of his hair fading down his scalp. It’s a Navy-approved haircut. “Yeah. Totally bizarre.”
Just like that, he’s narrowed the gap between us. I smile, pushing my feet under his hands. “You like some dreary films.”
“They’re all in the International Benchmark Collection,” he counters, kneading his thumb into the arch of my foot.
I close my eyes, a jolt of desire blending with self-derision.This is only a foot rub, Clara.Obviously, I have been single for too long.
He laughs, the sound of it touching my skin, whispering over its surface. “Perhaps you don’t appreciate your cultural heritage, princess.”
Blindly, I reach for the other pillow and give it a toss. I hear it land on the floor with a thump.
“I’m worried about us, Max.” His thumb stills. “If we can’t watch anything on television together, we’ll be fighting for the remote until—” I almost choke when the realization of what I’ve suggested hits me. My face flames.
I tense, waiting for this overfilled reservoir of attraction between us to burst its dam, wreaking havoc downstream, taking out a couple of villages.
He clears his throat. “So you don’t like my old movies.”
Instead of bursting, the water slowly circles down the drain, making gurgling noises as it goes. He was right to ignore me, and on the upside, I can breathe again.
“I bet you like that one where butter melts for three hours.”
“Consumed By the Sun? The cinematography—”
“The title is grossly misleading, Max. It should have implausibly handsome people yearning for one another, secret babies, a shortage of buttons. Passion. There isn’t a hint that it’s about butter.”
“It’s notaboutbutter. It’s about unspoken repression in rural villages. It’s an allegory—”
This feels like a safe topic, and I lean into it. Opening my eyes, I shake my hair away from my face, hitching myself up on my elbows. “Do you know what else is an allegory, Max?”
My question is supposed to be light-hearted, but his expression sharpens, and I feel the reservoir filling again—plink, plink, plink, one fat raindrop at a time. I lose my train of thought. A kidnapping gang of Vorburgian ninjas could break in right now and I’d never notice.
I blink, swallow hard, and will myself to be a sensible creature. “Penguin vomit.”
“Mm?”
