Page 66 of The Dandelion Princess
I return in five long strides and crouch, leaning against the arm of the sofa until we’re face to face.
“I get to focus on being the CEO of Han Heyden and the master of Lindenholm without the considerable stress of wondering if I’m going to drag you into the bushes at one of your mother’s garden parties.” I’m going to start again if I don’t leave now.
She nods, but her short fingernails rake against the texture of my tie and I feel the vibrations in the center of my brain. Does she understand the power she holds? “And I get—”
“Clear-headedness.”
She quirks a brow. “You think this is giving me clear-headedness?”
I reclaim my tie. “You get to focus on the succession crisis without spending emotional energy trying to keep your hands off me.”
She snorts. “I was doing just fine.”
I’m fighting for my life and she’s only having fun. I can’t forget that.
“We’ll be in a better headspace if we stop thinking so hard. Let’s just show up for each other like we always do and let this happen in microdoses.” I sound like a motivational speaker sent to boost company productivity by 3%, but I pray she buys it. This is the only way I see out of this mess. “We’re in this together.”
“You make us sound like Samwise and Frodo. Does our fellowship come with a motto?” Her hand sketches out an arc. “The real treasure is the friend we made out with along the way.”
I laugh when I leave her, but by the time I drive through the palace gates, I have regained enough sense to congratulate myself on this plan. Putting my attraction to Ella on a schedule is going to remove my major obstacle to moving through the world as a normal person.
It doesn’t work out that way.
We start texting again—cat memes, wake-up calls, touching base—which manages to fill me with both restlessness and contentment, and I think about her more than before. This doesn’t mean my plan is garbage. Once we’re past the novelty of being allowed to touch each other, we’ll go back to some baseline level of reasonable attraction. The problem is that I’m not finding the baseline.
I last two days before inviting her over to my sleek, sterile flat for dinner. “Nothing fancy,” I text. It’s not a date. We’re very clear about that, but I put house slippers in her size by the front door and stock up on Vestfyn and extra throw pillows.
Ella arrives wearing a pair of joggers and my oldTwo Striket-shirt I haven’t seen in years under a zip-up hoodie. She passes my threshold and toes her shoes off while I grip the door handle, staring hard at the empty hallway with one thought in my head. It does not fit her like it used to fit me.
“Your hostess gift,” she says, handing me a bag. I pull out a newTwo Strikeshirt.
“Did you steal mine or did I leave it at the palace sometime?”
She won’t look me in the eye. “Steal is such a harsh word. What are we eating?”
I follow her into the kitchen with a laugh.
I show her the instructions left by the private chef, and we move comfortably around each other. I salt the pasta water according to the written notes that read, “like an angry toddler throwing fistfulls of sand,” and wonder how I’m supposed to make this feel normal. Ella and I are not in a romantic relationship. We kiss and don’t kiss. On. Off. The deal says nothing about nuzzling her neck while she stirs the bolognese or sliding my hands around her waist.
The problem of what this deal will allow works away in the background of my mind until I’m like an overheated laptop.
Ella cracks open a Vestfyn and syncs her phone with my sound system, cueing up a playlist of American jazz standards performed by a member of one of the larger Seongan boy bands. “Is he as pretty as he looks on my lock screen?” she asks, when I offer to introduce them.
I scowl. “If you like that kind of thing.”
“Like an otherworldly creature with star-kissed abs?” Her eyes sparkle with laughter and she turns the burner down, dipping a clean spoon into the pot. She purses her lips to cool the hot liquid, tastes, and blows some more. “His skin is—”
She lifts the spoon for me.
My heart is beating hard and I push her wrist back, leaning in to taste her lips. Gentle and warm, with the faintest trace of bolognese. She giggles against my mouth. That’s fine. She’s welcome to find this hilarious. I drop the spoon in the pot, and banding her waist with my hands, I lift her onto the countertop where she’s easier to reach.
Her fingers rake through my hair and I shiver. She’s never the one to kiss me first. She’s happy to follow my lead, but I feel a feather of discontentment. When I lift my head to catch my breath, she swings a foot and a slipper falls to the floor.
“I’m going to kiss you next time when I open the door,” I tell her, voice roughened. “And maybe again when you put down your bag. I’m going to kiss you when you can’t reach the upper cabinets and when you’re looking for the lids.”
She arches a brow. “How about when I’m asking about Park Hyeon Yu’s skincare regimen?”
“Especially then.”
