Page 3 of A Royal Disaster
Following her gaze, Liam turned, his favorite Bolvaint dress shoes making an improper squish. There was a man-shaped outline in the massive purple splatter on the wall behind him, and for possibly the first time in his life, he was stunned speechless.
She’d turned him into street art.
“Sorry you got in the way, but this might be my best work yet,” she said with a hint of wonder that suggested he might be forgiven for trespassing. “I guess it’s too much to hope you’d be up for round two?”
“Correct.” Liam chuckled, surveying the remaining cans of paint gathered at her feet. Her lack of decorum was refreshing. It was rare to meet someone who didn’t feel compelled to bow and scrape and apologize, but that didn’t mean he was going to subject himself to further humiliation.
Not even for the sake of art.
“What if I said I was sorry about your…you know,” she said, gesturing to his crotch even as her cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson. “I mean, I hope it’s okay.” She paused, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with an innocence rarely seen at court. “What am I saying? Of course it’s okay. It’s not like you can break it, right?” She paled. “Ay Dios mío. It’s not broken, is it?”
Liam grinned. It wasn’t every day a woman talked about the royal penis in public. In fact, it was unheard of, which could mean only one thing. She had no idea who he was. People rarely treated him like he was human, as if his royal lineage made him something other, something—not someone—untouchable. “I’ll be fine, but I believe it’s the artist who’s supposed to suffer for their creative genius, not the subject.”
“Damn.” She shrugged, a devious grin transforming her sweet face. She had a great smile—wide, genuine—and he couldn’t deny the surge of satisfaction he got from earning her favor. “It was worth a shot.”
A flash lit up the alley, and his gaze darted to the fence, where a photographer was firing off shot after shot, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
Bloody hell.
The last thing he needed—on a long list of shit he didn’t need—was to be photographed in such an undignified position. With a woman, nonetheless.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
Their Majesties weren’t going to be pleased. They were not easily amused, especially when it came to compromising photos of their children in the press. After all, it was difficult to claim divine right when one’s progeny were making arseholes of themselves in front of the entire world.
Liam had largely avoided such humiliations, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think this wouldn’t be on the wire within hours. He was the crown prince, and this was exactly the kind of dirt the gossip rags liked to publish. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Engaging the photographer would only escalate the situation. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned his back to the paparazzo. He might be exposed, but he didn’t have to make it easy for them. “Would it be possible to use the lavatory to clean up?”
The woman studied him for a painfully long moment, and he could almost see the word “no” forming on her lips, but she finally nodded in agreement and gestured toward the back door.
“So, are you a celebrity or something?” she asked, glancing nervously at the cameraman peering over the gate.
Talk about a loaded question. Common sense dictated he should tell her the truth, but he liked the way she was looking at him, like he was a mystery she wanted to solve and not a prize to be claimed, so he kept his answer vague. “Or something.”
Chapter Two
Lena held the back door open for the stranger and gestured for him to go ahead of her, giving silent thanks for quick drying paint. At least he wasn’t leaving purple footprints on the cement floor. Not that she’d complain if he did. God knew, he was handling the situation with surprising grace. He was obviously someone important if the paparazzi were tailing him, and yet he hadn’t flown off the handle or berated her for the mess she’d made of him. It was a small thing, but damn if it didn’t warm her marshmallow heart, because when was the last time she met a man with that kind of character?
Spoiler alert:never.
She locked the door and followed him down the narrow hall to the heart of the studio, where Nia stood on a step stool, counting ceramic piggy banks for the weekly inventory.
“That was fast,” Nia called over her shoulder.
Lena wiped her palms on her overalls, forcing a bright smile. “Yes, well, there was a bit of an incident.” To the stranger she said, “Welcome to East Village Art.”
Nia froze, but when she turned around and saw the giant eggplant at Lena’s side, her face split into a huge grin. “Please tell me you didn’t do that.”
Lena gave her best “Who me?” look, but it was a wasted effort, because Nia’s eyes were locked on the eggplant dude, and her jaw hung slightly agape. She turned to face the stranger and caught him surveying the studio, oblivious to Nia’s stare.
To him, EVA probably looked like a shabby little shop overflowing with colors and textures and wobbly stools. But to her? It was beautiful chaos, with every inch of the walls covered in paintings and tapestries and wooden shelves lined with ceramics and pottery of all shapes and sizes. The front windows were filled with some of her best spring pieces, the pastels a bright pop of color to welcome the new season.
Why did it matter what he thought? Judging by his sharp three-piece suit, they ran in different social circles. He was upper crust to her hot mess. Plus, there was the whole matter of turning him into an eggplant. The vegetable kind, not the emoji kind. Except she had kind of asked about his penis. Honestly, who asked a complete stranger if their penis was broken?
That seemed like something you should save forat leastthe second date.
Not that this was a date. Or ever would be. Because, yeah, this was exactly why she’d sworn off men. She was a walking disaster. Lena gave herself a mental face-palm. Why did she have to babble like an idiot, even to herself, when she was nervous?
Eggplant Dude cleared his throat.
