Page 17 of A Princess for Christmas

She blushed. It was apparent even in the diffuse glow of a New York night.

“Ohhhh...” He let the single syllable stretch out over his tongue. “You mean a booty call.” He remembered those. Barely. That was another thing that had mostly fallen by the wayside since his parents died. He opened the pizza parlor door for her, but she made no move to enter.

“Awhatcall?”

“Booty call.Bootybeing American slang forass.” He let his eyes drop. Her dress was too puffy for him to see hers, but he let his gaze linger in the general vicinity anyway. Princess Marie whatever whatever—she had a lot of names—was a very pretty woman. Those dimples. Those eyelashes. If he were a betting man, he’d say everything under that dress was probably equally enticing.

He would also bet that she never got told that. That people deferred and kept her at arm’s length. Or were catty bitches like Cruella De Vil Von Whatever.

It was nice sometimes to be appreciated for one’s... assets. So he let his gaze linger even longer, and because Marie was oddly innocent—he wasn’t sure if it was because of her royalness or her non-Americanness—waggled his eyebrows to make sure she got the point. “You’d better get your royal booty inside, Your Splendidness. We’re letting all the cold air into this fine establishment. I’m sorry to say I’m going to have to pass on the booty call, but pizza’s on me.”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she blushed even more. And the dimples—the real ones—came back as she brushed past him.

At the counter, she treated the dilemma of what kind of slice to get like it was an exam question. In the end she settled on one pepperoni and one mushroom, which he approved of. She’d surprised him. He would have thought she’d go for vegetarian, or some chicken-with-white-sauce nonsense.

“Will you join me?” she asked as the guy behind the counter heated her slices. “We can sit in the window and watch the snow.”

He really wanted to. Which was a little unsettling. But it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t. Responsibility was something he could have a tiny vacation from, but that was the extent of it. “I have to go home. I have a neighbor sitting with Gabby.”

“Oh, yes! How selfish of me! I’ll take my pizza to go.”

Outside, the snow was picking up. She paused in the middle of getting into the cab and looked up at the sky.

“You like winter?” he asked.

“It reminds me of home.”

That wasn’t really an answer. “Are you homesick?”

“That is a complicated question, Mr.Ricci.” She flashed another of her sad-princess smiles. “But I do love the snow. It’s different here, against the backdrop of the city, but lovely in its own way.”

When they pulled up to the hotel, Marie stuck out her hand for him to shake. “Mr.Ricci. You rescued me twice today. And what’s more, you’ve made it so I’ve ended this evening on a pleasant note. I would not have thought that possible. Thank you.”

She was so formal in her speech but so earnest. He took the proffered hand.

It was really fucking soft. Just like her back.

He nodded meaningfully at the CVS bag. “Thankyou.” Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it.

Because why not? A cabdriver from the Bronx didn’t have that many opportunities to spend the evening with a princess, and when he did—especially if she was a sad princess—he should probably seize the chance to kiss her hand.

The moment passed, and as she took her hand back, she peered out her window at the hotel. Something about the way she held herself changed. She stiffened a bit. Then she did the chin-lifting thing he now recognized as one of her signature mannerisms. Except whereas before he’d thought it signaled snootiness, now he suspected it was more about steeling herself. Working herself up to duty.

He knew that feeling.

She reached for the door handle, but he held out an arm to stop her. “Hold on. Wait here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to come around and help you out.” He jogged around front, offered her an arm, and helped marshal her dress. She’d had trouble getting out of the car at the pizza place, but she’d triumphed over the voluminous fabric before he could help.

When they were standing face-to-face, she asked, “Did you help me out of the car because I am a princess?”

Uh-oh. Was she going to get pissy? Had he offended her feminist sensibilities? He was a sucker for a damsel in distress, but it wasn’t like he thought women actually needed men to help them out of cars and through doors and shit. If he had ever harbored such an antiquated notion, five minutes of eavesdropping on Gabby and her friends plotting world domination had cured him of that. No, it was just a reflex. Manners.

Leo had a sudden memory of his dad pulling up in front of Our Lady of Mount Carmel on Sunday mornings. He would always drop them off before parking, and he would run around the car to help Mom out, taking extra care with her church dress.

The princess was waiting for an answer, so he told her the truth. “Nope. I don’t give a crap about the princess stuff. I just did it because my dad always did that for my mom. Especially when she was dressed up.”

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