Page 125 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Oh. Right. I remember now,” Grigoriy says. He hisses the last word, right as Danils comes close enough to hear. “Boring.”

“Boring?” Danils glances his way, and his eyes almost bug out. “What’s he doing here?”

“Just pretend he’s not here,” I say. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“I can’t do that,” Danils says. “He needs to leave.”

“I’m having dinner, just like you.” Grigoriy lifts his water and smiles.

Luckily, our food arrives before Danils’s head can actually explode. Every time Danils turns around, Grigoriy’s humming to himself, talking to his food, or pretending that he’s batting at invisible things around his head.

It’s irritating.

It’s distracting.

And it’s pretty freaking funny.

I’m not sure when my irritation changes entirely into entertainment, but sometime before Danils asks for the check.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the waitress says. “The gentleman there already paid.” She points behind Danils, as I somehow knew she would. Then she smiles at Grigoriy. And blushes.

“He what?” Danils’s face turns bright red. “You can’t just let people pay for other people.” He crumples his linen napkin in his fist. “How could you—” He throws the napkin down and stands up. “I want to pay for his meal, then.”

“He’s already paid,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Danils turns around to glare, but I touch his arm. “Can you just let it go?”

He yanks his arm away. “Fine. Let’s get some—”

“Waitress,” Grigoriy says. “Where did you say that amazing cake was?” He stands up. “I especially love orange cake, if you know of any place that sells that.”

“Why yes, Cafe Imbir’s famous for its cakes and pancakes,” she says. “And I think these two were just talking about the orange cake earlier.”

Danils swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and then he lets out a string of expletives unlike any I’ve ever heard.

“Sir.” The waitress looks around, her eyes wide, her pupils dilated. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re distressing the other guests.”

Danils snatches his jacket, which he’d laid across the back of a chair, and marches out the door. I start to follow him, Grigoriy falling into step beside me.

“That man looks a little unhinged,” he whispers. “I think you’d be safer going home with me.”

I can’t help looking at his face, which is a mistake. I’ve spent so much time looking at his horse form, or at his head right after a shift, with his hair askew and tousled, that I’m almost unprepared to see his human face straight on, with his perfect brows slanted over his spectacular eyes. His high cheekbones. His flawless skin, and his square jaw.

Just a little dark stubble finishes it off, and with his hair like this. . . Exceptional beauty tempered by almost overpowering masculinity. It leaves me a little breathless.

“I drove myself,” I say.

“Perfect,” he says. “I had a friend drop me off.” His eyes sparkle. His head cocks to the side. “And I’ve been dying to drive the new Bronco. I hear it handles great.”

I laugh then, out loud, like a complete flirt. “It does, yeah.”

“You like it, then?”

I dig the keys out of my purse and toss them to him.

“Please tell me this means you’re letting me drive, and not that you’re about to head out with that moron for cake.”

“Hey, I like cake. It’s not stupid to have a sweet tooth.”

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