Page 54 of My Dark Horse Prince

“They had cars before I was—er—frozen.”

“Cars that went twenty miles an hour,” I say.

“I’ll have you know that I had a Stutz Bearcat—imported from America—that went sixty plus miles an hour.” He straightens up. “I’ll be an excellent driver. I assure you.”

After a little more back and forth, I give up. He’s unwilling to budge, and knowing he at least has sat behind the wheel of a car makes me slightly less terrified.

“I’ll navigate,” I say, “and you have to listen to me on things.”

“Fine,” he says. “Deal.”

But from the second the engine purrs to life, he stops listening. “No, you need a blinker,” I say.

“Why? People can see that I’m turning.”

“But if you use your blinker before you turn, they’ll figure it out faster.”

We’re nearly to the restaurant when I tell him to turn.

And he hits the gas instead of the brake.

I nearly faint.

But just in time, he switches, and we don’t crash into the delivery van in front of us. “On the way home,” I say, as we pull into the parking lot, “I’m driving.”

He just smiles.

“Say yes,” I say. “Or I’m not getting out of this car. You can eat alone.”

He laughs.

“Grigoriy Khilkov, Prince of Dolgovo, stop laughing and agree with me. Actually, forget that. Hand me the keys.” I extend my hand, palm up.

He sighs, and then he rolls his eyes, but finally he drops the keys into my hand.

“Really?”

“How will I get better if you never let me drive?” He leans closer, his eyes intent, but when he’s only a few inches away, his gaze drops to my mouth.

I shoot out of the car so fast that I momentarily forget about my leg. I have to clutch at the doorframe to keep from falling. Grigoriy’s there a second later, his arms wrapping around me from behind. “Be more careful.”

“Why?” My voice is breathy. I hate it.

“Because it kills me to see you hurting more than you have to be.”

Why is my stupid stomach flip-flopping? I must be hungrier than I thought. I slip the keys into my purse, and then I bend forward, moving away from his way-too-large, way-too-muscular body to grab my crutches. “Let’s go,” I say. “I’m starving.”

He’s grinning in a very proprietary way when we reach the front door. “You look great in those new boots, by the way,” he says as he opens the front door and gestures for me to go in first.

The hostess looks at me, and then glances back at him, and immediately looks confused. I know just what she’s thinking. What’s that crippled girl doing with that demigod?

If I were her, I’d be wondering the same thing.

It’s a fluke, really. He’s just woken up from some kind of painful half-sleep, and I was the first person he saw. He wants to fix me, but when he can’t, he’ll get bored, and even if he can, I will no longer be interesting.

I’m not a complete idiot. I know these things.

And yet, having him completely ignore the lovely hostess and stare only at me is intoxicating.

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