And the worst part?A very dangerous part of her wanted to sayyes.
Shaking herself, Azlyn fought to unwind from the velvet snare of his voice, his scent, and that maddening gaze that seemed to lookthroughher rather thanather.
Crown Prince Zayn Al-Sintra was just a man.A very attractive, maddeningly observant man—but still.She’d been in this industry long enough to know better than to expect real confessions over a salad.Secrets didn’t get spilled over wine and charm.Secrets were bartered, coerced, or leveraged.
She stepped back, inhaled to clear her thoughts—then froze.That scent again.Clean, woodsy, and deeply unfair.
She held her breath.That lasted about five seconds before she nearly saw stars.
“Lunch at Mistrail,” he offered, voice smooth and persuasive.“I hear their duck confit–”
“Let’s do Little Joe’s,” she cut in, sharper than intended.His brows rose, and she didn’t miss the flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.
Azlyn blinked.Lunch.With him.
Right.For work.For research.She was an executive producer.If the Crown Prince of Lativa wanted to casually spill intel on upcoming guests, it was herresponsibilityto listen.
“Little Joe’s?”he repeated, his mouth curving.“That doesn’t sound… diplomatic.”
She tilted her head, folding her arms, fully aware she was issuing a challenge.“It’s a burger joint.A few blocks from here.No linen napkins.No imported mineral water.Just grease, noise, and the best damn fries in the city.Battered and golden.”
She grabbed a pen and flicked it between her fingers before catching herself and setting it down with deliberate calm.“You game?”
She waited.Expected the polite decline.He didn’t look like the type who evenknewhow to order a burger without a security briefing.
“Deal,” he said immediately.
Azlyn blinked.What?
Before she could recover, Zayn was already beside her, his hand closing around her elbow with quiet confidence, steering her toward the exit as if the decision had been his.
Wait.What the hell had just happened?
She was testing him.He was supposed to flinch.Or scoff.Or offer to send a palace chef.
Instead, he wassmiling.
And they were going to Little Joe’s.
“Wait!”she gasped, digging in her heels.
He stopped, looking down at her.
He was close—so close her chest nearly brushed his.Her breath caught as her mind betrayed her with a flash of sensation: the thought of her nipples against bare skin, the heat of his body pressed to hers, the slow burn of contact.
Focus,she ordered herself.
Closing her eyes, Azlyn summoned the logic center of her brain and begged it to intervene.She needed a valid, professional reason to delay—to regroup.
“I need my computer,” she said, managing a steady tone.
He raised a brow, a silent question in his gaze.
Azlyn forced a polite, professional smile, even as her body buzzed with the lingering image of sinking into his arms and forgetting how to breathe.“To take notes,” she clarified.“For research.”
She didn’t wait for a response.Spinning away from his gravity, she walked briskly back to her workspace.It took only a few seconds to close her laptop and slide it into her leather messenger bag.
She slung the strap across her chest and returned to his side with practiced ease.“I’m ready,” she said.
