“You’re too beautiful for me to remain unaffected.”
His eyelashes, black and lustrous, fan out along his prominent cheekbones as he looks down.
“I’m just a scrawny little Mexican.”
“Please do not use the wordjustwhen describing yourself. I happen to think scrawny Mexicans are quite beautiful.”
“Oh, do you now,LordMiddleton?”
Raising an imperious brow, I straighten my posture to look as snobbish as possible. “Why do you say my title as though it’s a joke?”
“Becauseyousay your title as though it’s a joke.”
His hand feels small in mine, and the way he’s stroking my palm with his thumb makes me wish I’d been born somewhere between Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende. More importantly, his answer makes me break. I can’t possibly hold on to the snobbish affect while his expressive eyebrows jump up and down and his mesmerizing eyes sparkle with humour.
His thick, shiny hair has a bit of a wave to it. His hands, while small, are square and industrious looking, his arms veiny in a way that speaks of the intense leather work he does. I know from my snooping he’s had to hire two apprentices, but there are some things only he can do.
I’m impressed with everyone in the Hernandez family, but no one more so than him. I’ll admit, the tiny dark mole under his left eye may be the reason for my bias.
Bringing his knuckles to my lips, I respond, “Touché. I do make fun of my title quite a bit, though that’s only if I’ll own up to it. You had an advantage—you knew my title before I knew you.”
“Oh? Did you want to be my secret prince? Never telling me until our wedding night?”
Did the words “our wedding night” really leave his lips? I may need a moment because my heart just shifted into hummingbird mode.
“Wow.Someonelikes their historical romances.” I say, far more smoothly than I feel.
“Yeah, so?” he challenges, bringing my hand to his lips, mirroring my gesture.
“I feel duty bound to warn you they take a lot of liberties with those stories,” I say, less cool this time around as his grip on my hand shoots electricity up my arm. I’m aware that there are other people in this restaurant, I just can’t see or hear anything except Gael.
“Duly noted.” Maintaining his grip on my hand, Gael asks, “Do you resent your title?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think the British monarchy is a relic of the past and should be mothballed along with the trebuchet?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s helping me get out of my head, but what he doesn’t know is that he’s just making my heart beat faster.
“You don’t know besmirched but you know what a trebuchet is?” I practically croak out. He’s kind and ignores my obvious distress.
“I was wondering when you were going to circle back around to that word.”
“It means to make dirty, or unlikable. So I meant I’d never let anything dirty your reputation.”
“I figured that out for myself.” He shakes his phone at me. “But back to my questions. You resent your title, you think the monarchy and peerage system is antiquated, and it can sometimes limit what you want to do with your life, right?”
I take a deep breath. “All true.”
“Every historical romance is about those three things exactly. Only, instead of the maiden girl, you’ve got yourself a stable boy.”
“No,” I tut, weaving our fingers together. “I’ve got the accomplished leather smith, whose bedroom slippers are so buttery soft that the king himself has praised them.”
Gael pulls his hand away from mine.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, immediately terrified.
“No,” he says as he presses his fingers to his temples. “Were you joking, though? About the king?”
