I’ve got a big, Lucy-style crush on Finley Andersson, and that’s why I’m on his private jet, strapped into a very comfortable gray leather seat with a plate of strawberries, bananas, oranges, and grapes in front of me on a sturdy metal tray. A giggle escapesmy lips as I stab a grape with a fork, lifting the plump, purple deliciousness to my lips.
My heart feels the lightest it has in days, all because a man said some nice words to me. I sneak a glance at Lucy who is sipping a glass of champagne in the seat adjacent to me. I think she’s rubbed off on me some over the past week. She has been a saint—constantly remaining by my side, taking off her own work to sit in the office with me when I needed her, and pretending to be me when we had to distract reporters.
And through it all, she’s gushed over my relationship like it has become the sole focus of her own life. She has sung his praises, has helped me work through these new, confusing emotions, and has spelled it out for me: I am falling for this man.
Falling some kind of hard.
Knowing it and accepting it are two different things though. I believe I’m on my way to accepting my feelings, but I’m not quite there yet. Maybe this trip to Korsa will help. Which is another reason I agreed. Dating Finley means there is a possibility of marrying Finley. Marrying Finley means moving to another country and running said country alongside him.
My sister has told me over and over that I am built for such a job because of my patience and intelligence and logical brain.
But I’m not so sure.
An autistic queen?
Does Korsa really want that?
“Mysaa, is your head crowded?” Finley asks, taking a seat next to me and popping a strawberry into his mouth. “Unload on me, please.”
I stab another grape and chew while I contemplate telling him what’s on my mind. He doesn’t rush me to speak; in fact, he continues to eat fruit alongside me, giving me the space to think. Another wonderful quality that I admire about this man. So many people in my life have gotten offended or frustrated with me when I have responded or answered in a manner they deemed untimely.
“I’m worried that Korsa would reject me as a queen because I am autistic.”
Finley doesn’t skip a beat in his response. “Who says neurodivergent people can’t make great rulers? It doesn’t have to define you, and from what I’ve seen, you make it a priority in your life not to let it define you. You simply are who you are. I adore that about you. And I believe the very things you don’t like about yourself are the qualities that will make an excellent head of state.”
I stare at him, a strawberry pressed to my lips, mouth agape. “Really?”Brilliant response, Lorelei. See. You’re not as clever as he believes.
“Really, really.” He meets my gaze, his lips ticking up in a smile. Slowly, allowing me plenty of time to stop him if I wanted, he reaches for the strawberry pinched between my fingers. He takes it from me, then holds the plump, red berry in front of my mouth. “Open up,” he commands. He slips the strawberry through my lips, and I bite down. His eyes never leave mine.
“Good girl,” he whispers, and two things happen simultaneously: Lucy begins to choke while my toes begin to tingle. The feeling travels up my legs and spine, into my arms, and finally spreads throughout my face, causing my nose to scrunch. There’s also something unsettling about the words that I can’t pinpoint.
“Man’s got game,” Lucy blurts. I snap my attention to her as Finley sighs, sitting back in his seat. “Oops.” She covers her mouth, giggling, turning back around in her seat.
“What’s she talking about?” I ask Finley. Judging by his irritated glare in my sister’s direction, she has greatly offended him with that statement.
He shakes his head, bright blond hair swishing around with the motion. “When someone says that they have ‘game,’ they are typically stating that they know how to win another person over romantically.”
Huh. “Is romance supposed to be a game?” I don’t know if I like that train of thought.
“No.” Finley laughs through a grimace. “Romance is not a game. And furthermore, I don’t believe you can necessarily ‘win’ somebody. People are gifts in our lives, not something to be owned. Hear that, Lucy?” he asks in a louder voice.
“Roger that.” Her hand flicks from the edge of her forehead like a salute even though she’s not facing us.
I smile, loving where this man’s heart is with every passing second. “I would agree with that.” I reach for his hand, and he easily slips his long fingers through mine. He looks down at me wearing a proud smile. I continue my line of questioning, “But why did she say that in response to you telling me ’good girl?’”And why did I tingle so much?
His smile turns saucy. “How did youfeelwhen I said that?”
My cheeks heat, and I avert my eyes. I find myself not wanting to tell him, but if I’m ever going to figure out how to be romantic and such, I need to be open and honest. I have tolearn.And learningis nothing to be ashamed of. “I felt tingly. It started in my toes and traveled up my body.”
“Then it had the effect I wished it would.” He winks. “I’m thrilled to know it’s something you like.”
Do I like it? That feeling?
“Say it again.”
His eyes widen before they hood over. Finley leans down as I stare straight ahead, preparing myself for the feeling again. His breath tickles the hairs on the back of my neck before he whispers in a raspy voice, “Good girl, Leilei.”
I tingle once more, but I’m cautious now. As much as I do like this feeling, I pinpoint the reason the words unsettled me. The words feel a bit demeaning, like when doctors spoke to me like I was a little girl when I was eighteen years old simply because they saw the word “autistic” on my medical reports.
