He tugs me down, and then we’re kissing – slow and sweet and building into something that makes my head spin. When we break apart, he keeps his eyes closed for a second, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment.
“It’s not just attraction,” he says, voice rough. “Not for me.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “No?”
“No.” His eyes open, lock onto mine. He doesn’t continue, and no matter how much I wish he’d tell me how he feels, for now it’s enough.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in our own little world, talking about everything and nothing – stupid childhood stunts, career dreams, books we love, embarrassing stories that have us both cracking up. We kill the wine and most of the food, andwhen it gets cooler, we end up tangled together, watching clouds drift across the sky.
“We should probably head back,” Leo says eventually, making absolutely no move to get up.
“Just five more minutes,” I mumble against his neck.
He laughs, and I feel it rumble through his chest. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Time’s different under magic oak trees. Common knowledge.”
I prop myself up to look at him – his face relaxed, golden in the evening light, happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Do you really want to go back?”
“No.” His hand comes up to my face, stroking his thumb across my cheek. “Thanks for being with me.”
“Thanks for bringing me here.” I brush my lips across his knuckles.
We start packing up as the light fades, neither of us talking much. Reality is waiting at the bottom of the hill – all the protocols and meetings and people watching our every move.
As we fold the blanket together, our hands meeting in the middle, Leo looks at me, suddenly serious. “Whatever happens when we go back – press, politics, my sister’s crazy schemes – remember today, okay? This is the real us. Everything else is just?—“
“Noise,” I finish. “I know.”
He nods, throws the bag over his shoulder, and we head down the hill. Not touching, but close enough to feel each other there.
The security detail materializes as we approach the village, maintaining a discreet distance that suggests Leo’s “plan” worked exactly as intended. As we climb back into his car, the day’s freedom gradually gives way to the responsibilities waiting at the palace, and I find myself unexpectedly at peace with the transition.
14
LEO
“I’m fairly certain this wasn’t in my job description,” Rangi mutters, expertly adjusting the Eleanor’s hat as we prepare to take the royal children for their first public outing since Fiona’s birth.
“Welcome to life with my sister,” I reply, cradling my niece with practiced care. “Nothing is ever coincidental with Kit.”
Kit’s “innocent” suggestion that Rangi and I take three-week-old Fiona and two-year old Eleanor for a stroll through the palace gardens—where, coincidentally, the press would be gathered for the announcement of the Future of Astipia Bill—is about as subtle as a ceremonial drumbeat.
“Do I look presentable?” Rangi asks, his usual confidence momentarily faltering. Despite his years of military service and diplomatic experience, I can see the nerves beneath his calm exterior. This isn’t just a walk with royal babies—it’s a carefully choreographed introduction to a role he never expected to fill.
I take a moment to study him, admiring the way his formal attire—a modern suit with traditional touches in the embroidery—emphasizes his broad shoulders and strong features. The warrior markings visible at his collar and wrists add a distinctive cultural element that he wears with pride.
“You look perfect,” I assure him, as I step closer, lowering my voice despite the empty nursery. “Unofficially, you look devastatingly handsome, and I’m finding it difficult to maintain royal decorum.”
His smile is slow and knowing, warming me from the inside. “Later,” he promises, his voice dropping to a register that makes my pulse quicken. I give into temptation, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He turns slightly toward it, not quite chasing the kiss—but notnoteither.
High-pitched giggle erupts as Eleanor watches us, a stuffed giraffe in one hand, her hat already askew once again.
“And what are you laughing at, Princess?” Rangi asks with a playful growl, swooping up my niece to tickle her. She scream-laughs, her little feet kicking in delight.
Our moment is interrupted by the nursery door swinging open to admit Victoria, clipboard in hand.
“The press is in position,” she informs us, her expression betraying nothing of what she thinks about this orchestrated display. “Her Majesty suggests you proceed through the East Garden to the Sunken Terrace where the announcement will take place.”
