He’s now close enough that I could reach out and touch him, and the memory of how it felt to be so close to him earlier today has my breath hitching.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What have you got behind your back, Ms. Fontaine?”
I’ve got a choice here. I can either tell him to mind his own business, surreptitiously pocket the music box, and make a run for it.
Or I can fess up.
I fess up. I don’t want to add theft to my list of misdemeanors.
I pull the music box from behind my back and hold it out for him. “I was just looking at this.”
“A music box.” He takes it from me, and his fingers brush briefly against my palm. It sends a flutter of electricity through me, and I shift my weight, determined not to let him see the effect he has on me.
He opens the lid, and the room fills with the music once more, and my gaze zeroes in on the ballerina’s pirouettes.
“She’s so beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
Without warning, he snaps the lid shut, making me jump.
I shoot him a look. His lips are quirked in amusement, and it’s clear he did it on purpose.
What is with this guy?
“Why did you do that?” I ask, my hand over my heart.
“Because we need to leave.” He places the box gently down on the chest of drawers. “Please allow me to escort you to the correct room for tonight’s dinner.” He steps aside with exaggerated politeness, gesturing for me to move. “I wouldn’t want you to take another wrong turn and end up in the dungeons.”
I flick my gaze to his to see his lips quirked in a smile.
He’s toying with me. There’s no doubt about it.
“Are you admitting there are operational dungeons in the palace? Because I’m sure my readers would be fascinated to know.”
“We use them as wine cellars these days, but I’m certain to someone like you, they might as well be dungeons.”
I quirk a brow. “Someone like me?”
“Someone who can create a headline from next to nothing, like, say, a slide into a pond.”
“Thatwasa headline, Your Royal Highness.”
“That depends on your point of view.”
“You’re right. From your point of view, it was just another Tuesday. Wasn’t it?”
He darts me a look that’s equal parts amused and annoyed.
Is it terrible that I enjoy getting under his skin?
Instead of biting, he replies, “We’re back to formal titles now, are we?”
“You’re the one who called me Ms. Fontaine. Your Royal Highness felt like the appropriate response.”
The temporary closeness we experienced during the impromptu archery lesson seems to have backtracked to snarky banter and one-upmanship.
So, business as usual.
We make our way down the wide, echo-y hallway.
