Laughter falls from his lips, and I actually love the sound of it.
“You’re so damn …cocky.”
“Accurate.”
He reaches forward to reset the board, and I help him arrange the pieces. Our fingers brush when we both reach for the same pawn, and neither of us pulls back. His skin is warm against mine, but his hand is rougher than I expected for a prince.
“Want to make it interesting?” I ask as the last piece clicks into place.
“Always,” he says.
I lean back in my chair and take a slow sip of bourbon, making him wait. The liquid burns down my throat and settles warm in my chest.
“The loser has to grant the winner one favor,” I say. “Anything. That’s not illegal.”
He cracks his fingers. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
The word hangs in the air between us. I watch his eyes narrow as he contemplates my proposal.
“No limits?” he asks.
“None.”
“No questions asked?”
“Zero.”
He picks up his knight and turns it slowly between his fingers,studying me over the carved horse’s head. The firelight catches the angles of his face and makes him look like he’s made of stone.
“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand.
We shake on it.
“You’re so fucked,” I say to him.
“Maybe that’s the favor I’ll ask for.”
I gasp. “Dirty dog.”
This time, his moves are more aggressive, almost as if we’re playing for time. I counter with my own pawn push, and we settle into the game. The room goes quiet, except for the click of pieces and the soft crackle of dying embers. When he stares at me with that look on his face, it makes it hard to concentrate.
Five moves in, he takes one of my pawns. Six moves in, I take his bishop. The board grows more complicated with each exchange, pieces fighting for control in the center.
He reaches for his rook, and his sleeve rides up, exposing the tendons in his forearm. His hand is strong and veiny.
How would I paint those hands?
The thought catches me off guard because that’s the feeling I’ve been struggling to find since I arrived. I’ve wandered the grounds with my sketchbook and camera, only to come back with nothing. The gardens are beautiful but boring. The coastline is dramatic but impersonal. Nothing has made me want to pick up a brush, except him.
I notice the tension in his wrist as he picks up the rook and how his fingers curl around the piece like he’s holding something precious. I could paint that.
“You’re staring,” he says, taking his turn.
“Sorry. I was lost in thought.”
“About your next move?”
