It should be perfect. Instead, I’m rearranging furniture like a man who’s lost control.
I drag a leather armchair closer to the windows, then push it back, before pulling it forward again. The legs scrape against the tiles.
This morning, I moved the chessboard back to the nook in the east wing. I set up the pieces in their starting positions and left a note tucked under the white queen.
Show me your best.
She’ll find it eventually. And when she does, we’ll start again, one move at a time, passing each other in hallways and leaving notes that are our little secret.
The door opens at four fifty p.m., and Addison walks in, carrying a canvas bag over one shoulder and a wooden easel tucked under herarm. Her hair is twisted up and held in place with what looks like a paintbrush. There’s a smear of blue along her forearm. She’s wearing a loose white shirt, tucked into high-waisted trousers.
She stops three steps into the room and surveys my furniture arrangement with raised eyebrows.
“Did you redecorate for me? This is perfect.” She puts down her easel. “You’re early. We’ll get started at five on the nose. I need to set up. I’ll be quick.”
“No rush,” I offer.
Her face breaks into a grin.
“You’re nervous,” she says, delighted.
“I’m not,” I say coolly.
“Whatever.” She walks past me and runs her hand along the back of the chair. “The crown prince of Montclaire is unsettled because I’m going to stare at his face for two hours. I’m flattered, truly.”
She starts unpacking her bag. “Sit down and relax before we start.”
I lower myself into the chair, and I try to conjure the neutral mask I’ve worn for portraits since I was old enough to understand.
Addison glances at me over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna make you look super hot.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, playfully rolling my eyes. “Just what I need. To look hotter.”
She grins and walks toward me. “Who taught you how to sit like that?”
“Henri Beaumont. He painted me dozens of times, and our sessions were silent.”
“How long would you sit?”
“Hours. I lost track of time.”
“He sounds like a sadist.” She studies me with her head tilted. “Can you do something for me?”
“Maybe …”
“Forget whatever Henri asked of you and loosen up.” Her finger presses under my jaw, and she tilts my chin down from its formal angle. “Look at me. Actually see me.”
I let my eyes focus on her face and see the flecks of green in her irises. Tiny freckles spread across her cheeks and nose that I never noticed before.
“There you are.” She steps back, grinning. “Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating.”
“Future king? Pfft. More like drama king.” She returns to the table where she was unpacking her bag and picks up her camera. Seconds later, she’s snapping photos of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Reference photos.”Click. Click. Click.“At three in the morning, when I’m working, and you’re not available, I’ll look at these to capture your brooding.”
