“I’ll take what I can,” she says, and I yawn. “You should try to sleep. It’s late there. Call me if you need me. I don’t care what time it is.”
“I will.”
“And be careful. I know what it’s like to think you’ve lost the love of your life, and I don’t think a person ever survives that. If he hurts your heart, I will turn Patterson loose on him without regret.”
“I know. I love you for that,” I say.
“Love you too. It’s all going to work out.”
Our call ends, and I sit in the dark for a long time, replaying having pizza, his little black book, and how he felt while pressed between my thighs. Had that person come minutes later, we’d have crossed the line. Part of me is relieved we were interrupted because this is already complicated enough. But the reckless side of me that’s been getting greedier since I arrived wanted him so bad that it hurt. That is proof that I’m in too deep.
17
ADDISON
Over the next few days, the blind item explodes across every platform, followed by photos that someone submitted of him from the inside. I thought things would get better, but somehow, they’ve gotten worse. The photographs are damning.
Gossip articles pop up everywhere, debating the ethics of arranged royal marriages in the modern era. A petition is circulating in Montclaire, demanding that the king and queen allow their son to choose his own bride, and it has gained hundreds of thousands of signatures. This has also put Louis on the map as an eligible prince, so now every single woman in the world wants him. Royalty who weren’t even in the running have contacted the queen to be included in the competition. He’s wanted by thousands, and there is no exaggeration on that. The situation has become a true test because he’s being pulled in a million different directions.
Kendall has kept me up to date with what’s being said in the States, and apparently, TMZ is analyzing the “conservatorship” rumor. Suddenly, everyone, from Hollywood celebrities to world leaders, has an opinion about the love life of the crown prince of Montclaire.
The palace has become pure chaos, and for days, I’ve tried to focus and keep my head down to finish both of Louis’s portraits. I try to ignore what’s going on, but whispers about Louis follow me everywhere I go. Staff huddles in corners, trading theories about who leaked the story and photos and what it means for the royal family.The princesses grow more paranoid with each passing day, and even they’re at each other’s throats. I even overhear Cornelia accusing Tatiana of planting the story herself. So many fingers are pointed, and half of them don’t make sense.
Louis and I haven’t been alone together since the night on his couch when we were interrupted. But this morning, when we passed each other in the hallway, our gazes locked, and I lost my train of thought. We exchanged simple nods with knowing smiles, but that’s all of him I’ve been given.
The spotlight on him is too bright at the moment. Thanks to my PR training, I know when it’s best to stick to myself. After the last move I made on the chessboard, I left a note that said:
To be continued …
This season ofThe Royal Bachelorsucks.
The thought makes me laugh as I paint more details on the chess painting of Louis. Today, I moved my canvas to a spot where I could glance out the large windows and watch the palace foyer. Now, it’s nearly eleven at night, but I can’t stop working. I understand why Henri painted the queen so much. While I’m adding stubble to his face, a soft knock comes. My heart rate increases as I set down my brush and wipe my hands on a rag, then twist the canvas.
When I crack open the door, I see him, immediately allowing him in. He practically kicks the door shut behind him as our mouths crash together. It’s hungry, frantic, and everything I’ve been hoping and wishing for days. I moan, needing more. I’m basically aching for him.
“Fuck, I’m addicted to you, Addy,” he says, relieved, like he was starved of oxygen.
Our noses brush together as his hands find my waist.
“Mmm. There’s no cure,” I tell him as he brushes his nose against mine.
“I’m aware.”
The growl in his throat causes me to shiver. He kisses my neck, my jaw, then back to my mouth.
“I couldn’t take it any longer,” he confesses. “I’ve been losing my mind, not speaking to you. That can’t happen again.”
I pull back. “We’re playing it safe.”
“We have an alibi,” he says, pointing to the canvas.
“Okay, Princey. My media instincts say that’s a bad idea. You don’t want people realizing I’m here. Trust me. They’ll say I’m a plant, your personal karma, the one sent to destroy you and your playboy ways for breaking so many hearts.”
“Is that a confession?” His nostrils flare. “Because I feel like I’ve been put under a love spell. You’re all I think about.”
I smirk. “That’s a nice line.”
He shakes his head and kisses me like he’s making up for lost time. “You know it’s not a fucking line. You know I’m obsessed with you.”
