If he could let down his guard, so could I.
I loosened my tie, tugging the knot down an inch, then undid the top button of my shirt.The collar released, and with it, something in my chest loosened too.I caught my reflection in the mirrors—cheeks flushed from the wine, collar open, looking more myself than I had in months.I smiled.
Arthur’s eyes lingered on me in the mirror, a flicker of surprise, then something else.Something warmer.
He set his own glass aside, clearing his throat.“We should finish.”His voice was lower now, almost husky.
I nodded, setting mine on the cart beside his.
He resumed his work, tape measure in hand.This time he seemed steadier.Focused.He measured the slope of my shoulders, the length of my arms.Silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft slide of the tape and the scratch of his pen against the clipboard.
I tried to think of something to say.Anything.Small talk, diplomacy, the weather.My mind was blank.What on earth could I possibly have in common with a prince?My life was policy papers and security briefings.His was titles and fashion houses.And yet—here we were.Inches apart, breathing the same air.
He shifted closer, tape in hand.“Chest,” he murmured.
My breath caught.
He looped the tape around my back, his fingers brushing the fabric of my shirt.I felt the warmth of his knuckles, the whisper of contact, and the effect was instantaneous.Heat curled low in my belly.My reflection stared back at me from every angle, wide-eyed, lips parted, while Arthur’s face bloomed crimson.
Our eyes met in the mirror, his blush mirrored in mine.
He cleared his throat, read the number softly, and scribbled it down in a rush.His hands shook as he adjusted the tape lower, wrapping it snug around my waist.
It had been so long since another man had touched me this closely.So long since I’d allowed anyone into my space like this.My throat worked as I gulped down a breath, trying to steady myself.The tape was cool silk, but his hands burned against me, each accidental graze a spark across my skin.
I knew this was professional.Routine.But my body hadn’t gotten the message.Every brush of his fingertips felt too intimate, too charged.
His own hands betrayed him too—I saw it in the mirrors.The way he paused, the quick retreat of his fingers as if he’d been burned, then the return, hesitant, trembling.
We were both flushed, both caught in the same silent storm.
I swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe.In the mirrors, a dozen versions of us stared back—me wide-eyed and tense, him with eyes dark with something he couldn’t hide.
At that moment, I’d swear on my oath of office: Prince Arthur Phillip was attracted to me.
The realisation jolted through me, hot and dangerous, like stepping too close to a fire.
He wrote down my waist measurement with hurried strokes, then busied himself with the next task, but his hands were shaking.
And mine?Mine were clenched into fists at my sides, to stop myself from reaching for him.
The silence pressed down, thick and hot.Arthur’s face was flushed in the mirrors, his lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes darting away every time they met mine for too long.I wanted—God, I wanted him.But I was an ambassador, and he was a prince.One reckless touch, one slip, and we’d both find ourselves in the middle of a scandal that would ripple from Westminster to Washington.
Or worse, I’ve misread the situation and he’s straight.Yet another crisis that would be career-ending.
So I white-knuckled it.Breathed shallowly.Stood as still as a statue while he looped the tape measure around my hips.
He finished jotting something down on his clipboard, then reached for his wineglass and drained it in one swallow.I followed suit, desperate for anything to calm the racing of my heart.The wine was warm now, but I barely tasted it.
“I need more,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“Another for me too,” I said quickly, my voice rougher than I’d meant it to be.
He poured, the liquid glugging into both glasses.We drank, too fast, and the room tilted just slightly, the wine softening edges that perhaps shouldn’t be softened.
The silence grew unbearable.If I didn’t speak, I might combust.If I did speak, I risked saying something that couldn’t be unsaid.My body was betraying me—heat pooling low and insistent, my pulse thrumming with want.I tried to think of something safe, something utterly unsexy.Horses.Horses were safe.
“I, uh…” My voice cracked.I cleared it, tried again.“I know your mother, Princess Anne, is quite the equestrian.Some repute, actually.”
