I laugh, because heremembers. “My Barbie pink dress,” I say proudly. “Mrs. Theissen said it would clash with my hair, but my mother said go for it.”
Spencer smiles. “That’s the one. There was no clashing.”
“Well, that’s all nice and good, but I’d rather be making memories with you, Princess, then listening to them,” Phillippe breaks the moment. “Can I steal you away for a few—?”
“I think Spence wants a rematch first,” I tell Phillippe without looking away from Spencer’s eyes, a strange silverly greenish-grey in this light. “And we’ll take it over there so I won’t embarrass him again.”
I ignore the murmurs as I stand up with my glass. Spencer follows me to a tiny high-top table beside the bar.
“You pulled me away,” Spencer says in a low voice. “Are you supposed to do that? I thought I wasn’t getting special treatment.”
“You’re not,” I tease. “This is how I treat all the guys.”
He lifts his glass. “Trying to get them drunk by chugging multiple beers? I’m happy to be pulled away by you anytime, especially if it gets you away from French guy.”
“I like most French guys, but not him.” I lean closer and Spencer follows suit. “He won’t be here much longer.”
“Good to know.”
Our faces are close together, close enough that I could kiss him if I rose on my tiptoes to get a little closer.
But I don’t. Not yet. Because when I kiss Spencer, it’s not going to be with an audience of men. I’m not kissing him on this date.
I can’t say the same for when Spencer will kiss me, because I know it will just be a matter of time.
It’s inevitable. I know that now. We will kiss, and it will change everything.
But I’d like to sort out my feelings before that happens, because once it does, Spencer will take a big part of my heart.
He doesn’t realize how much of my heart he’s already holding.
So I lean back before he takes advantage of the moment. “I remember the first time I saw you drunk.” I cup my hands around my glass to stop myself from reaching for his hand. “It was that royal dinner with the Danish prince, and you sat next to this older woman who was bored and wanted you to be her drinking buddy.”
Spencer makes a face. “Marjorie Turner. And I’ve never been able to drink a martini after that night.”
“You smelled so bad,” I reminisce with a grin. “And I still wanted to kiss you.” His eyes widen. “Oops. Should I not have said that?”
“Did you want to kiss me other times?” he demands. “Tell me.”
I shake my head with a giggle, and let my gaze slip to his mouth.
I’m glad Spencer doesn’t take after his father too much. Duncan has the chiseled good looks found on romance novel covers—for which he modeled for many years—but he’s almost too perfect. And he’s also like a second father to me, so having Spencer look like him would be weird.
Spencer showed me a picture of his mother once and it was obvious he took after her: the same high, sharp, cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes with the thick lashes. And the mouth—wide and full, with lips curving down unless he smiles, and always with a hint of dryness because he refuses to use lip balm.
A tiny sigh escapes as I wonder how soft thoselips are.
“You giggled,” Spencer points out.
“That was a laugh,” I argue. “Never a giggle. I’m too refined for that.”
“You may be refined but don’t forget, I’ve heard you belch like a sailor.”
I laugh loud enough to catch the next table’s attention.
“Tell me more about when you wanted to kiss me,” Spencer invites, looking very pleased with himself. He has a somewhat arrogant smile when he’s in public, and one that doesn’t reach his eyes when he’s tired. But I like this one.
I like that he looks so happy.
