“Fair.” The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. “I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news.”
Now he looks sympathetic. My face burns.
Oh, hell.
Does everyone follow the tabloids? God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did?
Even so, do I want to forget this stranger? The probability in truth is at around nil. Around us, the dance music thumps on, people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting strobe lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.
And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening’s prospect. He’s murdered my opening.
“Ouch, man.” My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle. “You had to remind me about the news.”
“Sorry.” He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. There’s no malice that I can see, which makes for a refreshing change, at least. “You really don’t know who I am?”
“How rude, I should have asked your name. I’m sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What’s your name, then?” I ask.
He laughs easily, shrugging. “It’s Stefanos.”
I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. “As in, Prince Stefanos?”
That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.
“Yes.” Stefanos bows his head. There’s something completely charming in the gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. “And I’m very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids. I know they’re a pain for all of us.”
“You just re-reminded me,” I complain, but I’m smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he’s delighting in a few more twists of the knife. And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan. A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe it’s the drinks protesting in my stomach.
At any rate, I’m distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair like a shampoo commercial as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.
“I’ve got to say, the prince-per-capita rating in this club is off the charts tonight.” I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, he’s hot. Confirmed. As if there were any question about his hotness. The evening’s at last starting to look better and better. Thank fuck.
“Absolutely—”
Then, in turn, someone careens into me—and my flirting is officially cancelled.
Because it’s officially messy o’clock at the bar before last call.
And I’m drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance—and I crash hard, my drink splashing him first—and I fall hard right into Stefanos’s chest.
“Fuck!” I cry out as we attempt to grab each other.
Stefanos’ eyes widen as we both lose our balance and grasp desperately at each other in a last-ditch effort to stay upright. Our cocktails crash to the ground, exploding in a mess.
“That’s Prince Theodor!” someone calls.
Lucky me, being recognized in this moment. Probably thanks to my lifestyle social media accounts rather than widespread public fan-personing over the Danish monarchy in London. It’s the last, fleeting thought I have as we fall hard.
Which is about when people start to snap photos and video.
Then we land on the floor in a tumble of limbs, ice cubes, and shattered safety glass.
Chapter Three
“Oho, I was planning to make introductions, but I see you’ve already met.” James’ voice, deadpan as ever, drifts down to where I lie amid people’s ankles and plastered against another prince. I squint up at James through the shifting lights of the club. I try to get my bearings as he stands, nonchalant, with his hands in his pockets, marveling at the spectacle as if he’s admiring a new sports car and kicking the tires.
“Does glass wash out of a Prada suit?” I mumble thickly from where I’ve landed on top of Stefanos and through the absinthe and cocktails. James has no smart comebacks for that question.
Then, I’m staring down at Stefanos, as we’re encircled by a gathering crowd, complete with phones capturing every excruciating moment. He’s equally wide-eyed and breathing hard from the shock of it all.
