“You alright?” I ask. Stefanos nods.
This is one way to make a literal impression.
Hands pull me up. Hands that belong to my bodyguard, Miles. I glance at my would-be rescuer, though getting on top of Stefanos in a different setting would be positively delightful, far less so while disgracing myself in a club in front of an audience. Miles is impassive, which, to be fair, as he has seen this sort of thing from me before. A little too often.
“Um, thanks.” I’m breathless too.
Frankie gives a wry smile from where he stands with the rubberneckers. My pristine look’s turned into a disaster, and I cringe. My clothes will need dry cleaning straight away. Gingerly, I brush off crumbs of safety glass, while James and Stefano’s bodyguard help Stefanos to his feet.
“I’m so sorry—” I begin to froth apologies, because being knocked down and then having me land on top of a fellow royal as a dead weight is nobody’s idea of fun.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Stefanos assures us. His dark shirt at least disguises the fact that my drink landed on him too. But he looks a little unsteady, the wind still knocked out of him. James holds his arm to keep him firmly upright as he regains his bearings. Stefanos glances at me with a quick smile. “Now you won’t forget me.”
There’s no sign of the man who crashed into me, which makes me look like a falling-down drunk. Which, unfortunately, is also true tonight, but I had a solid shove to get me there.
Which is about when the bouncer turns up to glower at us both. Evidently, there’s no royal free pass. “Sirs, your Royal Highnesses, I’m afraid I will need to ask you to leave. We can’t have this kind of behavior in this club.”
“I’m very sorry,” I begin, gesturing at our group of wide-eyed princes and our security. “We didn’t start the chaos.”
“Whatever happened, you ended it.” The bouncer’s gaze is fixed on mine and doesn’t waver.
My face burns hot as I do my best to nonchalantly brush off the safety glass clinging to my damp suit, head held high. Chalk this up to more tabloid fodder. Unfortunately, Aidan will see this too. And instead of making him jealous at how fabulously I’m living my life in the few hours so far without him, I’ve made a spectacle of myself. Again.
Miles gives me a curt nod. Meanwhile, someone comes with a mop and broom to clean up the mess we’re standing in. “Please,” Miles urges me.
And so, we collect ourselves and find our way out to the damp pavement outside the club. We stand in a knot as the rain falls, with our collection of bodyguards and security. Nighttime lights are reflected in the nearby puddles.
“I’m very sorry,” I say again to Stefanos. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Stefanos assures me quickly, “and I’m fine. Just a bit damp. Plus…” He glances up at the sky for a moment, as the earlier drizzle has turned into a steady rain. He squints at the rain clouds lit soft gray by the city, which gives me the opportunity to admire him. Stefanos has a straight nose and a heart-shaped face. And a great jawline. He has a hint of stubble. Five-o’clock shadow at midnight. I imagine how that would feel against my skin.
Behave yourself. He’s a prince, not a rebound option. Princes are forbidden pleasures.
I cough. By some miracle, there’s no paparazzi yet, but that won’t last long as word gets out on social media about our little incident in the club. We’re an unlikely group of European royals, plus Frankie and our bodyguards.
“Well,” I begin with certainty, taking charge. I glance at Stefanos. “I suppose hailing a taxi is out for all of us. If you wish to come to mine, I can at least offer drier surroundings and a clean shirt. It’s a walk away, not too far. We don’t want to stand around here getting even more wet and waiting for the pap to turn up.”
There’re nods of agreement as we vote with our feet towards my flat. James and Frankie walk behind Stefanos and me, who in turn are trailed by our security.
“I’m very sorry to impose—” Stefanos begins.
“It’s an invitation, not an imposition,” I quip, showing admirable restraint in keeping my response from being completely salacious. As far as these things go, it’s harmless flirting. I lift my eyebrows at him. “Please.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I am. And if you’ve had enough of me, for which I can’t say I blame you, you don’t have to stay. But I can offer a clean change of clothes. It’s the least I can do.”
Stefanos flushes a most becoming shade of pink, even under the streetlights. He’s magnificent and oblivious to his own charms. I’m absolutely fucking riveted. “Alright. I’ll call for a car from your flat, then.”
Satisfied, I nod. “Good.”
Then, even with the drink, I’m a little tongue-tied, which is rare for me. Shit. To cover, I find my phone to pretend to be busy checking for messages as we walk, and there turns out to be a couple of texts from friends. Still no Aidan. And an earlier missed call from my sister, Freja. It’s not like her to straight up call, but it’s late—even later in Denmark—and I’m drunk. I’ll spare her my nonsense this time.
I stuff my phone away.
“Sorry again about the tabloids,” Stefanos offers into the relative quiet, at least between us. On Piccadilly Street, cars hiss past in the rain, and Frankie and James’ banter behind us fills the silence. “It’s a shame. I want to let you know I think it’s terrible.”
“Fuck.” That’s a sobering reality. I shake my head. “Does everyone really know about this?”
