“And I’d say it’s obvious why people would want to kiss you,” I counter. “Because same.”
Stefanos laughs again. “I don’t know. Sure, people might want to kiss me because I’m a prince. And I’ve kissed plenty of women. But me actually kissing a man is a whole other story.”
“I’m so invested in knowing more about you.” I can’t keep back my frank admiration of him. The more I’m finding out, the more I want to know. And hindsight always being perfect means I probably should have stayed in Greece to learn more about him. It’s been a while since I’ve been so intrigued by someone. And longer still since someone seems to be just as intrigued by me. Though maybe that latter part is wishful thinking.
“Theo,” Stefanos says carefully, “we really are in a mess. I’m in a mess. I… I can’t see things going anywhere. No matter what I might want. Even being friends is dangerous.”
“Friends can be seen together,” I murmur. “For the record.” But I can’t keep the grimace from my face, and I sigh. Then, I remember my own messes, as Stef’s rightly pointed out, and my impending royal future as King, which he didn’t need to mention. And everything feels impossible right then. Logically, I know he’s right, but fuck logic.
“Plus…” he says quietly. “You seem to have a string of boyfriends. Even this week, I saw you on socials, out with men that look a lot like dates. I know that’s getting ahead of things here, but… your circumstances are very different than mine.”
“They’re fake,” I blurt, my face hot. “All of them.”
“I don’t know, the guys looked real enough,” Stefanos points out with a half smile.
“Oh, they were real men. Real enough. But the dates aren’t.”
“And Aidan?”
I groan, sagging back into the cushions on the sofa. “He’s a real liability. Forget him.”
“So, you see, even if we had kissed for longer—or again—kissing doesn’t change our realities. Or mean anything. Right?” Stefanos holds my gaze. “It would just make things harder.”
In return, I hold my breath till I get dizzy. I can’t blame him for questioning my behavior. Or motives.
“Well… it’s complicated, Stef.” My voice is low, caught in my throat. “At least the fake men are. That’s not real. But wanting to kiss you again is real. Very real.”
Stefanos opens his mouth to say something. Then he shuts it. And he swallows hard. “I think… I should go now.”
“Okay,” I say softly and stare at my phone for a long time after Stefanos hangs up, wondering where, if we can, go from here. Because there’s logic. But then, there’s wanting him, undeniably visceral, deep in my core.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m working in the studio with Ethan and James. Well, I’m working with Ethan while James waits for us to finish for the day. We’re all perched on stools around the broad worktable by the tall Georgian windows of the mews house, filling the room with late-afternoon sunlight. Ethan and I consider several groupings of fabric swatches and paint chips while James observes our arranging and rearranging, having arrived early for our post-work drinks down the lane.
“This one.” I tap the linen fabric swatches to the right of me, a selection of soft clay pink and two shades of cream. “It’s the airiest. Jenna will like this. Bruce would like this one.” I tap the forest-green bundle with another swatch of blue and white stripes.
“Hmm,” says Ethan for the third time, scrolling through his mood board of furniture and photos of the room in question from our visit on his laptop. We’ve been at this for hours, trying to make decisions on a client’s exacting brief for their country home.
James looks from Ethan to me and back again. “You’re overthinking this. Pick all of them.”
“We can’t pick all of them,” Ethan and I say in unison.
“Not for the same room,” I add.
“Well, then you need an ale to decide,” James points out. “Or flip a coin if you won’t listen to me. Besides, we need to talk about Theo’s future plans.”
I groan. “Here we go.”
Ethan leans his hands against the table as he stands, considering James. “What plans?”
“Yeah, what plans?” I dare ask, not sure I want to know what else James has lined up for me and how that may conflict with what plans I have lined up for me.
“About your reputation. And its redemption.” James gives me a significant look. He folds his arms across his chest. “We may need to rethink strategy.”
“I’ll need a drink for this conversation,” I complain. “Anything. Water, ale, tea. Something.”
“Hold that thought.” James waves us out the door.
