Chapter Two
“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, 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.
“You alright?” I ask. Stefanos nods.
This is one way to make a literal impression.
Hands pull me up. 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, he has seen this sort of thing from me before.
“Um, thanks.” I’m breathless too.
Frankie gives a wry smile from where he stands with the rubberneckers.
Glancing down at myself for a fleeting moment, my pristine look’s turned into a disaster, and I cringe.
This will need dry cleaning straight away.
Gingerly, I brush off crumbs of safety glass, while James helps 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, but I had a solid shove to get me there.
Which is about when the bouncer turns up to glower at us both. 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. “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 glass off, head held high. Chalk this up to more tabloid fodder. Unfortunately, Aidan will see this too. And instead of being jealous of how well 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.”
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, and 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 heart-shaped face.
There’s something very lickable about him.
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 toward my flat. James and Frankie walk behind Stefanos and me, 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 yours, 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 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.
“Fuck.” That’s a sobering reality. I shake my head. “Does everyone really know about this?”
“James told me earlier.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure if Stefanos’ confession feels better or worse, because I was hoping to make a decent impression on him. But between flattening Stefanos in the club and my new ex telling all and then some, I’m in a hole that’s tough to get out of and rapidly filling with water.
“Everyone will forget soon enough.” He lifts his eyebrows at me in an appealing way. “They always do. Until—and unless—there’s another thing.”
With me, there’s guaranteed to be another thing. There always is, no matter how much I try, and for Aidan, I tried. Trouble just finds me. Inwardly, I deflate. Outwardly, I hold myself up like I own London.
“Let’s hope there isn’t,” I say carelessly. I cough. Best to divert attention. “So, you’re friends with James, then?”
“Acquaintances. He invited me out tonight because he knew I was in London for a few days. Plus, he said a friend of his needed some cheering up and asked me to join. I’m going home tomorrow.”
Something inside my chest drops. Disappointment, maybe. Odd.
“Where’s home?”
He laughs, but there’s something that shifts in his expression. I don’t know him well enough to know what it is. Sadness? Regret? “I’m not sure.”
“Well. Where do you lay your head?” Which brings up delightful images of Stefanos rumpled in bed. “You must have a home.”
“Our family has several. The original home is in Greece. My most recent home is in Barcelona.”
“So you’re back to Spain?”
“Another home. I was going to go to New York, where my parents often are, but I’m off to Corfu next.”
“Right.” Clearly, I need to look up the Greek royals and figure out who’s who and where they hang out. Meanwhile, another unreadable emotion ripples through me. I keep my tone light. “Too bad you’re not sticking around London.”
“I come to London every once in a while.”
“Well, let me give you my number. If you want, you can look me up next time you’re here. Or you can delete it tonight when you’re in your hotel or whatever.” I shrug a shoulder.
He laughs, a reward which thrills me. Stefanos unlocks his phone and pulls up a new contact, handing his phone over to me. I tap out my number as the rain falls on us and pass it back. Our fingers brush. I shiver. And it’s not only the cold rain on the back of my neck.
“It’s this street here.” I nod at the Dover Street sign above us on the corner, and I lead the way down to my flat in a pale-fronted Georgian building, with its large, rectangular windows over the street-level shops and businesses.
As we enter my building a few minutes later, I nod a greeting at the porter, who ferries us up in the lift, and then I let the group loose in my flat.
James and Frankie head straight into the front room with its generous sofas, having told them to make themselves comfortable.
Turning to Stefanos, who looks around the entry with its high ceilings and an abstract painting by a London artist, I hesitate. “Right, I promised you a clean shirt at least.”
“Only if it’s not a problem…” In the light of the flat, Stefanos remains stunning. He gives a quick smile, which warms something even in my dark heart. “I mean, I won’t stay much longer. I’ve called for a car. You don’t—”
“Not a problem,” I confirm easily, casting my gaze over him. He’s more slight than I am, so it shouldn’t be an issue to find something for him in my wardrobe. “You have problems, I have solutions.”
I hurry off, then flip through shirts in my wardrobe till I find a Balenciaga black silk shirt with a subtle botanical print, which would look great with his dark curls.
“Here you go.” I present him my offering with what I hope is an appropriately apologetic smile. “I’m very sorry for squashing you and getting your shirt in a mess.”
“Oh, this is far too nice,” Stefanos gawps at me, shaking his head. “I was thinking something along the lines of a T-shirt.”