Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
When I wake, it’s dark. Stef’s warm against me in a curl, his forehead pushing against my shoulder.
I have no idea what time it is, but I definitely ejaculated any semblance of brains out—that’s the one thing I do know.
I rub my eyes. My movement makes Stef shift, and I stop immediately, pulling him closer in hopes he’ll go back to proper sleep again.
But instead, Stef kisses my shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers, almost tentative. It’s hard to see his expression in the low light, to read him.
“Hi.”
He traces my chest, falling quiet again, like how he was when I arrived yesterday. I hope he’s not regretting last night. Regretting being together. Because I don’t want him to feel bad about it—or anything else either.
“You alright, gorgeous?” I ask after a moment.
“Yes. No. Maybe.”
“I think,” I drawl with a chuckle, “you’ve hit all the possible options.”
“It’s because they’re all true.” Stef moves onto his elbow and lifts his head to look down at me. There’s a little light coming in from outside through the partly open top shutters. “God, Theo.”
I’m quiet as he sits up. The sheets rustle.
“You’re a dangerous man,” Stef tells me, rubbing his face, “because I feel totally different when I’m around you.”
“In a good way or a bad way?” I ask, concerned, not sure how I should take this. I fold my arms under my head.
He goes back to tracing my chest. The curve of my pecs. I shiver, entranced. “Can’t tell yet,” Stef says.
“Hmm.” I consider him, or more like his shadowed silhouette. I want to protect him. Keep him safe. Even if that’s from me. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t,” he says instantly and lets me draw him down again into my arms. He settles comfortably against my chest, as if I’ve held him countless times, fitting just so, like we belong together.
But I sense his hesitation. “I just… I don’t know.
I think up is one way, and down is another, and then I’m like one of those snow globes that’s been shaken up and there’s snow falling every which way and I don’t know where it starts or ends. ” He gulps.
“Do you need to know?”
“I guess?”
“Snowstorms are romantic.” I smile affectionately at him, trying to cheer him, even though I don’t want him to feel out of sorts about us. Not right now. “I don’t know how many snowstorms you get in Greece.”
“Few. More up in northern Greece, in the mountains. In New York, definitely.”
“Let’s pretend, then.” I nuzzle into his neck and then bite him lightly. He shivers and laughs. “We’re in our own storm.”
“I love pretending with you,” Stef whispers. “It’s so easy.”
Then we’re kissing again, exploring each other more leisurely now as we let our bodies take over in the darkness, together.
Sometime later, when I have another one of my recurring nightmares, again about my father dying, and I wake up gasping, Stef’s there. He tries to wake me. The shock hits me then, like it does every time: my father has died, and he’s not coming back. And I’m the King, and I don’t know what to do.
There’s a lump in my throat as I stare at him, in tears.
I can’t speak. Or explain. Stef holds me tight, and I press my face into his shoulder, into him, finding safety and comfort in his arms till we sleep again.
Pretending is one thing, and reality is quite another, and I’m not sure quite where I am between them both in the early morning light.
In the dark, it was easier to imagine our private world where nothing else existed.
Now, reality’s starting to creep in, like the nightmare was the harbinger, and I want to push it all away.
Like I’ve stolen a few hours away—and they’re now being recalled.
Stirring, I’m face down in a sprawl in an unfamiliar bed. Opening my eyes and lifting my head, there’s a specific sound that I can’t immediately place. I squint.
And there’s Stef, standing in the doorway of the room with a towel around his waist, fresh out of the shower. He has a red apple in one hand, and he crunches another bite.
“Morning,” I say thickly, smiling at him.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought you were out cold. Did you sleep better eventually?”
“Yes.” I roll onto my side, the sheets pushed down to my waist, the cool air helping me wake up. “And I was totally out. C’mere.”
Stef comes to sit on the edge of the bed as I sit up. I reach for the apple and take a large bite. I’m starving. Which, fair, we missed dinner last night.
“Delicious.”
“You can finish it,” Stef tells me. “I’ve got breakfast in the oven. Brunch, really,”
I eat the rest, then lean forward to kiss Stef, who tastes like crisp apples. “Mm.”
He takes the core from me. “There’s a set of towels in the bathroom for you.”
“The best hotel,” I tease fondly. “Thanks. I’ll hit the shower next.”
I slip out of bed and stretch while Stef watches me.
I’ve got to admit I like the attention, the way his expression eases as he looks at me.
There’s the unsettled feeling that flutters in the back of my mind, about what we’re doing, and how this is definitely a capital-S Situation, and what we’re going to do about it.
But I push that aside in favor of a hot shower and food.
After a shower and getting dressed in joggers and a T-shirt, I head out to the kitchen. Stef’s also dressed, taking an omelette casserole out of the oven, and some kind of delicious-looking apple turnovers wrapped in pastry sit on a wire cooling rack. My stomach rumbles in eager appreciation.
“Wow, you made all this?” I marvel. There’s a platter of fruit on the counter in front of the tall window looking out to a private back garden.
“Coffee’s over there and ready to pour.” He nods over at a french press, where two mugs are set out. While he plates up our food, I take care of our coffees, and then we’re settled at the table at the dine-in kitchen.
Starving, we attack the food with gusto, putting eating first over talking for a few minutes. At last, I sit back in my chair with a sigh, an arm draped over the chair beside me.
Stef leans back in his wooden chair too, fingers wrapped around his coffee. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” he says finally. “This is surreal.”
“You’re well worth traveling for,” I inform him easily.
He gives me a wry smile. “Well, thanks.” Stef draws a deep breath. “God. What’s the plan, Theo?”
“Plan? I don’t know her.” I shake my head, smiling, then consider him, chin in hand and elbow on the table. My expression softens as I watch him fidget with his coffee mug, pensive. The last thing I want is for him to stress. “What kind of plan do you want?”
“I mean… this is out of hand. The whole situation.”
“Mm,” I acknowledge, tracing the handle of my mug with my free hand. “I’m trying not to think too much about it at the moment, to be honest.”
“We need to figure out a plan,” Stef says, voice low and urgent. “Because… because this situation is too hard. Before it gets, you know, serious.”
“Serious,” I echo, gazing at him. My heart twinges as I catch my breath. Which is when I clue in on how far gone I am over him. Shit.
Stef frowns at me. “Yes, serious. Like… future King of Denmark serious. Duke of Wiltshire serious. Sunken yacht serious. Not being out sort of serious. Or even—know what I’m doing with my life serious.”
I groan, dropping my face into my hand for a moment, rubbing my eyes. My tone is light. “Denial is a great lifestyle choice, I’m saying.”
When I lift my head, Stef looks stricken.
“Fuck. Bad joke. I don’t mean to jerk you around, Stef.
Far from that, okay? And I’m deadly serious about that.
” I pull my chair around the table and sit, touching his arm.
All I want to do is make things better and to find a way for us to navigate this whole situation.
Which, if I’m honest, does look rather impossible.
Stef’s not wrong about anything he said.
“Okay. There’re two categories of things, right? ”
“Two categories?” Stef peers at me, a slight downturn to the corner of his lips.
“Yeah. Things you can do something about and things that you can’t.”
Stef blinks at me. I continue to hold his gaze.
“So… your life—” I give him a wry smile. “—is something you and most people can do something about. Where they have at least some say, if not all. Things like not being out. Most of the rest is not in your wheelhouse, sorry to say.”
Stef growls in a way that’s completely charming, and my grin broadens. Not that I want to make light of his frustration, far from it, but also, I tend to have the worst reactions during so-called serious conversations. Nerves, Mamma’s told me, is what it is.
“Well, can you unsink yachts or any other kind of watercraft?” I ask curiously. “Because that would be a great party trick right now.”
“No…”
“There you go. One less thing to worry about, right? The yacht was still sunk,” I point out. If only there were an easy way through all of this.
“Yes, but we’re still dealing with the fallout,” Stef says.
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. But the yacht thing is mostly done.”
“And, for the record, they raised it for salvage.” Stef folds his arms across his chest. He leans back in his chair. “So it’s technically not sunken anymore.”
“Okay, okay.” I lift my hands in surrender. I’ll concede the point. The last thing I want is to see Stef stressed-out. Especially not because of an accident that wasn’t his doing. Not really. “Of that list you gave me, what’s top of your mind?”
Stef’s struggle is written across his features, in the tightness of his shoulders. “All of it.”
“Some of those aren’t things for you to decide.” My tone is soft, but firm, my expression at last sliding to serious. How can I get him to see? “And some are.”
“The Duke of Wiltshire?” Stef points out sharply, eyes flashing. “What about him?”
Startled, I straighten at the eruption of emotion from him. His emotion cuts to my core. “What about the Duke of Wiltshire?”
“What’s your plan with him?” he challenges.
“Are you jealous?” I peer at him curiously, taken aback. Jealousy isn’t something I had considered.
Stef rolls his eyes, looking hurt. And fuck, I want to reach out and pull him close and make him see how much he matters to me. Not some duke. Not some well-intended—but messy—plan from James. Yet, my future still looms, and every time I think about becoming King, I feel distinctly nauseous.
“What do you think?” he retorts.
I sigh. “Stef. You know it’s complicated. And the situation with the duke isn’t about you—”
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Or it’s something you can control.”
“Fucking hell, Theo,” Stef snaps at me. “Please don’t jerk me around.”
For a long moment, I fall quiet, looking at him. “What’s happening here, exactly?”
“That’s what I want to know!” Stef trembles, emotion caught up in his body. I want to draw him close. And yet I hold back.
“James and company are trying to help me out with my reputation, which isn’t great. You know that. He thought I should go on a few fake dates and, in theory, make a marriage of convenience—”
Stef sucks in a sharp breath. “He what? And you’re… going along with this?”
“I—”
“Weren’t you going to say something to me about this?” Stef’s voice wavers.
I consider him, my throat tight. “I don’t like the situation myself, Stef. I’m trying to think my way out of this, but I can see James has a point. Even with all his…” I wave a hand like there’s a neat way to sum up James’ perception of the world and, specifically, my place in it. “…stuff.”
Stef glares.
“I… yes, I was going to talk to you about this. At some point. But… we’re not actually seeing each other, are we?”
“I don’t know what this is,” Stef admits, gesturing between us, frustration spilling out, “or what the rules are.”
Sometimes, I forget that there are people in the world who like more structure and clarity, rather than my knack for finding situationships and messes and wildly inappropriate men.
“I don’t either.” My voice is subdued. There’re knots in my stomach. “If… if you’ve had enough of me, I get it. I burn people out. Or they get embarrassed by me. Or… something. And that was before the whole future King thing. Which, I admit, is a… er, challenge I’m struggling with myself.”
“The problem,” Stef says hotly, “is I realize I’m starting to like you a little too much, and then you fuck me like…
like that and… and God, I have no fucking idea which way is up, Theo.
Maybe this is normal for you, but it really, really isn’t for me.
” His eyes are bright with tears. “And I don’t want you to fake marry some duke or someone. In fact, I hate it.”
I suck in a breath and just stare at him. “Jesus, Stef.”
He gets up, turning away, going to stand in the kitchen in front of the window overlooking the back garden. His arms are tight across his chest.
“What are we supposed to do, then, hmm?” I ask softly, distraught. “You’re not even out to date in public. And that’s before the whole yacht problem and everything else you pointed out. And… becoming the Danish King.”
“I know, Theo.” His voice is unsteady. “Don’t I know.”
Stef’s still not looking at me. I cross the kitchen to join him. He’s shaking. I reach out tentatively to touch his shoulder, and he whirls around, his face wet with tears.
“Oh fuck. I’m so sorry.” I pull him into my arms, which he resists for a moment, then holds me so tightly it takes my breath away. I rub his back.
He breaks down and cries, his face buried into my neck. I hold him for a long time, breathing in his scent, tracing the hot tears on his cheek. When he lifts his head, he stares at me for a long moment before he kisses me fiercely.
I gasp, catching his jaw, pulling away. Of course I want to continue, but some kind of sense takes over.
“Now, hang on. I don’t want to make this any more difficult than it already is,” I murmur to him and touch his tears with my fingertips. “Maybe we should go sit down.”
Stef nods reluctantly. He traces my lips, then releases me at last. And it’s scary to realize I don’t really want him to let go.