Chapter 6 #2
He stood patiently, arms loose at his sides, watching me in the mirror. “You know,” he said softly, “I never expected an actual prince to measure me. Usually it’s the other way round—aren’t princes the ones who get fitted for suits?”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Traditionally, yes.” I stepped closer, reaching to loop the tape around his waist. My knuckles brushed the fabric of his shirt—warm from his body beneath—and I jerked back as if I’d touched a hot stove.
“But I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of pinning seams like the best of them. ”
“Mm,” he said, his smile deepening. “We’ll see.”
I shot him a look in the mirror, narrowing my eyes, but he only looked back, his expression amused, almost teasing. Our gazes held too long, until I forced myself to glance away.
I shifted to his shoulder seam, lifting the tape to measure length.
My fingers brushed the firm line of his arm—the muscle beneath the cotton unmistakable, solid as carved oak—and I felt it again, the jolt, quick as static electricity, that made me pull back too fast. The tape slipped from my hand and fluttered to the floor.
“Honestly,” I muttered. “I’m usually not this clumsy.”
He chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated in the small mirrored space. “I find that hard to believe.”
Professional, Arthur. Professional. I rose again and forced myself to concentrate on the task.
Chest measurement next. I reached around him, tape in both hands, and for one excruciating moment my face was inches from his collarbone.
I could smell him—cedar and something clean, like pressed linen warmed by the sun—and my breath hitched.
I read the number, scribbled it with a hand that was not entirely steady, and stepped back to recalibrate what was left of my composure.
Across the mirrors, our eyes kept meeting, an unspoken game I seemed destined to lose. Every time his gaze caught mine, a flicker of heat curled low in my belly.
Waist. I managed that one by some miracle, looping the tape around him without incident, though I was acutely aware of the warmth radiating off his body, the rise and fall of his breathing.
And then I looked at the clipboard.
Inseam.
My mouth went dry. In any other fitting, this was routine.
I had measured hundreds of men. Thousands of inches of inside leg, none of which had ever made my hands shake.
But the thought of kneeling at Bryce Lewis’s feet, running a tape along the inside of his thigh, while he watched me in a room made entirely of mirrors…
I cleared my throat. “I’ll need to take the inseam now,” I said, aiming for brisk efficiency and landing somewhere closer to a man announcing his own execution.
“Of course,” Bryce said, perfectly casual, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
It is normal, I told myself firmly. You are a professional. You have done this a thousand times. The fact that he is devastatingly attractive is irrelevant. The fact that you are about to kneel in front of him is irrelevant. Everything is irrelevant. Measure the man.
I sank to one knee, tape in hand, and placed the end at the inside of his ankle.
So far, so good. I drew the tape upward along his calf—fine, manageable, still breathing—past the knee, where the fabric of his trousers pulled taut over his thigh.
My fingers grazed the inside of his leg, and I felt the muscle tense beneath the cloth.
I made the mistake of looking up.
From this angle, Bryce Lewis was obscene.
The line of his body rose above me like a landscape—the flat plane of his stomach, the broad architecture of his chest, that jaw tilted slightly as he looked down at me.
And between us, at eye level, the unmistakable shape of his crotch pressed against the fine wool of his trousers.
My brain short-circuited.
I fumbled the tape. My fingers trembled so badly I nearly dropped it entirely. The number on the measure blurred because I’d apparently forgotten how to read.
“Is everything all right down there?” Bryce asked, and if there was a thread of amusement in his voice, he was gentleman enough to hide it.
“Perfectly fine,” I lied, my voice an octave higher than nature intended. I scrawled a number on the clipboard—I had no idea if it was correct; I would check it later, or never, or possibly throw the clipboard into the Thames. I rose to my feet so fast my head spun.
For the love of God, Arthur, you are a prince of the United Kingdom. You have shaken hands with heads of state. You have weathered tabloid storms. You will not be undone by an inseam.
But my cheeks were blazing and my pulse was a riot, and in the mirrors I could see myself from every conceivable angle: flushed, rattled, and looking exactly like a man who’d just had a very inappropriate thought while kneeling at the feet of the American ambassador.
Pins. Yes. Pins next. Something to do with my hands that did not involve touching him.
I drew a few from their cushion, mouth tight, and set about tucking the fabric of the jacket he was meant to try. My hands betrayed me still, trembling just enough to show my nerves. One sharp jab later, the inevitable happened.
“Ouch.” Bryce winced, looking down at his arm.
Mortification flooded me. “I’m so sorry! Did I—oh Lord, I did prick you.” I dropped the pin, hands lifting helplessly. “Forgive me, I swear this isn’t my usual practice.”
His smile softened, gentle, almost conspiratorial. “It’s only a pinprick, Your Highness. Nothing worth apologising over.”
My face was aflame. My hands twitched with the urge to steady themselves on him, but I tucked them firmly against my sides.
Bryce tilted his head, studying me in the mirror. His gaze was direct, disconcertingly so, and when he spoke his tone was mild but probing. “Tell me—are you nervous for some reason?”
I froze. My inner reserve, that iron mask I wore so well, abandoned me in an instant. I heard myself laugh, quick and brittle, then blurted out before I could stop it:
“Would you like a glass of wine, Bryce? God knows I need one.”