Chapter 14 #2
The facade of parental concern the Porters put on to justify locking their youngest daughter away from the world is looking flimsier by the day.
They don’t call her, or me, to check in, for that matter, and I’m convinced that if she hadn’t ended up in the news, they would have turned a blind eye to the partying until the end of time.
None of it’s surprising to me, but I’m still disgusted.
“Should we play a game?” asks Blair from the back seat, apparently unable to stand being left alone with her thoughts for longer than five minutes.
“No.”
I’m not the least bit surprised when she ignores this completely. “I spy with my little eye something oversized and brown-haired, that missed a spot while shaving this morning.”
This is going to be the longest drive of my life.
Unable to help but vent some of my mounting tension, my knuckles go white on the steering wheel.
“You are aware that I’m the one operating this motor vehicle, don’t you?
Doesn’t it seem unwise to antagonize me when we’re driving past a cliff?
” To the left of the car, there is nothing between us and the rocky cliffs, apart from a rusty guardrail.
Blair considers this for all of six seconds. “Nah, not really,” she decides. “You’d be splattered right along with me. Mutually assured destruction.”
“We’ve been over this. I think you’re overestimating my will to live when you’re speaking.”
Uncharacteristically, she doesn’t have a scathing retort to this, but before I can do more than wonder whether I’ve actually hurt her feelings this time, movement registers in the corner of my vision. I glance over to find her leaning over the center console, eyes narrowed and frowning.
“Who’s Leo?”
My stomach plummets as I follow her gaze.
My phone is resting in the cupholder beside me, and I can see the name displayed on the screen, announcing an incoming call.
It takes an inordinate effort not to snatch it up and shove it away in a rush, but reacting strongly to that question would only invite more notice.
Moving slowly and attempting to exude annoyance rather than panic, I reach over to shove the device into the glove box without a second look. “An old friend,” I inform her crisply.
Blair gasps. “You? A friend? How much do you pay them?”
Ha. “More than you’ll be able to afford if Daddy takes away your golden key, princess.”
I glance up at her reflection in the rearview mirror when I bring the car to a stop at an intersection.
Blair tilts her head, gazing back at me with the mischievous glint in her eye, the one I’ve learned to associate with trouble approaching.
“You refer to my father as ‘Daddy’ a lot,” she muses.
“Is this your way of telling me something?”
Despite myself, I feel my lips twist. “Yes, Blair. Well spotted. I am your father’s secret lover, and he gave me this job so I could make myself more available to him. He likes to be the little spoon, in case you were wondering.”
A delighted, wispy laugh bursts from between Blair’s lips. “Oh my god, that was so specific! Satan! Have I stumbled upon your deepest, darkest secret? Wait, though… No. It can’t be.” She recoils theatrically, clutching her hands to her chest. “A gay man would never wear those shoes.”
The rest of the drive passes in more or less the same manner.
Despite my best efforts, I’m on edge, waiting for her to bring up what happened in the forest yesterday. Last night, whilst dreading this drive, I managed to come up with about a dozen excuses and justifications for my hard dick being pressed against her.
None of them is even remotely believable.
However, in the first bit of mercy I’ve had in months, Blair never brings it up.
She talks, of course. A lot. The woman keeps up a constant stream of commentary over the three-hour drive, touching on topics which range from my haircut—dubbed “deeply unfortunate”—to the several thousand-euro handbag she’s literally praying the luxury department store will have in stock.
I notice the chatter develops an increasingly wild edge as the arrival time on the car’s GPS ticks closer.
“Oooo, I hope we see the queen,” she giggles as the car slows to join the line of traffic below a large, blue sign, announcing we’re entering Stelland’s capital.
A weight seems to drop right into my chest at her words, and I have to clear my throat before responding. “I doubt it.”
“I guess you’d know, huh? Since you worked for the Ashwells.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that she knows this, but it does. “Who told you that?” I demand before I can stop myself, and though I keep my eyes on the car in front of us, I can feel the weight of Blair’s questioning gaze on the back of my head.
The subject of my relationship with the most famous family in the country is, quite literally, the last topic on Earth I’d like to discuss with her.
Even engaging in a conversation about our foray into mud wrestling—and its effect on my dick—sounds preferable.
I have no idea what Blair was or wasn’t told about my background, but it seems likely she was given an incomplete picture if she’s aware I was an employee, but not that I’m a “distant cousin” of Araminta’s.
The last weeks have taught me better than to underestimate her, however, and for all I know, she’s on a fact-gathering mission, hoping to lead me into disclosing more than I should, or catch me in a lie.
“Was it a secret?”
I’m biting my tongue so hard that I taste blood. “No,” I admit. “I’m just surprised your father shared that kind of information with you.”
It’s an underhanded, mean little comment, exactly the kind I’ve thrown her way since the day we met. Except, for whatever reason, this time my stomach twists with regret.
“Well, I suppose there are some things you don’t know, Satan,” Blair offers after a pause, an airy quality to her voice. “It’s pretty cool you worked for them, though. My parents were obsessed with getting Alba to marry the king. They kept trying to get her invited to all these palace events.”
Trivial gossip, blurted out by a woman who has nothing better to contribute to a conversation, yet it makes some of the tension bleed from my stiff shoulders. I hit the blinker, turning the car out of the worst of the traffic. “Did they?”
Blair hums. “Obviously, it didn’t go their way. You must have met the queen, then? If you only left a few months ago?”
Eager to keep her talking and distracted, I reply, “Yes.”
“Well, I’m obsessed with everything she wears. Doesn’t she have the best taste?”
The question almost makes me smile, but instead sends a deep pang of grief and longing through me.
If things were different, and that question had been asked in the presence of my brothers, I would have said, “Maybe, but not in men.” It would have made Leo laugh and Ben roll his eyes, even as he fought a smile because the grumpy prick knows damn well his wife is miles out of his league.
Even kings have to face facts.