Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
“How did she know to find you here?” Sophie materialized at his side while he watched the hypnotizing sway of Emma’s truly fantastic backside as she walked farther and farther away from him.
“I don’t know,” he murmured distractedly. Then, with a thrum of excitement, he raised the mobile he still held in his hand. “I can call and ask her.”
“Now?” His friend’s nose crinkled with affectionate frustration before she smoothed out her expression. “You can’t call her now.”
“Why not?” He couldn’t keep the bounce out of his steps as they headed toward the parking structure. Adding Emma Yoon into his contacts gave him great satisfaction. “I have her number.”
“Because you don’t want to seem as desperate as you obviously are.” Sophie nudged him with her shoulder to soften her words. Then she straightened and said in a firm tone, “Come now. Let’s get you back to the hotel. I need a break from guarding you with my life.”
Michel complied immediately because he knew she was only half kidding. His royal guard would throw herself in front of a bullet for him without hesitation. Following her directions not only protected him, but her as well.
“What’s the proper protocol for calling a woman after you get her number?” He matched her clipped pace as they headed to his car.
“I’m not your bloody dating advisor, Your Highness.” Her expression remained convincingly deferential. “Look it up on the internet.”
He scoffed indignantly, but as soon as he reached the privacy of his suite, Michel typed in his pressing query. It was apparently a popular question, because the search engine completed it for him. How long to wait to call a girl after getting her number. Not that he would ever think of Emma as a girl. She possessed an intrinsic poise and confidence—even when she was chasing away unwanted matseon partners—that made it impossible for him to think of her as anything but a woman.
Michel scrolled through the results, then scrolled some more. He tossed his mobile on the coffee table with an exasperated flick of his wrist. The overwhelming consensus was that you needed to wait three days before calling someone. Followed by a bevy of opinions as to why you should call sooner, as well as why you should call later.
To hell with it .
He snatched his mobile from the table and texted Emma.
Michel:
I admit I’m quite beside myself with curiosity. How did you find me?
He stared at the screen as though willing her to respond immediately. Being self-aware enough to know when he was being ridiculous—an indulgence that wasn’t often afforded to the prince of Rouleme—he leaned his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He didn’t go so far as to put the device down, but held it loosely against his thigh.
When his mobile buzzed within a couple of minutes, Michel shot all the way up to his feet and fumbled around until he managed to unlock his screen.
Emma:
You’re asking the wrong question again, Professor Chevalier.
Lust shot straight to his groin at her last two words. He liked the sound of that a little too much coming from her—impudent and sexy as hell. His thumbs were already typing out his response.
Michel:
Then what’s the right question?
Emma:
You really are kind of hopeless at this. You know that?
The smiley face at the end of her text took away the sting of her words. Besides, when she was right, she was right. He was absolutely hopeless at this dating business. He grinned like a sod.
Michel:
Have dinner with me tonight and show me how it’s done.
He frowned at the screen when the ellipses didn’t start scrolling for a beat too long. He reread his last message, and red-hot heat crept up his neck until it reached his hairline. Show me how it’s done? It sounded like he was insinuating… He certainly didn’t mean… Dear God . He made it sound like sex, didn’t he? He was beyond hopeless. He was catastrophically ruinous at this.
And all he’d meant to do was ask Emma out on their first date. A perfectly innocent, absolutely appropriate, unimpeachably respectful dinner. The kind that involved food and conversation. Not it .
Emma:
Tonight?
He nearly dropped his mobile in his rush to reply.
Michel:
Yes. Please. If you’re free.
Michel:
For dinner.
Michel:
Tonight.
He needed to stop typing.
Emma:
Okay. Does seven work?
Michel:
Yes.
And just so she understood how well seven worked, he sent another text.
Michel:
Please.
Before he could type thank you, a new message arrived from her.
Emma:
Where?
“Shit,” he spat. Where? He had no idea. He rushed out the front door and crossed the tastefully decorated elevator bank to the only other suite on his floor. He pounded on the door with his fist. “Sophie!”
Before he could register the door opening, Sophie hauled him behind her with narrowed eyes and scanned the empty foyer with her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring into action. Regret and frustration rushed through him at the alarm he’d caused his friend.
“It’s safe, Sophie,” he said softly. “I’m not in danger.”
It took a moment for her grip on his wrist to loosen, and she slowly turned to face him. “What. The. Fuck.”
“I just needed to talk to you.” Michel raked his fingers through his hair. “No one can even come up this elevator without your permission.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed, but her expression remained stony. “Fine. Talk.”
“Her name is Emma Yoon,” he said, swiftly changing tactics. He couldn’t ask Sophie for restaurant recommendations, much less drag her out to a restaurant after scaring her like that. Since he refused to sneak out like a rebellious teenager, there was only one option. “You probably want to run a background check on her before I invite her over for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?” Sophie unknowingly mimicked Emma’s question.
“Yes.” It was too late to second-guess himself. It hadn’t even occurred to him to postpone his date with Emma. Probably because he absolutely did not want to do that. As his cousin so helpfully reminded him, the clock was ticking. “I was thinking around seven, so that should give you a good three hours to figure out if she’ll kidnap me for ransom or not.”
“You’re inviting her to your hotel room? On your first date?” Her eyebrow arched skeptically even as her thumbs flashed over her phone.
“Not a room. A suite. A fifteen-hundred-square-foot suite.” Inviting her to his hotel—suite or not—wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t have much choice. “I think we’ll manage not to trip over my bed.”
“She won’t get anywhere near your bed or even set foot on this floor until I let her—as you pointed out.” She finished typing before looking up. “You’ll have my answer in three hours, my prince.”
She closed the door in his face. But as he turned to leave, muttering under his breath, she peeked her head out and said with a hint of a smirk, “And for your next date, I’ll help you pick out a restaurant.”
He returned to his suite and sat on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. With his identity concealed, he was in no real danger. Very few people in America would even recognize him. Their media had more than enough on their hands, covering the antics of their beloved Hollywood stars. They weren’t interested in the lives of princes from small European nations.
Even so, this trip was taking a toll on Sophie, because she and she alone was responsible for his safety while they were here. But that was what he’d wanted. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself with a brood of royal guards. It was selfish of him, but this was his only chance to take back a portion of his life and avoid an arranged marriage, which neither he nor his childhood friend Isabelle wanted.
His father, the king, was tired. When he told Michel that, his father had indeed looked exhausted… and old, his once-golden hair gone completely silver. The king intended to abdicate, with immediate plans to announce Michel’s coronation as well as his impending engagement to Lady Isabelle Duprey. His father wanted Rouleme to celebrate their new king and future queen rather than mourn the end of his rule.
Michel begged for forbearance even though he would do anything for his father and Rouleme. The king granted him a three-month reprieve, presumably to allow him to prepare himself for the inordinate responsibility of leading a country. But Michel had been trained for that inevitability his entire life. Every facet of his upbringing had centered around that all-important goal. He still wasn’t sure what kind of ruler he would be—what he could do for his people—but he intended to dedicate himself wholly to the betterment of Rouleme and his people. He would accept that responsibility with gratitude and humility, if not joy.
All he wanted was to be allowed to do so with someone he loved by his side. That was the true reason Michel needed the three months. There were things in his life that he had no control over, but marriage wasn’t something he could let happen to him as he watched passively from the sidelines. He had this one chance to choose something— someone —for himself. He wanted to marry someone simply because he couldn’t live without her and she couldn’t live without him. A union of love between a man and a woman. Nothing more. Nothing less.
For this one thing, he wanted to be selfish. He wouldn’t marry for his country and his people. Not for duty and responsibility. He didn’t care about sensibility or compatibility. He would settle for nothing less than all-consuming love. For three months, he could still make that choice.
But one month had already passed, and he had no time to waste. He needed to find out if Emma was meant for him. He typed out his next message with renewed determination.
Michel:
We’ve already established that I’m hopeless at this dating business, right?
He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to put down his mobile. He’d taken a while to respond to her, so he shouldn’t expect an immediate response. After five minutes, he noticed his bouncing knee and gaped at it, appalled at his lack of composure. He didn’t know when shock gave way to delight, but he found himself grinning. This woman stripped his royal upbringing right off him. That was an excellent sign. His mother had always said that love made fools of all men—even kings.
Emma:
Sorry. I was in the shower. But yes. Quite hopeless.
The more Michel told himself not to imagine Emma in the shower, naked and wet, the more vivid his mental image grew. He shifted on the sofa, adjusting his pants. He ran his hand down his face and got himself under control.
Michel:
So fully accepting that I’m likely doing this all wrong, I would like to invite you over to my place for dinner.
Emma:
Your place?
Michel:
Yes, I’m staying at the hotel where we met.
That sounded worse than he thought it would. She might think he was inviting her to his hotel room with nowhere to sit but on his king-size bed.
Michel:
In a two-bedroom suite. It’s just like your typical flat with a dining room and a living room…
He stopped himself before he recited the entire hotel brochure.
Emma:
1 I guess we won’t be encountering an only-one-bed scenario then.
Michel blinked. What the hell is an only-one-bed scenario?
Emma:
Haha. Never mind. Bad joke.
Emma:
But, yeah. Dinner at your place it is. At seven.
Relief and anticipation rushed through Michel, and a huff of laughter tumbled out of him. He was about to reply saying he would meet her in the lobby, but Sophie’s scowling face flashed through his mind. The best he could do was greet her at the foyer on his floor, which was as far as he could go without his royal guard. He swallowed an unexpected flash of frustration. This was his life. He came to terms with it long ago. There was no point getting worked up over it now.
Michel:
If you let the front desk know you’re here, they’ll show you up to my suite.
Emma:
Oh. Okay. See you soon.
At the risk of sounding like an eager fool, Michel tapped out what was on his mind.
Michel:
I can’t wait to see you.