Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma felt funny. She was sore and achy in places that she would usually not be sore or achy. And her limbs felt heavy and limp—she thought for a minute—in a not unpleasant way. She actually really liked how her body felt at the moment. Her eyes were slow to open, as heavy as the rest of her body, but as soon as they were open, she sat up fast enough to make her dizzy.
It was disorienting to wake up in someone else’s bed, but her brain quickly and thoroughly reminded her whose bed she was in and why. What puzzled her, however, was why Michel was sitting fully dressed at the other side of the room, staring at her naked breasts with his mouth hanging open—she squeaked and pulled up the bedsheets to cover herself—and not naked beside her in bed. Something was wrong, and all the oxygen seemed to leave her body.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Somehow sensing what she needed, Michel got to his feet and poured her a glass of water from a carafe on his nightstand. After a split second’s hesitation, he slowly approached her side of the bed and held out the glass to her. She took it from him and sipped at it until she was certain her voice would work.
“Thank you,” she said, setting the half-full glass on the nightstand closest to her.
“Of course. My pleasure.” His good manners were fully functional despite the odd tension in the room.
Michel didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands as he stood an arm’s length away, until he gestured awkwardly at the bathrobe at the foot of the bed. Had he laid that out for her? It was considerate, yet… disappointing. She’d hoped that she wouldn’t need to put on any clothes for another few hours.
She noted again that he was fully dressed—in the most casual clothes that she’d ever seen him in, but still dressed. Uncomfortable with being the underdressed one, Emma hurriedly pulled on the white terry bathrobe. Oh my God. It was the softest thing she had ever felt against her skin. She shook off her momentary distraction and turned her attention back to Michel.
“Is… is something wrong?” She hated how hesitant and unsure she sounded. Was the after always supposed to be this awkward? Because the before and the during had been perfection. She didn’t understand why the after had to be this way.
“No, no, no.” He shook his head and hands vigorously. “No. Of course not. Nothing is wrong. I… I just need to tell you something. Something I wish I’d told you before we…”
I need to tell you something was her all-time most hated sentence, but the last time Michel said that, he’d just told her that he had a bodyguard. It was unexpected but not bad . He probably looked like he wanted to bolt from the room rather than tell her this something because he was conscientious and considerate. She shouldn’t panic. It couldn’t be that bad.
“Shall we take a seat over there?” He gestured toward the sitting area by the windows.
When she nodded, he offered her his hand and helped her out of bed. They both pretended to ignore the jolt that passed between them at the innocuous touch. But when she got to her feet, she found herself standing closer to him than she’d expected, and her heart hammered in her chest.
Without thinking, she took a step closer to him, eliminating the space between them. Her breath hitched as his heated gaze bored into her and he wrapped his hands around her waist. She might have pushed herself onto her toes. He might’ve dipped his head toward her. Maybe they’d moved at the same time. Who knew? All that mattered was that they were kissing each other like there was an apocalypse approaching and this was the last kiss they would ever experience.
Suddenly, Michel tore his mouth away from hers and held her away from him with a firm grip on her arms. They stared wordlessly at each other, their breathless pants the only sound in the room. Her confusion became indignation, which quickly morphed into… she settled on anger, because anger was safer than fear. She couldn’t give in to her fear that something was very wrong.
“What the hell, Michel?” she squawked in outrage. She left the How dare you stop kissing me unsaid.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He gently but insistently ushered her to the armchairs. “Please sit. Would you like more water?”
“No.” Emma plopped down on the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Talk.”
“Talk? Yes, well.” Michel settled himself across from her and cleared his throat with a fist pressed over his mouth. “Of course.”
Then he proceeded to not talk for a full minute. Her anger fizzled out, and fear edged in at last. She chewed her bottom lip, her legs bouncing nervously. After a moment, he reached out with the pad of his thumb and tugged her lip free from her teeth.
“Have you ever wondered what I do in Rouleme?” He laced his fingers together on his lap and not quite fidgeted in his seat. It was more of an uncomfortable shift. Even so, it wasn’t like him. And the fact that he was nervous made her even more afraid.
“Do? As in a job?” She grabbed fistfuls of her bathrobe over her thighs and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She’d wondered about a lot of things he did in Rouleme, but she never let her thoughts linger on those questions. She didn’t want to think about him at home—away from her. “I assumed you were a professor there as well.”
“No.” He seemed to gather himself, and quiet determination replaced his nervousness. “I’m actually not a professor back home.”
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t really see, but her panic eased a fraction. If this was about his job, she couldn’t care less. It didn’t matter what Michel did for a living. That wasn’t what made him who he was. “Then what do you do?”
He barely moved, but his posture changed somehow and he seemed taller—bigger. She found herself straightening up in her chair for some reason. The set of his lips turned solemn and stern, and she didn’t know if she liked it. It was very un-Michel-like but made him kind of imposing, which was hot. So maybe she liked it?
“Well?” she prompted. He’d taken advantage of her distraction to not talk again. She needed to focus.
“Emma.”
“Yes?” The suspense was killing her a little bit.
“I am the crown prince of Rouleme.”
She tucked her chin against her chest and gave him the side-eye. Then a low, incredulous giggle trickled out of her. “Shut the front door.”
“You want me to…” Michel briefly looked uncertain, then he huffed something resembling a laugh. “Oh, you don’t mean that literally.”
Emma laughed again. But when he didn’t join in and profess to being a huge dork for making such a silly joke— Come on, the crown prince of Rouleme? —she stopped laughing. He stilled in his seat. He might’ve even stopped breathing. She could only stare at him. And he stared back. So far, this conversation consisted mostly of staring and not talking.
As the silence stretched on, she considered the possibility that he might not be a huge dork. He might not be making a silly joke.
“Oh my God.” Her breath rushed out in a whoosh. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” And there he went again, looking taller and bigger.
“You can’t be the actual prince of Rouleme.” She sprang up from her chair and paced back and forth—in sharp, two-step intervals—which made her a little dizzy. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” His eyebrows drew together. Oh no. His earnest, perplexed face was one of her favorite Michel faces.
“Because,” she roared, throwing her hands up. Because she couldn’t deal with it. Because they were too different to begin with. Because it would truly mean that there was no future for them. But the last reason didn’t count, because she already knew that there was no future for them. Right? She forced her voice into an even, reasonable tone. “Because it would be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? How so?” His face became extra earnest and perplexed. Goddamn it . Now was not the time to melt into a gooey pink puddle.
“Because”—she stopped pacing in front of his chair—“things like this don’t happen in real life, Michel.”
“Oh, I assure you they do.” He rose to his feet and loomed over her. “This is real. This is my life no matter how ridiculous it seems to you.”
“Wait.” She poked her index finger into his chest, annoyed to find that there was no give. She obstinately pressed a smidgen harder but had to stop because her finger hurt. “Are you getting angry with me ? Because I don’t think you have any right— NONE! —to be angry with me right now.”
His shoulders rose on a sharp inhale, then drooped back down—but not by much, because his shoulders didn’t seem capable of truly drooping. “No. I’m not angry.”
“Good.” She jabbed his rock-hard chest once more out of principle. “Because I think I should be angry.”
“You should be?” One corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “Does that mean you aren’t actually angry?”
“You do not”—she glared at him angrily —“get to be cute right now.”
His lips definitely quirked up at that. She glared harder because she was angry. Wasn’t she? She was fairly certain she was, but she felt something calm and unconcerned beneath her anger. He’d lied to her—yes, lied to her by omission—and allowed her to think that he was just a regular handsome, ultra-rich man from an influential European family. As opposed to a royal handsome, ultra-rich man from a royal European family? But wasn’t that just semantics?
Michel had always been someone from a world different than her own. She had made a conscious decision that their differences didn’t matter, because he would be gone soon. In some ways, it almost seemed fitting that he was a prince. What they had was a fairy tale—wonderful and fleeting. Her chest tightened into a painful knot. She exhaled slowly and hardened her resolve. We aren’t meant to last.
So was she angry that he hadn’t been 100 percent forthright with her? Sure, she was. Did it matter that he was the crown prince of Rouleme? Emma resumed pacing because she couldn’t think clearly with Michel so close. No. In the grand scheme of things, him being a prince didn’t change a single thing. They had always been too different to belong together. He would still leave in a month and a half, and she would resume her real life. No matter how much that hurt, that was the way it was supposed to be.
“Sit,” she ordered, arranging herself back into the armchair. Even if his princely status didn’t change anything, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. He took a seat across from her and watched her with a wary expression. “You must have a reason.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to hear your reason for lying to me.” She held his gaze.
“Yes, of course.” He got points for not trying to argue that he technically hadn’t lied. “I wanted you to get to know me—just me—without the influence of my title.”
“You think things would’ve been different between us if I’d known you were a prince?” She drew back, hurt and indignant.
“How could they not?” he implored, hands spread out in front of him. “Would you have come over to my table at the café if I’d been wearing a crown?”
Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. “I don’t know.”
“And if I’d been wearing my crown—if I had been Prince Michel—I don’t know if I would’ve sent over those madeleines and paid for your check.” When she sat hesitant and torn, he reached over and took her hand. “The only reason I had the courage to do that was because I was just Michel Chevalier.”
“With or without the crown, you will never be just anything.” She didn’t pull her hand away. “The Michel I know is kind, generous, and funny. He’s someone who finds joy in the simplest things. Someone who is good down to his bones. The Michel I know is a wonderful man.”
“That is all I ever wanted.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then gently cupped her cheek. “I wanted you to see me— want me—for the man I am without my crown interfering.”
“I see you.” Emma leaned into his touch. She was still angry with him, but it was imperative that he understood he was more than his title. He was wanted for who he was. He was enough. “I want you.”
“Thank you,” he said huskily, and pressed his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry I deceived you. I know it was wrong of me, no matter my reasons.”
“You bet it was wrong of you.” She drew away from him. “I don’t like secrets and half-truths, Michel. Promise me you won’t lie to me again.”
“I promise.” His warm brown eyes were open and vulnerable. “Never again.”
She felt the last of her anger melt away. But she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. It wouldn’t hurt for him to grovel a little more.
“Do you forgive me, darling Emma?” She melted a little at the endearment. It made her feel cherished. She ducked her chin because she couldn’t hold on to her frown for obvious reasons. He came to kneel at her feet to hold her gaze. “Please?”
Oh, what the hell.
“Yes.” Her heart fluttered like a silly thing. “I forgive you.”
With a smile like starlight streaking across his face, Michel lunged forward until his lips were a mere whisper away from hers. “May I kiss you?”
“So polite,” she teased breathlessly. “Kiss me alrea—”
He closed the gap between their lips before she could finish her sentence. Emma couldn’t say she minded at all. She had questions—so many—but they could wait. For now, this kiss was enough. They were together, and that meant… everything.