Chapter 7 #2
“Want to make it interesting?” I ask as the last piece clicks into place.
“Always,” he says.
I lean back in my chair and take a slow sip of bourbon, making him wait. The liquid burns down my throat and settles warm in my chest.
“The loser has to grant the winner one favor,” I say. “Anything. That’s not illegal.”
He cracks his fingers. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
The word hangs in the air between us. I watch his eyes narrow as he contemplates my proposal.
“No limits?” he asks.
“None.”
“No questions asked?”
“Zero.”
He picks up his knight and turns it slowly between his fingers, studying me over the carved horse’s head. The firelight catches the angles of his face and makes him look like he’s made of stone.
“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand.
We shake on it.
“You’re so fucked,” I say to him.
“Maybe that’s the favor I’ll ask for.”
I gasp. “Dirty dog.”
This time, his moves are more aggressive, almost as if we’re playing for time.
I counter with my own pawn push, and we settle into the game.
The room goes quiet, except for the click of pieces and the soft crackle of dying embers.
When he stares at me with that look on his face, it makes it hard to concentrate.
Five moves in, he takes one of my pawns. Six moves in, I take his bishop. The board grows more complicated with each exchange, pieces fighting for control in the center.
He reaches for his rook, and his sleeve rides up, exposing the tendons in his forearm. His hand is strong and veiny.
How would I paint those hands?
The thought catches me off guard because that’s the feeling I’ve been struggling to find since I arrived.
I’ve wandered the grounds with my sketchbook and camera, only to come back with nothing.
The gardens are beautiful but boring. The coastline is dramatic but impersonal.
Nothing has made me want to pick up a brush, except him.
I notice the tension in his wrist as he picks up the rook and how his fingers curl around the piece like he’s holding something precious. I could paint that.
“You’re staring,” he says, taking his turn.
“Sorry. I was lost in thought.”
“About your next move?”
“About you.”
His eyes lift from the board and find mine. In this light, his eyes are almost navy, and I can see the fire reflected in them. Twin flames.
“Care to explain?”
“No.” I smile sweetly and reach for my knight. The move taunts his queen.
His brow furrows as he traces the new threat. His jaw tightens because he didn’t see that coming. I pulled it from left field because I can’t lose this.
The game stretches on for forty-five more minutes. The fire burns down to coals, and the room grows darker, more intimate. We’re both down to a handful of pieces now, circling each other on the board, looking for an opening.
I study him while he thinks. Above his left eyebrow, he has a tiny scar, and I wonder where it came from.
His brows make a perfect arch, and his bottom lip dips in the middle.
Even though he’s polished, under the surface, there’s something else.
I saw it last night on the balcony, and I see it now.
Louis is nothing like the playboy the tabloids describe him as.
He’s broken so many hearts because women legitimately fell in love with him.
There is a difference between who he is, who he’s expected to be, and who the public believes he is.
He moves his rook. “Your turn.”
I look at the board and see the opening I’ve been waiting for. He left his king exposed. If I sacrifice my remaining knight, I can force a sequence that corners him in five, maybe six moves.
My fingers close around the knight. It’s a risk. If I’m wrong about the sequence, I lose my best piece and probably the game. But I’m not wrong.
I set the knight down in the path of his rook. It’s a sacrifice I’ll take.
He takes it without hesitation but gives me a cocky grin.
I don’t react. I move my bishop instead, sliding it across the diagonal to pin his rook to his king.
His grin fades as he slides one of his knights.
I move my queen. “Check.”
He slides his king, which is the only option.
I move my rook into position, and my trap closes around him.
His eyes scan the board, looking for an escape that doesn’t exist. His fingers drum once against the arm of his chair.
“You sacrificed your knight,” he says.
“I did.” I pick up my queen and hold her for a moment, letting him sit with it. “That’s what made it work.”
I set her down three squares from his king. “Checkmate.”
The word settles between us. He stares at the board for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he laughs. It’s not the polished laugh I heard at the party. It’s real, surprising, almost delighted.
“You beat me twice in one night.”
“Honestly, you should be better at this. You kinda suck.”
“Excuse me? I do not.”
“You lost twice!”
He shakes his head, still looking at the board, like he can’t quite believe what happened. Then he gives me an evil grin. “Now tell me your favor.”
“Wait.” I glare at him. “Did you let me win?”
My pulse kicks up.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” I tell him.
“I didn’t let you win. I’m rusty. I haven’t played in over twenty years. So, thank you. It brought back a lot of incredible memories and things I’d forgotten,” he says.
“Honestly, thank you. I needed a distraction. I’ve been …” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Off.”
“Understandable. Now, let me act as your genie in a bottle and grant your wish.”
“Anything?” I confirm.
“Anything,” he says.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The reason I proposed the stakes in the first place.
“I want to paint you.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t need my permission.”
“Yes, I do. In order for me to do this, I need you to sit for me for a few hours per week. I have to submit something that will make your parents proud, and, well, you’re their golden child.
” I hold his gaze and don’t let myself look away.
“I don’t want to paint the crown prince in formal regalia with medals and sashes and whatever else you wear.
I want to paint the you that you share with me when no one’s watching. ”
He’s quiet.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he finally says.
“You said anything, unless you’re going back on your word.”
He runs a hand through his hair and looks away from me. He’s fighting with himself about this.
“When?” he asks.
“When are you free? I know your schedule must be intense,” I say with a laugh. “I require good afternoon light.”
“I’m free each day between five and seven. I’ll meet you in the conservatory. We’ll have privacy there.”
“Okay.” I can’t help but grin. “Thank you so much. Oh, also, I don’t know how many sessions I’ll need. Sometimes, it takes one or two sessions, but I’ve had people sit up to thirty before.”
I stand, happy that I’ve finally found my inspiration. He stands as well. Suddenly, we’re facing each other with nothing between us. No chessboard. No table. Just a few feet of charged air.
Neither of us moves.
“What would you have asked for?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “If you’d won.”
His expression flickers. “Does it matter?”
“I’m curious.”
The air between us is still, and I swear I can hear every breath we take.
When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher than before. “I thought about asking you to leave Montclaire.”
The words actually hurt, and I take a step back without meaning to.
“Wait, you’re serious about wanting me to leave.”
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are things happening.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Things I can’t stop. It would be better if you weren’t here when they did.”
I search his face for some clue, but his expression is closed off, guarded in a way it wasn’t during the game.
“You’re acting as if you’re protecting me from something,” I say.
His eyes meet mine. “I am.”
The words hang in the air. I want to push, want to demand he explain what he means, but I know he’s already said more than he wanted.
“Thanks for being honest.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for appreciating it.” He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. Close enough that I can smell the bourbon on his breath and the woodsmoke clinging to his shirt.
His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to pull away. His thumb traces along my cheekbone, the same path it traveled last night on the balcony.
“You should go,” he says softly.
“I know.”
His thumb keeps moving down to the corner of my mouth. My lips part without my permission.
“Addison.” My name sounds like a warning.
“Louis.”
He leans closer. The space between us shrinks to inches. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and my eyes start to close.
His breath ghosts across my lips before he pulls back and steps away. And I realize, right now at this moment, I’m not playing offense against Louis. It’s the other way around.
“Five o’clock,” he says, like he didn’t almost kiss me again. “Don’t be late.”
I swallow hard. “I’m never late.”
“Perfect. Good night, Addison.”
“Good night, Louis. Stop trying to protect me. I’m a big girl. Got it?”
“As you fucking wish. But please don’t say I didn’t warn you. I want a rematch.”
“Great. I want one too.” I hold his gaze for a few beats longer, then slip into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me.
The stone wall is cool against my back as I lean against it, pressing my hand to my chest. My heart is racing, and my lips are tingling even though he never touched me.
He’s protecting me from something. He wants me to leave, but the question is, why?
With all the red flags flying around, I should be running in the other direction.
I push off the wall and head toward my cottage, replaying everything. He said my name like it cost him something, as if he was trying to talk himself out of kissing me. It worked.
As I walk through the garden, the night air is cool on my skin. I look up at the stars scattered in darkness and take them in. I never see them sparkle in the city. One glitters across the sky, and I close my eyes to make a wish, hoping with my entire heart and soul that it comes true.