20 | Melina
Melina
So my key was in his back pocket that whole night. I must’ve really freaked him out when I guessed that.
I hobble after Taylor toward the blocked doors. He moves one of the stanchions away effortlessly with one hand. I worked at a movie theater as a teenager. I know how heavy those things are.
“Are we supposed to be doing this?”
“IcandowhateverIwant,” he slurs.
He might be intoxicated.
I might be, too.
Hopefully, I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of Prince David.
Never in my life could I have predicted I’d be talking with him.
I couldn’t have predicted his son making me dinner three times either.
For some reason, the Crown Prince wanted to formally introduce himself to me.
Much like Taylor, he’s less scary once you get to know him.
He reminds me a lot of Taylor, actually, a more intimidating yet somehow more affable version of Taylor.
I scan the greenhouse to see if anyone is watching us, but we’re concealed by the plants. Taylor seems too drunk and too The-Prince-of-St-Claire to care if we’re caught.
We exit the forbidden doorway and find the outside garden completely lit up. Meticulously sculpted bushes and flower beds form mazes that lead to gazebos and willow trees. The glowing fountain in the center of it all displays a stone muse pouring a jug of water into the pool below.
“It’s beautiful at night,” I say, scanning the space.
The side of the greenhouse has some stone stairs that lead up to what I think is a balcony.
“There might be a better view from there.”
Taylor follows me as I climb the steps. It is a balcony. When we reach the top, I lean out over the railing to admire the tiered landscaping and pebbled paths. Why haven’t I visited this place more?
A gust of cold wind blows against my bare shoulders. I cross my arms to combat the goosebumps. “It’s freezing.”
“Should’ve brought a scarf,” Taylor says. “I’m quite warm, actually. I think it’s this jacket.”
He catches me eyeing said jacket.
“Oh no no, Melina. I’m not giving this to you like some cheesy movie just because you came ill-prepared for the weather.
And you shivering like a little puppy caught in an ice storm isn’t going to work on me.
” By the time he finishes yammering, he’s already shrugged the jacket off.
He hangs it around my shoulders, then pulls the lapels tight. What a gentleman.
“Thank you.”
I thought he would release, but Taylor lingers against my back, lightly pressing me into the guardrail. His arms drape around my body, and his chin rests against my head. He’s so warm. And his jacket smells nice, like fresh laundry.
Stop smelling his jacket and being a total creep, Melina .
He shouldn’t do things like this to me. It’ll only make me crave his touch more.
I look up to see his gaze hasn’t left the gardens. “I don’t remember it looking like this the last time,” I say. “But I guess I haven’t been here in forever.”
“Since your sloppy kiss from grade seven?” he asks. “Were his hands all greasy?”
“Like pizza. And I’m surprised you remember me saying that.”
“I’m forgetful, but I remember lots of things.”
I burst into laughter. “That doesn’t make any sense! You couldn’t even remember my name when we first met.”
Taylor swallows. “You’re a painter, you’re allergic to sesame, and your favorite flowers are peonies.”
The smile on my face disappears. He rattles these facts off with complete soberness. I didn’t think he was paying that close attention.
He slides his hand over the back of mine, resting on the railing.
As soon as he grabs it, Taylor whips his arm over my head and spins me to look right into my eyes.
“You like Justin Timberlake, the silverware in your kitchen drawer goes forks, knives, then spoons, and you always wear a tiny star in your right ear and a moon in your left, but.” He runs a finger through my dangly fake-diamond earrings, “not tonight, I guess.”
His face is millimeters away from mine. I lean back against the railing because the last time our noses were this close, I tried to kiss him.
Does he keep a library of facts for everyone or just me?
Why does he remember what I said at the wedding?
Hell, before the wedding with that peony shit.
That spin move reminds me of when we were dancing way back then, when I thought those couple of minutes of chemistry were going to be all we ever got.
He points to his temple. “Told you.”
His cockiness provokes me to challenge him. “What was his name?”
“Whose name?”
“My first kiss. I said it in the car.”
Taylor squints, then leans back. “Grant...something.”
“Noah Grant,” I say, laughing.
So he can’t remember the name I gave him a couple of hours ago, but he can remember the stupid little detail of my bridesmaid’s speech.
“Your brain is weird.”
Taylor’s hair tousles as another chilly breeze flies past. I wrap his coat around me like a robe.
“You and your brother were wrong, by the way. Hugo Foust is not here. I was kind of looking forward to seeing that beautiful half-Scottish face of his. I bet he’s too busy sponsoring some Middle Eastern airline in the English clubs.”
“Sorry, I’m disappointed too. But I could probably never get him to switch teams.” Taylor laughs a bit. “In whatever sense of the word.”
“What do you mean?”
He furrows his brow. “You haven’t figured it out yet? You’re usually very percepti—” He pauses.
“Figured out wha—”
Taylor shushes me. He tries to put a finger on my lips but misses and puts it on my cheek. “Do you hear that?”
“Why are you acting all strange?”
I swat his hand away. I guess he usually acts strangely. This is the man who broke into my apartment.
“Hush, look.”
He points down towards a bush. After a few seconds, it rustles. After a few more, I spot a man hiding in it.
“I can see you!” Taylor booms.
Not one but two photographers pop out of the foliage. Startled, I lean into Taylor.
“Our apologies, Your Highness!”
One snaps a picture. They’re both wearing camo-print baseball caps. I can hear the discussion of the fashion choice in my head. Hey bro, look at these cool hats I bought, we’ll be totally invisible!
Taylor closes his eyes and shakes his head like he barely has the energy to do it.
“Could you give us a quote?” one of them calls.
He cups his hands around his mouth. “I don’t give quotes to fools who hide in bushes!”
“Should we tell someone about them?” I ask him.
“Probably.”
“Or at least a nice pic of you and your new girlfriend!” the photographer yells. “A kiss or something!”
The guy beside him shouts something in French.
“You guys are pervs!” Taylor shouts. “ Et occupe-toi de tes oignons! ”
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I called them perverts.”
I throw my head back. “God, Taylor, the second part.”
I think the alcohol has officially hit.
“Oh. I told them to mind their own onions.”
“Huh?”
“Like ‘mind your own business’. Lotta French expressions are food-related.”
Taylor is giving me lots of interesting factoids today, from penguin sex to French idioms.
The peanut gallery becomes relentless with their hollering, so I lean up and give Taylor a sneaky peck on the cheek, too quick for them to take a picture and too gentle for my lips to make much contact. Taylor doesn’t flinch, his focus rather on the photographers who have now started to boo.
“What are they doing?” he asks.
“They’re booing because that was the most pathetic kiss of all time. Wait, am I going to turn into a frog? I don’t remember how the story goes.”
“Worse than Noah’s?”
“Yeah, but I technically gave them what they wanted.”
Taylor hums. “I’m sick of the booing. Can I try something less pathetic?”
The “sure” falls out of my lips. I don’t even think about it.
After wrapping his hands around my back and waist, the rest happens so fast. He lunges, I dip backwards, his lips plant on mine.
I’m being kissed.
My grip goes to his neck for balance as his jacket falls off my shoulders.
The photographers shout something, but I’m too busy focusing on Taylor’s face attached to my own.
I’ve never been dipped before. I thought this maneuver was only logistically possible in movies and staged wedding pictures.
He’s so theatrical. And strong. Though all my weight is in his arms, he makes me feel light as a feather.
The kiss is lasting, like enough-to-take-a-picture lasting. And right now, I couldn’t care less. As soon as I part my lips to go deeper, Taylor swings me back up and yells, “Now get out of here before I call security!”
The two men sprint off into the night. I’m guessing they got what they wanted.
“You’re drunk,” I tell him and myself.
Kisses shouldn’t be as fun when they’re done unintentionally. No need to get worked up, Melina.
“Yeah,” he says, looking too calm and collected for having just turned my insides to goop. “Why? Are you?”
I nod.
His eyes dart between mine. We’re still so close. His hand is still on my waist. Mine is still on his chest.
“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he says.
I force a laugh. “I don’t think anyone will give a shit about Tom tomorrow.”
You could kiss him again. You could just lean up and do it right now.
He puts his fingers to his lips like he’s just realized what he’s done. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Realization sets into me too. The more I examine his face, the more I understand the trouble I’ll be in. This man is the Prince. The fucking Prince of St. Claire.
“I was fine with letting people speculate, but that photo won’t be just speculation, it’ll be proof. It’ll be everywhere.”
He tilts his head to the sky like he’s about to communicate with God. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I knew I couldn’t help myself.”
He knew it? Like while sober? I shouldn’t have given him my panties. They were too effective. I must’ve underestimated the amount of feelings he has and the extent to which I could toy with them.
Taylor slides his hand across my waist but doesn’t let go. I don’t think he wants to. I don’t want him to either. As we gaze into each other’s eyes, I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing.
And for once in my life, spontaneity courses through my veins. I don’t think of consequences or good judgment. I just want him on me again.
I bring my hand up to his neck and pull him closer.
Though it doesn’t take much pulling because as soon as I touch skin, his lips connect with mine.
We sink in this time, not just a stage kiss for show, but a real kiss for us.
One that’s raw, messy, and fast. Taylor kisses less like a prince and more like a pirate.
He plunders into me, taking what he wants, soon leaving me a mess.
We stumble over our feet until my back reaches the railing.
I clutch onto his shirt. His hand dives into my hair.
It feels like we’ve been waiting to let our guards down for a hundred years.
I grab the only breath of air I can before our noses switch sides.
Eventually, we transition from long drags to shorter pecks.
“What are we doing?” I rasp in between them.
“Doing what drunk friends do, right?”
He tries to kiss me again. I avoid it.
“Can you call your driver to take me home?”
I look down as if to see my spontaneity puddled at our feet.
So much for treading carefully. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid, enjoying a forbidden kiss too much for my own good.
A forbidden kiss I’ll be reminiscing about when I’m trying to fall asleep, daydreaming about when I should be working, and worst of all, wanting more of.
My heart aches to see Taylor’s brow furrow, but “There’s no point in me being here anymore.” I’ve been enough of a distraction tonight.
As I scurry down the stairs, I half expect him to call my name, but he doesn’t. Whatever. I have to get out of here.