Chapter 7
EDDIE
The sound of our apartment door closing was like a starting gun for me.
Bash had left for his daily workout, which he did religiously, even on Saturdays, like today.
It would be a short run today, he’d told me, which meant I wouldn’t have long, but it would be sufficient for what I absolutely could not do with him there.
I waited exactly thirty seconds—long enough for Bash to be out the front door of Cascade Hall—before scrambling for my phone and hitting Floris’s contact. He answered on the second ring, which meant he’d been waiting for the call we’d arranged via text yesterday.
“Well, well,” came his familiar voice, warm with affection and barely contained amusement. “If it isn’t my favorite closeted prince. How are things in the Pacific Northwest?”
“Complicated,” I said without preamble, sinking into my desk chair. “Gloriously, terrifyingly complicated.”
“Ah, right up my alley.”
I could practically hear Floris settling in for what he clearly expected to be an entertaining conversation, but manners still ruled for me. “But first, how’s Orson? Is he still making you disgustingly happy?”
Floris’s laugh was rich and genuine. “Disgustingly, blissfully happy.”
Despite my own turmoil, I smiled. Floris and Orson had started as randomly assigned roommates and ended up as the kind of couple that made everyone around them believe in love at first sight. Well, love at first semester, anyway. “He’s adjusting well to public life?”
The step into the spotlight as the boyfriend of a prince had not been easy for Orson, who came from a middle-class family in New Orleans, but he’d handled it surprisingly well. His fumbles were adorable and the press loved him for them—and so did the Dutch.
“He’s killing it. And his Dutch lessons are coming along really well. He’s trying so hard.” Floris’s voice softened. “He’s so good for me, Greg. Better than I deserve.”
“You deserve everything wonderful,” I said firmly, meaning every word. “I’m so pleased for you both.”
“Right, enough about my ridiculous happiness. Let’s discuss your situation, shall we? Last I heard, you were panicking about living with an attractive bodyguard. Please tell me you’ve made some progress beyond stammering and blushing.”
Trust Floris to cut straight to the heart of things. “Well, we’re fake dating now.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted exactly three seconds before Floris exploded into laughter. “I’m sorry, what? Did you say you’re fake dating your bodyguard? The one you’ve been pining over?”
“I haven’t been pining—”
“Greg, darling, you called me in a panic because the man was attractive. Don’t bother denying you were lusting after him.” Floris’s voice was dancing with amusement. “Tell me everything.”
So I did. I told him about having to pose as a couple, about how natural it had felt to hold Bash’s hand and play the part of his boyfriend.
“And the problem is?” Floris asked when I’d finished.
“The problem is that I’m insanely attracted to him and want to do much more than hold his hand. The problem is that I want to move from pretend to real.”
“Ah.” Floris’s voice shifted, becoming gentler. “And you don’t know if he wants the same.”
“What if he’s just very good at his job? What if all of this—the hand-holding, the way he looks at me, the easy intimacy—is all professional for him?”
“Has it occurred to you that this might be exactly what you need?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve spent your entire life wanting to explore this part of yourself, yes? And now you’re in a situation where you have permission to be close to a man you’re attracted to, where you can test the waters without the usual complications of being in the public eye.”
“But what if he doesn’t want me?”
“What if he does? What if you’re so busy worrying about rejection that you miss the signals he’s actually sending?”
I was quiet for a moment, processing that. “How do I know if he’s sending signals?”
“Oh, Greg…” Floris’s voice was fond and exasperated in equal measure. “Physical proximity. Touch. Watch how he responds when you’re close to him. Does he lean in or pull away? Does his breathing change? Does he find excuses to touch you back?”
Heat crept up my neck. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that kind of experimentation.”
“Bullshit. You’re brave enough to give up your comfortable royal life for a year in America. You’re brave enough to live with a stranger and trust him with your safety. You’re certainly brave enough to sit close to an attractive man and see how he reacts.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is simple. You want him, he might want you back, and you’re already in the perfect situation to find out. Stop being so bloody British about everything and just… try.”
I found myself laughing despite my nerves. “Just try?”
“Create an opportunity for closeness. Watch a film together, share a meal, study together on the sofa. Find an excuse to be near him and pay attention to how he responds.” Floris paused.
“When Orson and I were figuring things out, half the battle was learning to read each other’s signals.
The other half was having the courage to act on what we saw. ”
“And if I’m wrong? If I misread things and make everything awkward?”
“Then you blame the fake dating. You say you got caught up in the role, apologize for any confusion, and move forward as friends and professional associates.” Floris’s voice was practical but kind.
“But what if you’re right? What if this gorgeous American bodyguard is as confused and attracted as you are?
What if you spend the entire year wondering, ‘what if’ when you could have spent it discovering something wonderful? ”
I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. Floris had a point. He had several points, actually. I’d been so focused on all the ways this could go wrong that I hadn’t considered how it might go right. “How did you know? With Orson, I mean. How did you know he was attracted to you as well?”
“The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The way he found excuses to touch my arm when we talked. The way he lingered in conversations, like he didn’t want them to end.” He paused. “And eventually, the way he responded when I kissed him.”
My heart jumped. “You kissed him first?”
“I should’ve done it sooner, in hindsight, but I guess we needed some time to get there.” I could hear the smile in Floris’s voice. “Sometimes, you have to be brave enough to go after what you want.”
I heard footsteps in the hallway right outside our suite—Bash returning from his workout. “I should go. He’s coming back.”
“Greg,” Floris said seriously. “Promise me you’ll try. Not today, necessarily, but soon. Promise me you won’t let fear keep you from something that could be wonderful.”
“I promise,” I said, and was surprised to find that I meant it.
“Good. And text me updates. I want to hear everything.”
The call ended just as I heard Bash’s key in the lock. I set my phone aside and tried to look casual, like I hadn’t spent the last half-hour plotting to seduce my bodyguard.
“Good workout?” I asked as he entered, noting the way his T-shirt clung to his chest and how his hair was damp with sweat.
Floris’s words echoed in my mind: Create an opportunity for closeness.
Our weekends so far had been… professional, for lack of a better word.
I’d studied or read, he’d done the same, and we’d been together but separate.
This would change things. This would be doing something truly together.
“Yeah, thanks.” Bash headed toward the bathroom, presumably to shower and change.
“Actually… it’s Saturday, and we’ve been so focused on studying lately, that I was thinking… Fancy watching something tonight? Just relax?”
Bash paused in the doorway, looking back at me with what might have been surprise. “Sure, that sounds good. What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet, but I’m sure we can find something we’ll both like.”
He grinned. “You sure about that? So far, my tastes lean more toward the ‘let’s blow things up and ask questions later’ movies while you’re more into the ‘let’s talk and figure stuff out’ stuff.”
I huffed in pretend offense. “There’s nothing wrong with attempting diplomacy before resorting to brute strength.”
His grin widened, and then he flexed, showing off those sculpted shoulders and biceps, sending my entire system into overdrive. “I prefer to be more physical.”
Did he ever. I swallowed, fighting to keep my face blank. “I’ll find something that appeals to both of us.”
“Sounds good. I’m gonna hit the shower.”
Time to do some research.
We spent the day doing laundry, cleaning our suite, getting some simple groceries, and making a study plan for the upcoming week. Bash needed more time for our assignments than I did, so we were learning to schedule accordingly.
Dinner was a simple affair with mushroom soup and a healthy serving from the salad bar in the dining hall.
As we walked back to our dorm, the nerves, which had receded for a merciful break, came back in full force.
I had to keep it cool, had to appear normal or Bash would pick up on something being off.
“You okay?” Bash asked, as if reading my mind.
“Yes, yes. Looking forward to our movie night.”
“You didn’t tell me which movie you picked.”
That was deliberate, because I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to look up what I had picked and suggest an alternative, but he didn’t need to know that.
“I picked a TV show, actually. We won’t be able to finish it, but we may get two episodes in.
It comes highly recommended. It’s about hockey. ”
“Hockey?” Bash frowned as he shot me a sideways look. “That doesn’t sound like something you’d enjoy.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be fine.”
I’d found the absolute perfect show. Two male hockey players, an intense rivalry that becomes something more, and according to the reviews, scorching chemistry that will leave you breathless. If I was going to test the waters, I might as well do it properly.
But would he be fine too? What if he hated the series? What if he felt ambushed by how sexual it was? I’d seen some trailers and they were definitely rated R.
“But if you don’t like it, just say the word, and we’ll watch something else,” I added.
“Okay.”
We settled on the couch with mint tea for Eddie and a Coke for me, plus a bowl of pretzels—which I had become somewhat addicted to.
I’d debated how close to sit—too far would defeat the purpose, too close would be obvious—and settled on a respectable distance that could be closed gradually as the evening progressed.
The opening credits of Heated Rivalry began, and I tried to focus on the telly while being hyperaware of Bash beside me.
The show started with the two young rivals meeting: Ilya, a Russian hockey talent, and Shane, his Canadian counterpart.
The chemistry between them was immediate and obvious.
Sharp dialogue, lingering looks, the kind of tension that crackled even through the screen.
“Oh,” Bash said, drawling the sound out like only he could. “I’ve heard about this show. It’s a romance between those two, right?”
“Yes. That okay?” I held my breath.
“Sure, let’s see where it goes.”
Where it went was hot and heavy… and fast. Within minutes, the two were hooking up, and the sounds of kissing filled the room, followed by Shane sinking to his knees and…
“Jesus,” Bash said, his voice rough and low. “They’re showing the sex too.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “It’s rated R.”
“No shit.”
The two actors moved onto the bed and we were treated to a thorough shot of Shane’s ass, which was rather spectacular.
Bash made a low sound that shot straight to my cock, and I was half-hard in seconds.
Where normally, I would’ve fought to get it to settle down asap, I now let it happen, allowed myself to feel what I felt.
I inched closer to Bash as we kept watching, drawn by a combination of the show’s intensity and my own growing boldness. When our shoulders touched, he didn’t pull away. When I shifted again and our thighs pressed together, I felt him tense but still he didn’t move.
On screen, Shane and Ilya were hooking up, their kisses urgent and desperate. The camera lingered on Ilya holding Shane’s face, on Shane arching into Ilya’s touch, on their expressions of pure pleasure.
Bash’s breathing changed, and I could sense the tension radiating from him. When I glanced sideways, his eyes were fixed on the screen but his jaw was tight, his hands clenched in his lap.
That was when I knew.
Whatever was happening between us, it wasn’t one-sided. The way he was responding to the show, to my presence beside him, to the charged atmosphere we’d created was the same way I was responding. Floris had been right. The signals were there.
My heart was pounding as I shifted again until I was pressed against Bash’s side from shoulder to knee. I felt him go very still, his breathing shallow, but he didn’t pull away.
On screen, the scene between Shane and Ilya was reaching its climax, all desperate touches and breathless moans.
But I wasn’t really watching anymore, though my eyes stayed on the telly.
All my attention was focused on the man beside me, on the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, on the tension in his shoulders, on the hands covering his lap.
“Eddie,” Bash said quietly, his voice strained.
I turned to look at him. His brown eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and there was something in his expression that made my breath catch. Want. Uncertainty. The same desperate attraction I’d been fighting.
This was it. This was my moment to be brave.
Before I could lose my nerve, before I could overthink myself out of it, I leaned in and kissed him.