Page 17 of Princessa
Once again, I chased away my tight-laced singsongy superego, this time with a well-deserved kick in the ass.
Grayson pressed a soft peck to my cheek, then another, and another until his lips were a whisper away from the shell of my ear. “After that tongue-wrestling session, you honestly believe we can just be friends?”
I swallowed the nugget of lust his soft hum worked up and I’m pretty sure my panties were wetter than they’d ever been. “We have to try.”
“So, let me get this straight”—Lauren tilted her think tank to the side as if that would make my story more coherent—“you went from making out with His Royal Scorching Hotness to cock-blocking him straight into the F-zone?”
My head bobbed over and over in response; the realization of it all had me trapped in an aphonic daze.
“But, why?”
More than once, I’d asked myself the same question during the four-hour train ride that brought me and Camille—she refused to let me go alone—to Paris. I figured a few face-to-face hours with my best friend would be soul cleansing after the saucy brush I had with Grayson the day before.
“Because I’m obviously a world-class idiot.”
Lauren popped a grape into her mouth and shrugged. “Maybe not world-class, but yep, definitely not one of your best executive decisions.”
“I have to say, I one-hundred percent agree with Lauren,” chimed in Camille, helping herself to a handful of grapes. “But, at the same time, I totally understand why you did it.”
“Well, can you helpmeunderstand?” Lauren leaned back in her seat, arms folded across her chest.
The three of us had just ordered a light lunch at Le Jules Verne, a chic restaurant nestled inside the Eiffel Tower, and were nibbling on the restaurant’s signature grapes-and-cheese appetizer platter.
“Arabella chose the safe route.” Camille brought a piece of gourmet cheese to her mouth, lips curved up in a shameless smirk. “The one that’ll avoid heartache, drama, and having to tell her mama and papa she’s dating a playboy prince.”
“Yep, what she said.” I buried my face in my hands as if I could hide my state of discomposure from the two women who knew me better than anyone else. Camille’s assessment wasn’t off-kilter. Who had time to mend another broken heart? After Parker, I needed to tread lightly, regardless if the road I paved forward was a safe one. Besides that, Mama and Papa wouldn’t be thrilled about me dating a prince who was painted the vivid color of molten-hot playboy—and quite possibly the man of my wildest dreams.
Just be careful over there, mindful of the rules,is what Mama advised before I left home for France, and Prince Grayson, along with his set of circumstances, was the polar opposite of those rules.
“Babe.” Lauren’s advisory tone warned of a hearty friend-scolding headed my way. “You’ve lived your entire life coasting along the safe route. Why not throw caution to the wind? I say, fuck every possible thing that could go wrong then demolish that bridge”—she rubbed her growing belly—“if and when you have to cross it.”
Of course I giggled at the release of Lauren’s F-bomb which certainly shifted the mood, but not my decision about Grayson. “I appreciate your candor, yet trusting my gut on this one feels right. Prince Scorching Hotness and I shall remain friends, until he clears up his beef with his parents.”
Hours later,Camille and I settled into separate guest rooms at Lauren’s house with a plan to catch an early-bird train ride back to Saint Jean de Luz the next morning.
Tossing and turning made it difficult to fall asleep, anxiety fueling the churning in my stomach. Thoughts of Grayson’s kiss—lavish, wet, hungry—had been my mind’s star attraction.
I needed a diversion.
Plucking my phone off the nightstand, I launched the Insta app, curious to see how many hearts my last post,#ParisBound, generated. Sure, my new role at RRF was different and exciting, but I still had my Royale Beauty brand, fed by Instagram followers, to nourish.
When the app opened, I noticed I’d received a few direct messages. I tapped on the icon and one of the messages caused a flutter in my chest.
Cocky P:Can we go out on a “friendly” date?
Unsure if thisCocky Pwas Grayson or some weirdo follower, I replied with caution.
Arabella Royale:Um, who is this?
Cocky P:The guy you shoved in the friend box minutes after we shared a heated kiss.
Arabella Royale:Funny, I didn’t know royals were allowed to have social media accounts.
Cocky P:The expectation not to have one is for that stuck-up British monarchy. I’m allowed, but before tonight, I didn’t have any social media accounts. Emma said you took off to Paris and since she refused to give me your phone number, I created this account, hoping to chat with you to make sure you’re okay.
Arabella Royale:And you chose “Cocky P” as your handle? What’s the P for?
I included a laughing emoji only to find myself really laughing out loud.
