Page 61 of This Prince Is Not Charming

Cillian had always been good with impressions, but he’d had trouble nailing down Enid’s accent.

“It turns out drunk me makes a very excellent Enid.” Cillian plopped down next to me, leaning against one of the fluffy pillows. “All right, I need a break. Cheese?” He picked up a small cube of white cheese and popped it into his mouth.

“Yes!” I pointed at him. “Excellent idea.” I grabbed a cracker and stuffed it into my mouth, both of us chewing and falling into a comfortable silence like we’d done so many times before.

The garden splayed out before our tent, bursting with flowers of all colors. Cillian reached over and brushed a thumb against the corner of my lip.

His finger was so warm and soft and gentle. I turned into his touch before I even knew what I was doing.

“You had something,” he said, but his finger lingered there, not moving.

“Is it gone?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, staring at me with an intensity that was withering.

“That’s good.”

“Good,” he echoed, never breaking my gaze. “When was the last time we got this drunk?” His thumb started moving in a slow caress. I wasn’t sure if he knew he was doing it.

“I don’t know,” I said, tasting the lie.

“I do. I remember it in perfect detail,” he said. “It was a few years after I’d been crowned high prince. We were sitting in your living room. Your father was asleep in his bedroom, and the fire roared in the hearth.”

The heat of it had been so welcome against the wintry storm happening outside.

“Snowed in together,” Cillian murmured.

He couldn’t leave because the snow was piled high out our front door and wouldn’t budge. So we’d grabbed a few bottles of wine, much like today in this tent.

“Were you as drunk as I was that night?” I asked, hoping the answer would be yes.

He shook his head slowly, thumb still brushing the skin right by the corner of my mouth, and flutters erupted in my stomach.

“Right. So you must remember that night really well.”

“I do.”

I swallowed thickly. The morning after, I’d only remembered flashes from it, but those flashes had been enough to make me want to crawl into a hole and perish.

“Cillian,” I started, suddenly feeling much too sober for this.

“We sat just like this,” he said, tipping his head toward our touching knees.

His voice was low, this soft caress that I desperately wanted to lean into.

“I told you that you looked beautiful. The fire lit you in this glow that made your hair shiny golden, that lit your eyes so those flecks of yellow sparkled.”

I licked my lips, unable to look away from the hold his gaze had on me.

“And you leaned in,” he said. “I didn’t imagine that, right? You leaned in.”

I couldn’t lie. I wanted to, but I couldn’t, and I gave the slightest nod, throat growing thick and nerves setting me abuzz.

I had leaned in. The next morning, in the fog of my hangover, I’d remembered my lips hovering right over his, my hand running over his leg to his inner thigh. I’d always hoped he was as drunk as I was and unable to remember any of it, worried it would ruin our friendship.

“Cillian,” I started, knowing we were entering dangerous territory.

“Why?” he asked, voice rough. “Why did you lean in, Cerriwen?”