Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(37)

He leans back against the counter, big hands curved around its edge. “I know.”

I nod, again too shy to look him in the face.

I feel him move closer to me. Feel his hand against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not taken down, Lucy,” he says quietly. “Fuck anyone who wants that, anyway. And while you’re here,” he tells me as he straightens up, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

Alarm bells peel in my head, set off by how nice he is. “You don’t have to. If you’re busy. I just stopped by…” My heart trembles. “To talk.”

Liam’s hand trails down my arm. He takes my hand loosely in his. “We can talk.” His fingertips play with mine, and he gives me a sexy smile. “Tell me something.”

“What?” I whisper.

“Anything.”

I look down at his feet, where Grey is rubbing himself against Liam’s ankles. “I think my dude cat is in love with you.”

He smirks. “Happens all the time.” He kneels down and rubs Grey’s head. Grey arches into Liam’s hand.

“My mum had cats,” he tells me.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Odin and Freyr.”

“Are those Norse gods?”

“Aye.” He smiles.

“The tabloids are right, you know. You smile a lot.”

“That’s what they say?” He fakes a stern look.

“You know it is. They love you.”

“They love wealth and novelty.” He turns back to the stove.

I blink at his muscled back. Of all the types of comments I didn’t expect to hear from Prince Manwhore…

I rub my lips together, trying to think of what to say. Coming to terms with the fact that I really don’t know this guy at all. That even the caricature of him could very well be wrong. And maybe it is wrong—he seems more serious than he’s portrayed in the media—but at the core of all the Prince Liam coverage is Prince Liam.

I lean my cheek in my palm. “I think they like you, too.”

I can tell by the way his shoulders stiffen that my words were wrong. What I meant is I like him. From the paparazzi pictures to the guy cooking for me. I like him. All of him. I don’t even know why. I don’t know him very well, but I find him magnetic.

He glances over his shoulder, face taut. “They don’t know me.”

“Well—they know you’re charming.”

He steps toward me. He takes my chin in his hand. “As are you, Lucy.”

My blood burns as his fingers shift a little on my face. His grip is firm but gentle.

When his lips brush my forehead, I don’t move or even breathe. Then he’s turned back toward the stove again, cooking in a broody silence while I look down at my nails and think of which ones need to be filed.

The next few minutes pass with no noise save the clinking of cooking utensils and the light whoosh of his clothing as he moves about. Then he’s filling two bowls with macaroni, pouring two glasses of wine and two glasses of water.

Finally he’s facing me again and I can’t read his flawlessly schooled features. He sets my stuff down in front of me, grabs two cloth napkins, and takes the bar stool beside me.

He spreads my napkin on my lap and watches me take the first bite while he has some of his wine.

Oh my God. The cheese is heaven. “Mmmm.” I shut my eyes and open them to find him smiling.

“There’ll be more of this tomorrow when the chefs return.” To my look of question, he replies, “You’ll stay tonight. And several more unless you don’t want to. I have a guest room just for you. Red walls.” He winks.

We talk about random things, like the Gaelic practice of “stalking” and hunting red deer; the water quality in the local streams (excellent); who makes the castle linens (a local company); and how many interlopers the castle grounds get (a few each week).

My mac and cheese is finished fast, and when I’m finished, I find my eyelids feel heavy.

“No wine, Lucy?”

I blink at it. “Oh. I kind of forgot about it. Sorry.”

He bumps my shoulder with his, then downs the glass. “No worries.” I watch in silent surprise as he takes our dishes to the sink and washes them. I’d have thought that he would leave them for the crew tomorrow.

As he turns to me, he arches his brows.

“I can use the sink too.” He smirks.

He helps me off my stool. I gather Grey into my arms, and Liam gets all my bags. I follow him upstairs, what feels like several centuries back. The hall is wide, with insanely high ceilings, candle-lit wall scones, and a pleasant lemony smell. The walls are made of stone, the floor a very old, dark wood. The doors are thick wood, wide and tall, imposing.

I follow him past woven-rug type wall hangings, past oil paintings and portraits, until at last the hallway ends. He taps a door on the hallway’s right—“I’m here”—and then the doorway right across.

“This one is yours.”

I have to struggle not to gasp as he pushes the door open.

The room is stunning, massive as a cave, with the same high ceilings the castle seems to boast in every area. The walls are deep crimson, the floor-to-ceiling curtains beige and patterned with poppies. One long wall bears two big, round window seats, the seats done in a gold fabric. At the center of the room is an enormous, round canopy bed; the wood is cherry-colored, smooth and fine. The bed spread is gold with hints of brown, and enough pillows for an army.