Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(40)

I haven’t looked past the day in front of me in more than a year, so I’m not sure what my backup plan should be. Maybe that’s a good thing. No over-thinking things, just making plans that I can execute. I’ve got this, I tell myself.

I notice a small tub of whipped cream and some sliced strawberries and pour those over my waffles. With a guilty look at all the other food, I zero in on them and down a waffle and a half before my stomach does another funny twist and I decide it’s time to have some water and be finished.

I dab my mouth, set down my napkin, and then there’s another knock.

“Come in.” My head buzzes a little, a light-headed feeling spurred by nerves.

It’s the girl again, Belinda. My helper person.

“Just checking in on you.”

“I’m good. I’m…sort of finished.” I expect some protest, but she simply bobs her head and starts to load the dishes back onto the cart.

“Prince Liam, he says to tell you dress in something fit for riding if you want to ride—horses, of course. And knock on his door when you’re ready.”

She moves all the food stuff out into the hall, then surprises me by coming back in as I’m taking off my robe to hand me a stack of clothes.

“Some riding gear, should you need it.”

I frown down at it, then remember my manners and give the girl a polite smile. “Thank you.”

I’m sure it’s not my size, but— Actually, it is, I realize as she leaves. The top and pants and boots are all my size.

I’m not sure if that’s cool or creepy. I shower quickly, dry my hair, work the locks into a French braid, do my eyeliner and mascara, brush some light makeup on, and put on lipstick. Then I slip into the clothes: tan breeches, a very pale blue-gray shirt, a leather belt, and riding shoes—all designer. They fit me flawlessly. I pull a red button-up sweater from my bag and put it on over the blue shirt. It matches okay, because the shirt is so pale, it’s almost white.

I glide on another layer of lipstick for good luck, rub some of my favorite vanilla lotion on my hands, and spray myself with rose water.

You can do this, I tell my reflection in the mirror. I refill Grey’s food and water, giving him a little rub and a pep talk before I check my phone—it’s 10:10 local time—and sling my purse across my chest. Then I walk across the hall and knock on Liam’s door.





SEVENTEEN Lucy





He answers with a brow raised. Within seconds, his handsome face is curved into a smile.

“Lucy…” He reaches for me, fingertips closing around the open hem of my button-up sweater.

For those first few seconds, I’m consumed by the gentle look on his face. By his long-lashed hazel eyes. What is with those eyes? They’re so…kind. So warm. Everything about him seems so open as he stands there in his doorway, with his grin and his hair down, hanging almost to his shoulders.

His body shifts a littler closer to mine. “You sleep okay?”

I feel my face warmed by his proximity. By the fact that I can smell him. I can feel his heat. My gaze stumbles over him, taking in his charcoal t-shirt and his faded, ripped jeans. I swallow. Nod.

“Good. Better than good,” I tack on. “That room is awesome.”

He shifts back a little, shoving both hands in his pockets. “Good. Breakfast okay?”

“For sure. It was a lot of food, though.”

He crooks a brow. “Too much food?” His face is skeptical. Teasing, I realize.

I shrug. “I felt kind of bad I couldn’t eat it all.”

“C’mon.” He bumps me with his elbow. “Don’t feel bad for that.”

“Southern culture isn’t very wasteful.”

He winks. “Kitchen is probably eating your left-overs.”

“Really?”

He smirks.

“You’re just saying that.”

He shrugs. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

He gives me a poker face, then steps back and turns slightly—and that’s when I notice the room around him.

“Holy God.”

With a jacket in his hand—one he just grabbed off a table—he turns to me, brows lifted.

“Sorry. Just…” I feel my eyes go wide as my gaze moves around the room. The bedroom set is enormous—the bed more than king-sized, made of dark, ornately carved wood. The bedding seems silk, and is in forest colors: browns, greens, golds, reds. What really catches my eye is a massive portrait of a woman on one wall. One look at her face—at her pretty eyes—and I can see she must be Liam’s mom.

“Wow.” I shake my head slowly. My gaze pulls to his. “Liam, that’s beautiful.”

“What is?”

“The portrait.” I nod at it. “Is that your mother?”

He nods once.

“Beautiful.”

His lips press into a thin line, and his eyebrows arch again. “Ready?” he asks, stepping out into the hall. His tone is slightly curt.

I nod. “Sure.”

As he shuts his door, I second-guess myself, then tell myself to quit. It’s not my fault he’s sensitive about his mother. I can take the hint and not mention her again, but no need to feel guilty that I did this time.