Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(82)

“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally. The girl’s as weak as a kitten. I don’t see her going anywhere but the bathroom. There’s no point in arguing much about it on the street, though.

I slide my arms under her body and lift her into the air. She doesn’t weigh much. I don’t think she’s eating like she should.

“Can you get the food?” I nod toward the paper bag full of soup and grilled cheese that we stopped to get on the way here.

She reaches out, wincing at the effort.

“I can walk,” she asserts feebly.

“We already had this fight at school.” I grip her closer and climb the stairs. I have to lower her to ground when I reach the top to unlock the door. Despite her repeated assurances that she’s fine, she keeps a hand at my waist for balance. I don’t point it out to her.

Once the door is open, I pick her up again and carry her into the apartment, not letting her go again until I reach the sofa.

I pause before setting her down. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I would rather Felicity tape me to the side of Astor Park than to have you carry me to the bathroom,” she declares, the flinty look in her eye telling me she’s not kidding.

“Okay.” I leave her on the sofa and fetch our dinner. “I should’ve put the coffee table together.” I gesture toward one of the flat-packed boxes that’s supposed to turn into a wood and glass table.

“Nah, the floor’s good for me.” She slides off the cushions.

I watch her carefully for signs of pain, but she doesn’t show any signs of distress. Her appetite is good, too. She gobbles up her grilled cheese, practically drinks her soup, and then leans back against the sofa, enjoying an after dinner Diet Coke and a couple of leftover soup crackers.

There’s something satisfying about feeding someone you care about. Watching her eat so happily is filling me up in ways that food can’t touch. I trace my eyes over the small bridge of her nose, her straight eyebrows, her full, round cheeks. I never had a type before. I liked all the girls—the rich, prissy ones; the sassy, sexy ones; the round, happy ones. As long as they wanted to get down, I was there with them.

But now, if I close my eyes and conjure up my ideal girl, it’s Hart’s face that pops to mind. She might not be perfect for anyone else, but it doesn’t matter because she’s perfect for me.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks, touching her cheek.

“No. I like looking at it.”

She ducks her head in embarrassment. “Stop it.”

“No.”

“Seriously, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Nah. You’re embarrassed but you don’t need to be. You’re beautiful.” I stretch out on an elbow and drink the other Coke.

“Did you pour vodka into your can?” she asks suspiciously. “Because you’re talking like you’re drunk.”

I slosh the liquid around in my can. Remarkably, I haven’t felt the urge to drink lately. Too much shit has been going down. “No, but even if I was, they say that drunks only speak the truth.”

She scrunches her nose adorably. “Is that really a saying?”

“It is now. Easton Royal declares it so.”

She throws a pillow at my head. I bat it aside and lunge toward her. She screams and tries to dodge me, but I’m too fast. I catch her up in my arms and bury my face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent. She’s warm and soft and right.

What do I need alcohol for? I’ve got the best drug right here. I capture her mouth, sweeping my tongue inside. My world spins at the taste of her. Her fingers dance around my shoulders unsure of whether she can touch me. When they finally land, the rope that she unknowingly snuck around my heart tightens even further.

Shit, I love this girl. And because I love her, I draw back. She needs to rest, not be mauled by me. I draw my finger over her forehead and down her soft cheek. “I’m going to put the bed together,” I say huskily.

She nods, blinking like a baby owl. I force myself upright and walk over to the mattress and the frame that I abandoned because I didn’t have the right tools. I need a bolt tightener, which my little pink set didn’t come with. I kick the metal frame to the side and pull the mattress down to the floor.

“Have you ever done this before?” she asks, curling up on her side.

I avoid looking at her because the temptation to climb all over her is way too great. Instead, I root through the bags, looking for the sheet set I bought with the help of one of the store clerks. “No, but how hard can it be?”

Five minutes later, I’ve worked up a big sweat, taken off my dress shirt, and still not succeeded in getting the damn sheet to stay put. But at least my mind is off my dick for the moment.

“How does this even work?” I ask in disgust, holding up a large piece of fabric that Hart told me was a fitted sheet—in between her sniggers of laughter.

“I’m torn between wanting to help you and enjoying the show,” she teases, but gets to her feet and takes the bedding out of my hand.

I watch as she bends down, her round ass waving like a red flag in front of me. I turn away. Whenever I wanted to feel alive, I’d fight, so I know what it’s like to be punched in the gut and how your ribs can ache for hours—even days—after. I enjoyed the pain, but nothing lights me up like being with Hartley. Past me was an idiot.