His Royal Highness(37)
Clearly, it’s a gift.
I stand there, catching my breath and regaining my composure. All the while, I keep that book pressed to my heart until I know Derek has had enough time to leave the dorm and get back into his car. I hover there, unmoving. It’s a mind game I’m playing with myself, as if I couldn’t care less about the book. Look at me, being patient. Not even looking at it. I push myself even more, convincing myself I need a shower more than anything. I set the book on my desk and grab my bathroom caddy. I rinse off slowly in the communal showers, standing under the hot water while I berate myself for wanting Derek to kiss me.
When I can’t stand the heated water for another second, I get out and dry off. Back in my dorm, I sit on the edge of my bed in my robe, brushing out my tangled hair while I stare at the book.
It looks old. The cover is a midnight blue that’s faded to a dull navy. It’s impossible to read the debossed script on the spine from across the room, though I think it’s inlaid with gold leaf.
Finally, with an impatient huff, I toss my hairbrush on my bed and stand, walking over to angle the book toward me. I trace the letters with my finger then immediately rear back once I realize what I’m touching.
It’s a first edition copy of The Enchantress, the 18th century French fairytale Cal says inspired him to develop Fairytale Kingdom.
On the worn title page, in black ink, someone has carefully written, You remind me of her.
Chapter Eleven
Derek
I nearly forgot myself and kissed Whitney last night. It wasn’t part of my plan when I decided to wait for her outside her dorm. I wanted to talk, give her the book. She’s the one who invited me into her dorm. She’s the one who pulled me into her private sanctuary with her fluffy white bed. I saw it and imagined laying her down on those sheets, peeling her clothes off, unveiling perfectly bare skin. I would have taken my time trailing my hand along her stomach, navel, and then, lower.
I don’t have to wonder if she went to bed thinking of me last night. I know she did.
The only reason I didn’t kiss her is because she smelled like Ryan’s cologne. It reminded me of where she’d been earlier that evening: on a date.
Maybe he’s good for her. He seems harmless. I’m sure they had a pleasant evening, but I’m not the type to defer. Growing up with privilege didn’t make me lazy. The exact opposite, in fact. I’ve always had to work twice as hard to prove I deserve to be where I am, and that struggle means I don’t truly value things that come easy. I like a proper fight. If Ryan wants to throw his hat into the ring, let him.
The next morning, I’m in the shower, thinking of her, stroking myself with one hand while I keep the other one propped against the wall. A warm stream washes over me as last night’s scene plays out with an entirely different ending. Her full lips were stained red. Her breath smelled sweet. I wanted to lick up every last drop of her.
These sessions in my shower are the only way I’ve survived the last two weeks. Like a horny eighteen-year-old, I can’t seem to last a full day without giving in to the urge to touch myself while fantasizing of her.
It’s only getting worse.
I’ve had relationships before and I know what real desire feels like, but this visceral reaction I have toward Whitney is more than that. It draws from a chasm so deep and so wide, it scares me.
I finish and rinse myself off, grabbing my towel and wrapping it low around my waist. I pad out into my kitchen to fix myself breakfast and check my email.
I have a new message from Whitney that was sent last night.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Gift
I can’t accept this book. I’ll leave it with Heather.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Gift
I already wrote inside of it. It’s yours. Keep it.
I could have easily put a note inside the book instead of tarnishing the title page, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t accept it willingly. I hope she doesn’t look up its value; she’ll get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to buy her affection. It was simply a gift. Besides, who would appreciate that book more than Whitney? It’s meant to be hers.
She must be awake early too because I get a response just after my coffee is finished percolating.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Gift
I still don’t think I can accept it.
I hate the forced formality. Emailing on the company server isn’t exactly the best method of communication if I intend on pursuing her. I want to ask for her number, text her to suggest we spend the day together. Doing what? Who fucking cares. I’ll take her back to that mini golf course if that’s what she wants. I’ll find that same dessert that stained her lips red and turned her mouth sugary sweet and buy her half a dozen of them.
Instead, I close my laptop and get ready for the day.
It was easy to get settled in my new top-floor apartment. It came fully furnished, and I had my clothes shipped from London. Heather had them unpacked and hanging in my closet before I’d even arrived in town.