His Royal Highness(39)

Needless to say, my sexual history is sparse and therefore my brain has latched onto the small exchange I had with Derek in my dorm room the other day and run with it.

It wasn’t even a kiss—his lips barely touched mine—and yet I dream about him that night and the next. On Monday, I wake up warm. Tingling. Turned on.

I kick off my covers and stand. Angry.

I refuse to do anything about my current state. I will not have a self-induced orgasm while thinking about Derek. Those brown eyes of his would know what I’d done. He’d smile smugly and ask me about my morning, making me blush and relive every wave of pleasure generated just from his hint of a kiss.

No.

I decide to exert this pent-up energy in other, more healthy ways.

I do five jumping jacks. Then I start to do ten push-ups, wimp out after three, and collapse onto my rug.

My eyes find the novel Derek gifted me in its spot underneath my bed. I hid it. I thought it was safe down there, out of sight. Turns out, I was wrong.

I want to give the damn thing back. How dare he give me such a thoughtful and priceless gift? What am I supposed to do with it? Even now, it’s wrapped in a Ziploc bag. If I look up its worth, I’ll likely faint. I won’t let myself. I reach out and push it a little farther under my bed.

For my shift later that day, I decide to show up exactly one minute before the meet-and-greet starts. Julie is in panic mode outside my dressing room door. “We have to go! We’ll be late! I’ll get fired!” I think I hear her hyperventilating but her worry is for naught. I’ve worked in this position long enough to know it takes me exactly ten minutes to walk at a normal-fast pace from my dressing room to my mark in front of the hearth. So, I give her eleven minutes.

She glares at me angrily during our walk. There’s sweat collected above her lip.

Derek is already standing in his position, patiently waiting for me to walk up and join him. He greets Julie with a polite nod and doesn’t hide his interest in me as I readjust my dress sleeves. Fix my hair. Clear my throat. Pretend to acknowledge and wave to someone across the room. Anything to keep myself busy.

“Whitney,” Derek says in greeting.

He does nothing but speak my name in his deep voice and immediately I recall the fantasy I woke up to this morning—the hot, anxious need I tried to quell with jumping jacks.

“Derek,” I respond, abrupt and formal.

“How was the rest of your weekend?”

“Uneventful.”

Carrie and I rode a shuttle to the grocery store for provisions. At checkout, she eyed my cart full of one-off items: spaghetti noodles, but no sauce; ice cream cones, but no ice cream; one lone onion. Though her brows rose with interest, she kept her lips zipped.

“And yours? Did you gift any other priceless artifacts?”

He smirks. “Just the one.”

“I really can’t accept it.”

“Yes you can. I gave it to you. It’s yours now.”

His earnest tone convinces me to give in to the urge to glance up at him.

“You’re insane. You know that? For writing in that book.”

He doesn’t seem to mind my accusation. He wears the label with pride. “So you don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

“And my theory? Have you put some thought into it?”

Children are lining up. Soon, we’ll be too busy for private conversations.

“Theory?”

It’s like I’ve never heard the word in my life. Could you use it in a sentence?

He smirks, seeing through my thin facade so easily my irritation spikes.

“No,” I reply hastily. “No time for theories, I’m afraid.”

“Did you see Ryan again?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“I’m just curious if this blush you’re sporting is for him or for me.”

I narrow my eyes on him, grinding my teeth. I meant every word I said in my dorm room. He doesn’t get to reappear in my life and suddenly decide he wants me. Where’s the poetic justice in that? My heart broke eight years ago, and whether or not he had valid reasons for leaving me high and dry—I know they were valid; I’m not so illogical that I can’t see his point of view—a part me feels like I cannot, will not ever be able to surrender and give him what he wants.

Besides, he still hasn’t made it clear what he wants. A date? A kiss? Or is it only curiosity that has him interested? Maybe he wants nothing more than for me to admit I still have feelings for him so he can say, Aha! I knew it! Case closed.

My heart couldn’t bear it. The way he spoke so flippantly about his ex-girlfriend only proves my point. If I ever found out he described me that way, I’d never recover.

When he next speaks, it’s like he’s been listening to my thoughts.

“Let me take you out to dinner.” There’s a shallow pause. “A date,” he clarifies in a velvety smooth voice.

“No!” I say too quickly. It comes out in a near screech. The reply is a knee-jerk response surfacing from deep within my psyche. The same part of my brain that warns me not to touch hot stoves warns me not to accept this date.

I flinch, realizing my mistake. My overreaction is sort of evidence in itself. I try to soften my response with justifications. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not fair to you, really. Theory aside, I think I might have feelings for Ryan. And there’s also a guy who works in the fudge shop across the street. I don’t know him well, but…”