His Royal Highness(69)

As if I’m ogling when I shouldn’t be, my eyes shoot to the ceiling as blood rushes up my neck and cheeks. Oh good, my face wasn’t red enough.

Derek chuckles.

My embarrassment only amuses him.

He sits on the lip of the tub, facing me, legs crossed at the ankles.

He is smooth confidence and refinement. I’m the previously bearded lady. The gap between us has never felt quite so obvious.

I wait for him to begin, to take the helm and explain in detail what exactly we’re doing, but he stays silent. Watching me. Waiting.

I clear my throat dramatically before starting. “So…we’re in a relationship?”

I leave it hanging like a question.

“Yes.”

“If I call you my boyfriend in public, you won’t deny it.”

“Why would—”

“Just agree or disagree.”

“Agreed.”

“Wow.”

If I wanted to, I could stick my head out the window of his bathroom right now and tell everyone outside I’m dating Derek Knightley. What a time to be alive.

“That’s it for me.”

He laughs and stays put on the tub. Apparently, we aren’t quite done. “There are other things to discuss.”

My gaze is caught on his chest when I ask, “Like what?”

“With Cal back in the office next week, I won’t be as busy, but it’s still going to be hard to find time for each other if you’re working two jobs.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”

“You might have to retire your post as a residence hall manager.”

“Really? But I like that job.”

It’s so fun. Kind of. Lately, I suppose it has been more of a chore than anything else, one more thing keeping me from Derek.

“Okay, so if you enjoy that job, maybe you can cut back your hours at the park.”

“Never!”

“So then we’ll see each other next year sometime?” he asks flatly. “Maybe I can pencil you in for some time in May.”

“Point taken.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” he prods.

“In your bed. You’re drizzling chocolate sauce down my body.”

“Whitney.” He tries to level me with a Be serious glare, but I have rug burn on my face, I’m still dressed up like his grandfather, and there’s enough alcohol in my system to sedate a bull.

“Fine.” I close my eyes as if really trying to imagine it now. “I’m not working as Princess Elena anymore. Now, I’m running the park. You work for me. You call me Master—”

With my eyes closed, I don’t see him move until he suddenly hauls me up off the counter, and I burst into laughter as he carries me into his bedroom.

I spank his butt like I’m playing conga drums.

He tosses me onto the bed and stands over me.

“You’re drunk.”

I hold up my fingers so they’re pinched together, only separated by a millimeter. “Only this much.”

He takes off my shoes and drops them on the floor.

My socks go next.

“Seductive,” I tease, rolling my tongue like I’m speaking Spanish.

My jeans are tugged off along with Cal’s vest.

“Wait, if we’re going to have sex, will you make me some coffee first? I want to remember our first time and my head is spinning.”





Chapter Twenty-One





Derek





Whitney is still disappointed we aren’t having sex tonight.

We’re standing side by side, brushing our teeth in the bathroom. She’s drowning in one of my t-shirts, cheeks still inflamed from that stupid glue.

“C’mon, just a quickie?” she asks, toothpaste spilling out of her mouth.

It’s ridiculous that she’s still attractive.

“Spit,” I tell her, and she does before rinsing out her mouth.

“How about a hand job?”

I level her with a glare and she throws up her hands.

“This relationship is dead already. Look at us—day one and we’re already going to sleep like two old people. No kissing. Just proper dental hygiene followed by lights out.”

She crawls under the covers on my bed and brings them up to her chin. She’s a floating head, encased in white sheets. Her red hair fans out wildly around her.

“What’s next—are you going to read me a bedtime story?” It’s said in jest, but then her eyes light up. “Wait! Yes.”

I leave to go get her some water and an Advil for the morning. I half-expect her to be asleep when I return, but she’s right where I left her, smiling, patting the bed where I’m supposed to sit.

Apparently, she was serious about the bedtime story.

“I’m reading a Stephen King book.”

“Ooooh spooky. Perfect for Halloween.”

“I’m two-thirds of the way through. You won’t understand what’s going on,” I say as I sit down beside her, propped up by pillows as I open my paperback to where I last left off.

“Yes I will,” she insists.

One page in, she turns, curls up against my side, and closes her eyes. I stay up reading until she’s fast asleep. I should be glad she’s sleeping off some of the alcohol, but I’m not. I kind of…miss her.