The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(62)
“It’s not the shirt, it’s the principle of the shirt.”
“Your shirts have principles?” She buttoned the three middle buttons.
“You don’t know anything about men, so let me fill you in on a little secret,” he said, standing in front of her. “When a woman wears one of our shirts, one we’ve worn, one we’ve lived in, it’s as if she’s saying ‘He is mine.’”
“And that’s bad?”
“It’s very good under the right conditions. But you wearing my shirt and sleeping in it and keeping it is the female equivalent of me coming on your back. It’s like marking your territory. Do you consider me your property?”
Sam met his eyes, and he saw surprise in them.
“No,” she said. “Of course not. You’re my employer, Captain.” She saluted him.
Kingsley raised his hands and unbuttoned the shirt.
“I know you aren’t attracted to me,” he said as he slid the shirt off her arms and pulled it back on. “But I am attracted to you, and I’m doing my best to not think of you like that. You wearing my shirt isn’t helping me.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t… I honestly didn’t even think about that.”
“It’s fine. No harm done.”
Kingsley glanced up at the clock in the fitting room and sighed.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’m running late.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“How can you be late to nowhere?”
“Sam, please. I’m not in the mood right now.”
“King? What’s going on?” she asked and gave him a concerned look. “Talk to me.”
Kingsley paused and weighed the costs and benefits of telling Sam. If he didn’t tell her, she’d continue to worry without knowing the reason. If he did tell her, she’d have a reason to worry. Either way, she was going to worry. Might as well get it out.
“I have an appointment,” he said. “I had some tests done, and I’m getting the results back.”
“Tests? What kind of tests?”
“The kind of tests a twenty-eight year old man who’s had sex with half of Europe has to have on occasion.”
“Oh, f*ck. Those kinds of tests. I wish I could empathize, but the only disease lesbians get from sex is lockjaw.”
Kingsley laughed. God, she was good at making him laugh.
“It’s fine. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for two weeks, so no matter what, at least I’ll know.”
“We’ll know. I’m going with you.”
“You don’t have to come with me.”
“I don’t have to,” she said. “But I want to. And you want me to. No one wants to be alone for this stuff. Not even you.”
“You are too good to me,” he said, taking her hand and kissing inside her wrist.
“Stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling, I’m f lirting.”
“You’re a man f lirting with a lesbian. That is the very definition of stalling. It’s not going to work. I have a lock on my pants, and I threw away the key.”
He looked down.
“I don’t see a lock.”
“It’s an invisible lock.”
“I’ll hire an invisible locksmith.”
“I’ll put that on the checklist. Now come on. Whatever the news is, better to get it over with.”
“If it’s bad news, I’d prefer to put it off indefinitely.”
“Then I guess you don’t want to see this bad news?” She pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket.
“What is it?”
“The bill from Signore Vitale.”
He took it from her and glanced at the total. He whistled at the figure.
“Good thing I’m rich.”
“How does a captain in the French Foreign Legion get rich?”
“Catholic guilt,” Kingsley said.
“You can make money off that?” Sam asked.
“Apparently so.”
“How do I get in on that action?”
“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘if you marry money, expect to earn every penny’?”
“You married money?”
“My sister. But she’s dead, and now I’m rich. Funny how the world works.”
“Yeah,” Sam said without laughing. “Hilarious.”
They arrived at the clinic, and Sam got out of the car first. She held the door open for him and stuck her hand inside.
“Take it,” she said, waving her hand. He took it with a sigh. “I’m feeling chivalrous again.”
“I’m not wearing heels today.”
“Yeah, but I needed an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
Sam twined her fingers around his.
“To hold your hand.”
20
AS THEY WALKED INTO THE CLINIC, SAM REFUSED TO let go of Kingsley’s hand. Even when he sat in Dr. Sutton’s office, Sam stood next to him, her hand still in his. Or perhaps it was his hand in hers. She’d twined their fingers together so tightly he couldn’t tell who held on to whom.