Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(153)

He kneels in front of me, takes my hand, and kisses it.

“Tell me you love me and I will give you the world.”

I stare at him.

“Ah, figuratively. I assure you.”

“I need to get dressed.”

“If I could I would bar you from ever wearing a stitch again. I like you like this.”

To prove it, he grabs my ass and pinches me as I stride past him, and chases me out into the bedroom. We almost end up on the bed. When I say almost I mean I fall back over it and he almost f*cks me right there but pulls back at the last second, tracing his fingers down my stomach as he steps to the wardrobe to take my clothes.

There must be some reason why he insists on dressing me. I don’t argue. I like it, and I like returning the favor.

He looks different from when I first saw him. Smiles come easier to his lips and he laughs when I say something silly, and he pulls his hair back instead of letting it hang all over his face, and he puts on black clothes as though he resents them now, not like he’s swathing himself in his chosen color.

It’s time to leave. It’ll be a nine-hour flight.

I’m going home.

I think.





Chapter Ten





I’ve flown exactly once in my life, three times if you consider the connectors different flights. From Philadelphia to Madrid to Basel to Solkovia. The plane that carries us to New York unnerves me when I first see it. It’s so small, and sleek; more like a rocket ship. I’m a little scared to ask how fast it goes.

Once inside, though, it’s just a plane. I don’t notice any difference in speed and let out a slow breath once it levels off. My seat is huge and plush, twice as wide as an airline seat. To my surprise, though, I don’t drift off to sleep, even after I drink a tiny glass of sweet liquor to calm my nerves. I feel a growing sense of dread as the land below gives way to ocean, sapphire blue as far as the eye can see.

Kristoff says little while we fly, taking the time to review a bunch of documents, both paper and on a computer. When he takes my hand I curl my fingers around his palm as I stare out the window. I feel the way I felt when we would come home from a trip to the beach when I was little, an overwhelming and continuously growing sense of dread and fatigue as the fun world of the boardwalk and ocean and rides and candy faded back into a dreamworld and the dreary prospect of going to school next month or next week or tomorrow would float back to the forefront of my mind.

“You’re very quiet,” he says to me. “That is unlike you.”

“I know. I’m just thinking.”

“Tell me what you are thinking.”

“I don’t know.”

He laughs. “I am not surprised. You’re always bouncing from one thought to another to another, never still.”

I don’t say much else until we land. I grip the arms of the seat hard, and squeeze his hand as the plane tips back and begins circling in to land. I tense and grit my teeth when the tires touch the runway, and shake for a moment afterward.

I don’t like flying, I’ve decided.

I wait as the plane taxis around and comes to a stop. A stairway rolls up, and the crew open the door. New York air, stifling hot and humid and with that strong scent, comes flooding into the cabin. My prince stands up and offers me his hand and we walk down together.

My stomach does a back flip when the first flash goes off. It takes me a moment to realize why I’m being photographed and I stand there with a dumb, dull stare on my face, until I shake myself out of it and walk down with him, along a freaking red carpet to a limousine.

Hi, Mom, I’m on TV.

I’m a little concerned about what happens next. I haven’t really been told.

Once we’re alone again in the car, he turns to me.

“We’re here. What would you like to do?”

“Do I have to choose now?”

“No, of course not. I only ask what you want to do with your day. You can come with me. I’m told your parents are here, expecting to see you.”

I haven’t spoken to them yet. Day after day passed and I always had something to do, some reason not to. I twine my fingers nervously and try to figure out what the hell I should do with myself.

“I need to see them. I want to go home, to my home, but I want you to go with me. Can we do that?”

“Ask what you will of me and it is yours, you know that.”

I smile weakly, trying to choke down the rising nausea in my stomach. I wrap my arms around myself and curl up, staring out the windows.

The city can be so amazing, but I’m not feeling it today. At all.

“They’re here,” I say.

“Yes. The State Department brought them here and requests that you be allowed to see them. They speak to me as if you are a prisoner.”

I sigh. “They don’t know you like I do.”

“No,” he says, squeezing my hand. “What do you wish to do? I can send them away.”

“No, I’ll meet them here, where we’re staying.”

“I’ll have my people nearby. The Americans may try to take you. By force.”

I swallow, hard. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt over me.”

“Then make it clear to them you are no prisoner…if you intend to return, that is. I will not force you now. I have business to attend to after we arrive. I’ll send word to the Americans that you wish to see your family.”