Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(32)

I scowl at the box and throw it away. I'll have Mavra stick the candies in a baggie. No, I'll do it myself.

The cook looks up when I step into her domain.

"Princess," she says with a curtsy. "Tonight's entrée will be meatballs and cream sauce with baked potato and rice. Can I bring you anything else?"

"Thank you, no. Milk to drink. I need a plastic baggie."

She hands me one, and I thank her and head upstairs.

As I tuck the candies in their new home and lay a paperweight on my economics textbook to hold it open, I hear music, faintly, from outside. I dismiss it as a passing car.

It's not moving.

Sighing, I get up and head for the window. It opens out over the street. I lift the sash and poke my head out to see what's going on. Odd things happen on the street all the time, sometimes amusing, usually not.

When I look down, I see Jason holding up a huge stereo music player over his head. He must have it turned all the way up. As I lean out the window, the sound is almost painful. He stands with a grim look of determination on his face, meeting my gaze when I look down.

"Turn that off," I yell.

He shakes his head. "Listen."

I stick my tongue out at him and jerk back inside.

I also hit my head on the window sash.

"Ow!"

My fingers grip the window. I stop before I pull it down. The song is catchy, and I catch myself listening a bit. I finally close the window and step away, but, curious, I sit at the computer and type the lyrics I heard into the Google.

The name of the song is "I'm a Believer."

I roll my eyes, but inwardly I feel a little tickle. The lyrics have a certain optimism about them.

It's almost cute.

My phone buzzes.

Jason: You're my fairy tale.

Anastasia: Go away, Jason.

Jason: Eat dinner with me.

Anastasia: No.

Jason: Let's hang out.

Anastasia: No.

Jason: Marry me.

Anastasia: No.

Jason: One day you'll say yes.

Anastasia: I'm sending my bodyguards out.

Jason: Okay, okay, I'm leaving.

Anastasia: Good.

Jason: I'll be back.

I roll my eyes and put the phone in a drawer so I can study. I actually enjoy these courses. Economics is, as the Americans say, my jam. I pour over the book, and I can actually read it, since I know most of this already. What matters most is knowing what the professor expects me to know on the test, and making sure I am properly brushed up.

After easily breezing through my math, science, and economics work, I sigh and find myself staring at my battered copy of The Great Gatsby. As soon as I open it to the page I marked—no, the page Jason marked—I realize I am going to be hopelessly lost again. I try to read the first paragraph, and once more, my eyes slide down the page, like trying to write on a block of ice.

I sigh, hard, and prop my chin on my hand. No, I will not stop. I take my pencil and start making notes on the page, trying to learn.

The phone buzzes in the drawer. I decide I will ignore it.

Then I take it out and read his message.

Jason: Are you trying to read Gatsby yet?

Anastasia: No.

Jason: Liar.

Anastasia: How did you know?

Jason: You just told me.

The phone rings. It's his number, of course. I silence it and set it on the desk. A minute later it begins to ring again. I snatch it up and hit the Receive button, annoyed.

"What?"

"Hi, honey. Listen."

Without preamble, he begins reading the book. I move to hang up.

Then I press the phone to my ear. I listen to his voice, following him along with the pencil and mouthing the words myself.

It is almost a beautiful book. Certainly less dull than the sagas I was forced to read when I was younger. Taking the book in one hand and the phone in the other, I move across the hall to sit in the side chair next to my bed, with the book on my lap and Jason in my ear.

"Following so far?"

"Yes."

He stops after a few pages, and asks me questions, like he did last night.

I tense every time he breaks his narration, expecting some lewd comment or proposition, but it never comes.

My yawn interrupts him.

"You're cute when you yawn."

I roll my eyes, then realize he can't see me. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"You just did. Moving on."

He begins to read again. Mavra brings my dinner and gives me a quizzical look. After I eat, I set the plate aside. I have a glass of milk yet to be drunk, so I dart back across the hall and grab the candy, and pop the pieces in my mouth, and wash them down with the milk while Jason reads to me. Something about his voice warms me.

"Let me ask you a question," he says, drawing in a breath.

"No."

"Are you lying down or sitting up?"

At the moment, I happen to be "Lying on my bed."

"Oh my. What are you wearing?"

"A hooded sweatshirt and jeans."

"Mmm. Ask me what I'm wearing."

"No."

"Come on, ask."

"I'm hanging up."

"Ask."

"Fine. What are you wearing?"

"Socks."