Royally Matched (Royally #2)(43)

God, I’m such an idiot.

I want to find him, I need to see him—now. I check the library first, the dining room and music room, and I hear the buzz of cameras, mounted on the walls, following me as I go. I get to the kitchen . . . and there he is, like a tired lump at the table, bent over, his head resting on his arms. His eyes are closed, his mouth soft and his jaw lax.

He looks younger like this. Peaceful.

I’ve seen Henry playful and teasing. I’ve seen him frustrated and tense. But peaceful is his most beautiful state. My hand reaches out, tracing the strong crest of his brow and cheeks, nose and chin, without actually touching him.

With an intake of breath, his long lashes flutter and dark green eyes gaze up at me.

“Sarah?” he asks drowsily.

I love how he says my name, warm and soothing like a snuggling embrace.

“Thank you for the book, Henry,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

He sits up, smiling adorably and rumpled. “You like it?”

“I love it.” And I hope he hears the sincerity in my tone. “It’s my new favorite.”

“Sense and Sensibility was always your favorite.”

“But now it’s my favorite for a better reason.” I reach out for him. “Come on. Time for bed.”

He takes my hand, but when I give him a tug to pull him up, he pulls harder and a second later, I’m standing between his spread knees. He stares at my hand in his, brushing his thumb across my knuckles, sending warm, spiraling tingles to my very core.

“I’m sorry about the things I said.” His voice is raspy and the tingles tighten. “I didn’t mean them.”

“I’m sorry too.” My words rush out because there’s so much I want to say. “I don’t think you’re selfish or thoughtless. I don’t think you’re a Willoughby. I don’t believe you’d hurt me.”

“I did hurt you.”

My heart breaks, not for me, but for him.

“Only because I hurt you first.”

His lips tug up at the corners and his head gives a little nod. “You’ve become . . . important to me, Sarah. I mess up a lot; I always have. I don’t want to mess this up.”

What a strange pair we are. The sad boy and the frightened girl.

I look into his eyes, moving closer, putting my hands on his shoulders. “I won’t let you mess it up.”

“We’re friends then?” he asks. “I’m usually pretty good at that.”

Is that what I really want to be—Henry’s friend?

Again, I know the answer before I finish the thought. And the answer is no. But I can’t just blurt it out. How would that even work? What would it look like? I’ve never been good with speaking and I can’t see how this time would be any different. My stomach churns threateningly.

I have to think it through, figure it out, organize the words in just the right way. Figure out what Elizabeth Bennet would have said if she had to give the speech instead of Mr. Darcy.

So I nod. “Yes, of course we’re friends.”

Balls, balls, balls.





WE GO TO BED, but neither of us goes to sleep. I don’t know about Sarah, but I’m too relieved to be near her again. Excited. It’s like Christmas night after you’ve opened your presents and you’ve gotten exactly what you wanted more than anything. No one wants to sleep after that; you just want to keep touching and holding and looking at the lovely new toy.

“Did you think I was silly, getting so upset over a book?” she asks me, lying on her back, looking at the ceiling.

I lift my arm, showing her the platinum-linked ID bracelet dangling from my wrist.

“My mother gave me this when I was eight. I never take it off. I own a Maserati and crowns, but this is my most precious possession. I understand sentimental value.”

She sighs, turning in bed to face me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. It’s my favorite Sarah pose, the perfect mixture of fuck-hot and innocent.

And I want to kiss her so badly my lips throb.

“I overreacted, for . . . several reasons. I’ll try not to do that anymore. From now on I should probably imagine what your grandmother would do, first. She’s such a strong woman—a very good role model. I can’t imagine her crying about anything.”

“I saw her cry once.”

Sarah moves in closer, her calf resting near mine under the covers. “Did you? When?”

I tuck my arm beneath my head, resting on my forearm, looking at the ceiling, thinking back. “After my parents’ plane went down . . . it took a few days for them to find the wreckage. Do you remember?”

She nods, and the corners of her mouth dip with sympathy.

“Those days gave me time to think . . . to concoct a little fantasy in my head. I’d always had a vivid imagination. So, even after they’d recovered their bodies, I didn’t believe it. I thought it was a trick—some evil ruse by an adversarial country that was holding them captive. Or, perhaps it was just a mistake.”

A sad smile pulls at my lips as I recall the boy I’d been, then. Despite all the toxic shit swirling around us—the complications that come part and parcel with who we are—my parents had done a fine job of keeping me insulated. Protected. And so, unlike my perpetually cynical older brother, at ten years old, I was still hopeful and optimistic.