Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
He exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I should have given you more warning about the paparazzi. I know they can be hard to avoid, I just … I’m trying to protect my little girls. I don’t want intimate moments like this to end up as gossip for the masses. Do you understand?”
“I understand. Of course I understand. I want the same things for them as you do. But you knew that we were going to this theme park.”
He runs a hand down his face in frustration. “I know. That’s the problem. I also want them to be little girls. I don’t know what the happy medium is. Before … there was Helena.”
“And she took care of them.”
“No,” he says quickly, something flashing in his eyes. Then he relaxes slightly. “No, we both did. It was just that she planned it all. She handled it, for lack of a better word. I should have done more but … those were our roles. And now I’m a single father and honestly … I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how I’ll be able to raise them without her.”
Oh my god. He’s being honest. And real. And his eyes aren’t this cutting glare anymore but there’s a softness to them, to his face. It makes me want to keep staring at him, to keep pulling back that hard exterior, to see what he’s really like. If he has a heart that beats.
“I know you’ve lost a lot,” I tell him, and he automatically stiffens. I’ve said the wrong thing. “But the girls have too. I couldn’t have avoided that tantrum, no one could have, because Clara is a girl who lost her mother and misses her very much.”
“She knows better than to break down like that, especially in public. Freja, perhaps…”
“No. Both of them lost the biggest part of their lives. I don’t care if Clara pretends to have it all together, she’s allowed to break, over and over again. They both are. They’re not as good at pretending as you are and they don’t have to be.”
“Pretending?” he says harshly.
I shrug, knowing I’m back to pushing his buttons again. “When you wear a crown, you wear a mask.”
His eyes narrow again, the softness gone. “You don’t know me enough to make that presumption.”
“That’s not my fault,” I tell him. “We could get to know each other better. I’ve told you this time and time again.”
“You’re forgetting your role, your place. It’s a very distinctive one.”
I can’t help but shake my head. Talking to him makes me feel so fucking small.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I whisper.
“What?” he says, taken aback, like this actually shocks him. “I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you so bloody mean to me?”
His brows raise, mouth dropping just a bit. “I don’t … I don’t mean to be. I guess you just frustrate me.”
“Frustrate you? Why?”
He stares at me for a beat, and though I can see so much in his eyes, I can’t read any of it. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.
“Probably because you’re not used to dealing with normal people. Only the upper class, the aristocrats, the ones with blue blood. Royals. I’m the opposite of all of that. Always have been.”
I watch as he swallows, his eyes still locked on mine. If only I could read them, if only I could understand what he was thinking.
But why would I? It would just be something cruel.
“Probably,” he says after a pause.
Tension seems to fill the air between us, followed by palpable silence.
I clear my throat and take in a big breath, squaring my shoulders, wanting everything to be right again. “I just want you to know, that I did what I could with the girls and that’s the best I can do. After Clara melted down, we left. I saw people taking photos, and I know I should have behaved with more decorum than I did, but it is what it is. I can … I can work on being proper. You just have to give me time. Hell, give me a chance. I’m not sure that you have yet.”
He wiggles his jaw for a moment, then nods. I wonder if the bastard has any idea of how handsome he is. Probably.
“Okay.”
“So we’re cool?” I ask him, holding out my hand for him to shake.
And by cool I mean, not fired?
He glances at it, and I swear I see a smile flash for a second. It’s like trying to photograph lightning. “Yes, we’re cool,” he says, grabbing my hand. But he doesn’t shake it. He just gives it a long squeeze, the kind that makes that same lightning carry up through my veins, setting my heart on fire.
Then he lets go of my hand and turns toward the door.