Page 13 of Reluctantly Rogue

My grip tightens on thehotiron, and I carefully set it downawayfrom my crotch as I watch her head snap up, her gaze jerking up from her phone.

She doesn’t scream. Or even gasp. She just straightens and says, “Oh,” as she registers the fact that there’s a man in the room.

A naked man.

Then, her gaze travels down from my face to my chest. Then, my stomach. Then, the ironing board that’s not entirely blocking her view of the rest of me.

I suck in a breath and blow it out.

“Duchess,” I say, inclining my head.

I know who she is, of course.

She also knows me. Or she should. We’ve met, anyway.

Though I guarantee I know more about her than she does about me.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks.

Her gaze hasnotreturned to my face.

I don’t move to cover myself. But I also don’t step out from behind the ironing board.

Shecame intomyroom uninvited, so I’m not diving for cover. I walk around naked in my living quarters all the time. But I’m not going to parade around naked in front of the future queen of Cara. Who is also my best friend’s fiancée.

“I’m ironing my shirt,” I tell her.

“Inmyroom?” she asks, with a frown.

“Inmyroom, actually.”

“This is the guest room I always use,” she says.

Her eyes are still on the ironing board, and because of my height, I know she can see about half of my cock.

She’s not even blushing.

Which I definitely make a note of and file into my mental “Lady Linnea Olsen” file.

I know a lot about this woman.

Her lack of boyfriends, suitors, and lovers is one of the facts I’ve committed to memory. Not necessarily on purpose. What can I say? It stood out to me.

Part of my job is knowing details about her. Eventually, after she marries the prince, she’ll be my responsibility, too, so it’s important I know things about her. Things like how she takes her coffee, her favorite restaurants, who her best friends are, and the status of her relationship with her parents.

So I take in details right now. Out of habit. She’s wearing fitted, silky-looking black pants that flare at the bottom, a gold belt that emphasizes the curve of her hips and dip of her waist, and a cream-colored blouse. Her shoes are one-inch black pumps. Her deep brown hair, with the copper highlights, is down, falling to her shoulder blades, loose, curling softly around her shoulders. Her green eyes are made up perfectly with liner and mascara. Her full lips are a perfect pink color, probably from the cosmetic line I know is her favorite.

She’s polished, sophisticated, and perfectly put together from top to bottom. Just like always. Just like a woman in her position should be.

And noticing the details of her hair, eyes, and lips, the fit of her clothing, is myjob. That’s all.

No one should know more about the prince and future princess than the head of their security team.

“I use this room to freshen up and change before dinner whenever I’m here.”

“This is my room now.”

Finally, her gaze meets mine. She draws herself even taller and tips her chin up. What can I say? The woman is regal as fuck.

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