Page 97 of Prince of the Palisades

“I’ll only record your voice,” he swears, scrambling to open an app. “No video.”

I nod again, the knot in my belly uncoiling. I’m probably breaking a hundred NDA clauses. But for him? I do it, happily. Unapologetically.

After Reiss checks the playback, he pockets his phone. “Also, I was a little jealous of Léon. Like five percent.”

“Wait. You were?”

His arms flail. Thankfully, he doesn’t dump chocolate all over me. “This is all new for me! I don’t know what I’m doing. How I’m supposed to feel. Fuck, it’s my first relationship—”

He freezes.

I lean in. “Say that again. Your first—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I slide my hand up his thigh. Chilled fingers against warm cotton. I wait until he has enough courage to look me in the eyes. “Reiss—sorry, do you have a middle name?”

He scowls. “Emile Dorian. Why?”

“Twomiddle names?”

“Don’t royals have like sixteen names?”

It’s my turn to make a face. “Counting titles? I have six.”

“No thanks.” He laughs quietly. “His Royal Arrogance is already a mouthful.”

As soon as it’s out, I can see the regret melt across his expression.

We stare at each other for a long moment. Even with his cheeks turning a violent shade of pink, his eyes never leave mine. The way he tips his chin higher, confidently, leaves my tailored slacks uncomfortably tight.

So, this is him.Bold. My lips curve up.

“Don’t use that dimple on me,” he warns.

“Reiss Emile Dorian Hayes,” I start, “would you like to be my boy—”

“Isn’t there a fancier title?” he interrupts. “Like Royal Suitor? A duke? His Royal Arrogance’s—”

“Royal Attractiveness,” I correct. “RoyalAdorableness.”

“Royal Assholeness.”

“You’d be okay with everyone calling you His Royal Assholeness’s consort?”

He fake-gags. “Gross. How about HRA’s—”

“You called me Jadon,” I interject, inching in. “In the locker room.”

“Did I? That doesn’t sound like me.”

“You did,” I whisper, my mouth a breath away from his. “I liked it.”

“And I suppose as the prince’s boyfriend,” he says, smile unguarded, “you expect me to care about the things you like?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, before brushing his lips to mine. They’re cold, but so soft. Flavored by chocolate. I’m urged on by the little noise at the back of his throat, by his hand guiding mine higher on his thigh. Our ice cream cups are forgotten on the bench.

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