Page 2 of The Problem with Princes
“Ouch.” I turn my head and glare at her. “Can’t you see—”
She motions to a group of men standing in front of us.
Three of the men are large. No, actually, they arehuge. Like weightlifters but dressed in nice suits rather than muscle shirts.
I try discreetly to pull the fabric of my pants away from my skin, but skinny jeans don’t exactly leave a lot of breathing room. The tallest man in the trio, standing slightly behind the wall of muscle men, pushes his way to the front, and I suck in my stomach for a different reason.
The man’s dark hair curls around his ears and the back of his neck. He is beyond handsome; he is beautiful. An Apollo or Hercules kind of beautiful. Have I said how much I love this little island country?
“Oh, my gosh. I am so sorry,” I stammer out.
“My coffee!” He mutters in Greek. Then he reaches up and slips his sunglasses down slightly. Not enough to fully see his eyes, but enough to show he is displeased. An irritated sigh escapes his perfectly formed lips. “Stupid, stupid,” he muttered in only lightly accented English. He stares down at his legs, lifting one foot at a time to examine them. “Fabulous. Just fabulous,” he grumbles.
I lean forward, trying to see exactly where the offending coffee is. Two little drops darken the toe of one of his expensive-looking loafers. My mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me right now?” Perhaps Apollo and Hercules are too nice of a moniker for this guy. Ares is way more appropriate.
He holds out a hand and the muscle wall behind him produces a handkerchief. Modern Ares—that’s what I’ve decided to call him—rubs at the spots several times and grunts, handing the cloth back. “That’s never going to come out of the leather.” He pushes his sunglasses back up on his nose and growls—like, literally growls. Who does that? I thought it only happened in books.
He doesn’t look at me, but rather just over my shoulder. As if looking directly at me might turn him to ash or something. “Thank you for ruining my loafers.”
The flutter in my stomach subsides only to be replaced with rancor. I’ve always thought accents make men sexier, but this tool is making me rethink that idea.
The burning on my skin reminds me I have more urgent needs. I can feel the blisters forming on my stomach and legs. I need to get back to the hotel where I can change into something looser. Standing here fighting with this tool isn’t worth the pain I’m feeling.
“Yeah, sorry about the shoes.” I motion to the front of me. “But I think maybe we can call it even.” I’m not really feeling the apology, but like he knows that.
I rummage through the small purse slung across my body, trying to find the ibuprofen I keep there. I turn to Texie as I pull out the small bottle of pills. “Can we hurry and get the pastries, please? I really need ice or something.”
Texie looks down at my jeans, her mouth forming an O. Nodding, she turns toward the bakery just two shops down the street. I follow behind, trying to keep my stomach sucked in and away from the waistband of my jeans.
“You’re just going to leave? What about my shoes?”
I stop at the sound of his deep voice. “Is he kidding me, right now?” I grumble.
Pulling several bills from my neck wallet and then shoving it back down my shirt, I turn toward him and throw the money at his chest. “Buy some new shoes,” I say as I turn away from him and resume my walk toward the bakery. But I glance over my shoulder and smile to see the muscle men all bent over picking up the bills. Why am I not surprised that he won’t even pick up his own money from the ground?
I grab Texie’s arm, walking as quickly as I can with third degree burns rubbing against my jeans, nearly shoving her between the Black SUVs parked at the sidewalk.
A mirthless laugh comes from behind us. “This is not even close to enough money to replacetheseshoes.”
Barely turning my head in his direction, I shout over my shoulder. “Then send me a bill for the rest.”
“Stop engaging him, Gee.” Texie whisper shouts next to me. “Just shut up.”
“Sure,Grace.”
I still. How did he know my name? I haven’t told him what it is. But then I remember Texie used it when she’d tried to pull me out of the way. Weird that he recalled that after everything that happened.
“Where shall I send it?” The man continues, his tone mocking. “I don’t even know your last name.”
I flinch. The idea of him even knowing my first name makes me uncomfortable. I mean I haven’t exactly been the picture of politeness. “Kelly,” I yell over my shoulder.
“Your name is Grace Kelly?” He sounds incredulous.
“As far as you know,” I mutter as Texie and I push through the door of the bakery. I jump at the sound of the little tinkling bell. My hands are shaking, and my stomach is in knots. Stupid Modern Ares.
I glance over my shoulder to see if any of them are following us, but I can’t see them out on the street anymore. The black SUVs block the entrance of the coffee shop from my view. He isn’t charging around the cars though, so that seems like a good sign. Maybe my mouth hasn’t gotten us into as much trouble as I thought.
One of the men climbs into the front seat of one of the SUVs, but his face disappears behind the tinted glass.
