Page 37 of The Thing About My Prince
My heart does a little skip. How am I supposed to respond? “I was worried that if they thought we were fighting it would give your family more ammunition to back up your loser playboy reputation.”
“That’s what I’m saying. It was nice of you to protect me.” He rolls his head to the side to look down at me. “With your mouth.”
The skip in my chest turns to more of a fizzing, bursting sensation, like Pop Rocks on your tongue.
His mention of mouth means I now can’t take my eyes off his. It’s right in front of my face at perfect eye level. His lips are plump and ripe. If I sucked on them, I imagine they’d be as juicy as a succulent peach. They’re surrounded by flecks of sandy-brown stubble—some bits more auburn, some bits blonder—that I know for sure would give that delicious scratchy tickle.
And damn him for parting those lips just enough to pokeout his tongue and slowly moisten them till they are pink and shiny and luscious.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a kiss,” I say.
Thank God the water is still pounding against the shower wall because it’s the only thing covering the sound of my thumping heart, and it would be oh-so-fucking embarrassing if Oliver could hear it.
“What was it then?” He forms the words slowly and carefully, putting on a deliberate show for me with his lips.
“More theimpressionof a kiss,” I say. “Purely for your mom’s benefit.”
“And mine,” he says.
Heat washes the inside of my ribs, and my gaze darts from his mouth to his eyes. And holy hell, there it is again—that thing where their vibrant green makes me feel like I could spend a thousand lifetimes looking into them and never run out of new things to see.
Is he saying he liked that I kissed him?
My pulse races, and I press my knuckles together as I hug my knees tighter to try to keep my whole body from shaking. “Sorry. I did my best to barely touch you. I didn’t mean for it to be anything. It was only?—”
“I know. You did it for my benefit so my parents wouldn’t think I’m a—what was it you called me?—loser playboy.”
“Oh, right. Yes.” Shit, everything’s coming out all wrong. “I meant that’s whattheymight think. Not that youarethat. Or that that’s what I think you are.” Jesus, when did I become babbling and defensive? Five seconds ago, I guess. “I thought giving an impression of togetherness would help the whole situation. Make things go smoothly. So it’s easier for us to work together while we’re here. You know, to make a good work environment.”
Even I can hear myself scrambling for a convincing argument.
“Is that what we have?” He turns onto his hip to face me,his shoulder leaning against the marble. “A good working relationship?” His eyes rove my face, making me wonder if there’s still any concealer covering the old pimple I picked yesterday that created an ugly red patch.
He lifts an arm and, as if in slow motion, reaches toward my face.
I have no idea what the hell he’s about to do, but I should definitely stand up and get out of here so he can’t do it.
But I don’t.
I sit here, frozen in silence, tingles racing over every inch of my skin as he uses one finger to pull back my hair.
When he tucks it behind my ear, his touch accidentally brushes my skin—I assume it’s accidental—sending a jolt of electricity shooting down my side.
“Or do you think we need to practice the kissing thing some more?” Those words, in that particular English accent of his, are possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “So that we’re properly convincing, I mean. It wouldn’t do for someone to rumble us because we look like we’re doing it awkwardly, like people who barely know each other.”
If we were anywhere else and he was anyone else, I would absolutely kiss him in this moment. Because this thing that he’s created in the air between us—or maybe we’ve both created it and I’m not prepared to accept any responsibility—is the perfect atmosphere for a first kiss. We’re huddled in a corner, on the floor, with the sound of running water next to us and the steam that’s starting to fill the room creating an iridescent glow on his skin.
And he’s given us a damn good reason to try it. A totally legitimate one. That no one could argue with.
“You’re right.” Like an embarrassed schoolgirl, I drop my gaze to the two inches of patterned tile on the floor between his thigh and my hip. “We do need to make sure we look authentic.”
For fuck’s sake, what are you doing, Lexi? Why are yougoing along with this? Kissing him is the worst possible thing you could do.
But despite what my brain’s screaming at me, my heart and my pulse are trying to outdo each other with a combination of fear, excitement, and the thrill of doing something I really shouldn’t.
“Absolutely.” Oliver rests his hand on my face so lightly he’s barely even touching me. Almost like his fingers are resting on the downy hairs on my skin and not my cheek at all.
My chest throbs when he leans in and whispers, “Authenticity is everything.”
