Page 104 of I'm sorry, Princess
I hate that I don’t want him to let me go.
He carries me into his living room, and I blink at my surroundings.
A whole wall of glass stretches across the space, revealing the same breathtaking forest view. Trees stretch endlessly into the night, the moonlight casting silver streaksthrough the branches. The entire place feels too open, too exposed, like even the world outside is watching whatever is happening between us.
He sets me down gently on the massive sofa before disappearing for a moment.
When he returns, my breath catches.
A blanket. My favorite snacks, gingerbread. And then, as if this night couldn’t get any more bizarre, he turns on The Notebook.
I freeze.
My lips part in shock as the familiar opening scene plays, the soft melody filling the room.
I whip my head toward him, glaring. “How do you know this is my favorite movie?”
He knows I’ve caught on. He knows I see him now.
And then, the bastard winks.
Oh. My. Gosh.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I hate the way my stomach flutters. I should be horrified. I should question how the hell he knows these things.
Instead, I feel warmth.
And I hate him for it.
Without a word, Lorenzo slides onto the couch beside me, his movements effortless. He pulls me against him, wrapping the blanket around me as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. Like I belong here, with him.
His fingers move lazily, tracing soft, absentminded circles along my arm, then my shoulder, then my neck. His touch barely grazes my skin, yet I feel it everywhere.
I could stay like this forever. In his arms.
The thought terrifies me.
His voice rumbles against my hair, low and commanding. “Tell me about you.”
His hand moves again, slowly caressing my arm, like he’s lulling me into answering.
“You probably already know everything about me,” I murmur, tilting my head to meet his gaze.
The smirk that tugs at his lips tells me I’m right.
I should push him away. I should. But instead, I shift slightly, narrowing my eyes.
“Tell me what you know about me,” I challenge, tilting my chin up. “Then I’ll tell you what you got wrong.”
“Besides the obvious, I know that you hate your job.” His voice is smooth, confident, like he’s laying out facts written in stone. My body stiffens slightly against him, but I don’t dare move. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words affect me.
Lorenzo continues, his lips curling slightly, “Your closest friend is that wild model that follows you around all the time.”
I can’t help but let out a soft laugh at his description of Sienna. Wild model? Yeah, that checks out.
“I know your favorite food is burgers and chips, how you British girls call fries,” he drawls, his accent deliberately exaggerating the word ‘chips’ like he finds it amusing.
I open my mouth to argue, to call him out on how ridiculous this is, but he isn’t finished.
