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Thanks a lot, Universe.
Everyone around me curtsies and bows. Me? I just glare at him. Grandmama might want me to be friends with him, but she didn't say anything about glaring.
Alexander’s nose still sports redness and some swelling, but it's not nearly as painful looking as it appeared last night. Pity, really. His good looks could do with a dent or two to make him look less like a Ken doll.
I bet he’d be proud of his “beach” skills.
I stifle a snicker.
“I apologize for being a touch late,” he says in that smarmy way of his that makes my skin prickle. “I do hope I haven't held you up.”
“You're right on time, Your Royal Highness,” Ralph replies.
“I'm pleased to hear it.” His eyes land on mine and a cold shiver crawls down my spine. “Princess Madeline. How nice it is to see you again.” He offers me his hand and I take it reluctantly in mine, only because it would appear rude if I didn’t. But seriously, that's the last time I ever want to touch this man.
Are you listening, Universe? You let me down before so you owe me this.
“Good to see you, too,” I reply stiffly as I snatch my hand back.
Of course he looks shockingly handsome in his buttoned-up shirt, open at the neck, tucked into a pair of pants that show just how V-shaped his torso is, the crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasting with his olive skin. I glance down at his feet. He’s come prepared in his rubber boots.
And then the worst thing imaginable happens, worse than Eric not asking me out when I lived in Houston. Way worse.
As I look into his eyes, I feel a faint but distinct electric spark firing up inside of me.
Nope. Not happening.
There is no way on this sweet earth I’m going to be attracted to this…this…man. He’s horrible and arrogant and rude and I do not like him one little bit.
I unplug the spark from its electric socket and promptly turn my back to him.
I know it’s just some simple physiological reaction to seeing a potential mate. He’s a man, I’m a woman. It’s basic reproductive science. If I ignore it, I know it will go away because Prince Alexander is absolutely the last man I ever want to feel anything for, especially anything even vaguely related to reproduction.
Ugh.
“Shall we walk this way?” Ralph asks.
“I’d love to,” I reply and begin to follow him, only for Alexander to fall into step beside me.
“I like the wellies,” he says, his eyes on my feet.
“Thank you,” I sniff. I don’t risk looking back at him. “I would have thought your boots would be Ledonian red.”
“I thought I'd leave the red boots to Father Christmas.”
“You mean Santa? His boots are black, actually.”
“Good to know. I'll be sure to wear black boots when I dress up this Christmas as Santa, as you call him.”
I throw him a look. He has to be the least Santa-like guy I've met in my life, unless of course Santa has deliciously broad and muscular shoulders that taper into a slim waist, where he sports an impressive, tan six-pack that would make many a woman weep.
I may or may not have Googled Alexander last night. And I may or may not have seen shots of him on a beach vacation in nothing but his swim trunks.
Not that I wept. For all his good looks and masculinity, Alexander’s arrogance, superiority, and sheer rudeness are the only things I see.
Take that, spark.
“You do that,” I say.
