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“It was an arranged marriage.”
Wait, what?
“Your parents had an arranged marriage? How old are they? 110?”
He laughs. “Some cultures still have arranged marriages. Look at India. And besides, there are different rules for royalty from everyone else. It’s just the way it is.”
“The way it is, or the way it was?”
“Is,” he says simply.
“Are you telling me that you can't just fall in love with someone and marry them?”
“Of course I can. My parents chose to have an arranged marriage. I certainly won't be doing that.”
I size him up. “I'm sure you won't.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, come on, Alex. You’re Prince McHottie. You've got your pick of beautiful women from all over the world. You could get anyone you want, and by the looks of things…” I trail off but we both know where I’m heading with that statement.
“I told you; I've changed.”
Has he? I want to believe it. So much.
“As my daddy always says, ‘you can say the cow jumped over the moon, but that don't make her an astronaut.’”
His laugh is low. “What have cows and astronauts got to do with the fact that I'm no longer out partying every night, and haven't done so for over a year?”
“Blame Texas. It means saying it doesn’t make it true.”
“Well, this cow has become a top astronaut on his first mission to Mars.” He gestures at himself with his thumb. “A very charming and handsome astronaut, at that.”
I snort out a laugh, spraying chocolate ice cream into the air. Immediately, I throw a hand over my mouth, totally mortified.
“So becoming,” he says as he offers me a napkin.
I dab at my face. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s a waste of excellent chocolate ice cream, as far as I can see.”
Embarrassed, I ball the napkin in my palm. “You know, Alex, whenever I think of you, I'm going to picture you dressed as a cow in an astronaut suit.”
“I would hope you’d think of me in anything but that.” He’s got a twinkle in his eyes that makes my belly flip, and instantly the photo of him in his trunks, his lean, muscular body and smooth olive skin shown off to total masculine perfection, fills my mind.
Prince Alexander is so very far from being a cow in an astronaut suit.
“I get to ask my question now,” he says.
“Fire away.”
“What was it like growing up without any siblings?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”
He mimics holding a microphone to his mouth. “The subject appears to be unwilling to truly examine her experiences. Further questioning is recommended, and other measures such as ice cream removal may be required.”
I hold what’s left of my cone protectively against my chest. “You wouldn’t.”
