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My Texas Princess. Happiness floods every cell in my body.
If you'd told me only a handful of days ago that we would be exchanging meaningful mementos, grinning at one another like love-struck tweens, I would have laughed in your face at the sheer outrageousness of the idea.
Yet here we are, together, my heart full of him, my entire body aching to touch him. To know what it feels like for him to touch me. For him to hold me in his arms.
To kiss.
How bad do I want to kiss this man right now?
So bad.
“They're expecting me for a pre-match meeting and I'm already late. I have to go.”
“I'm glad you stopped by.”
“I am, too. You know, I purposely chose a white colored rose as it’s neutral, so I hope you'll wear it pinned to your dress.”
“Spooked peafowl couldn't stop me.”
His laugh rumbles in his throat. “See you out there.”
“I'd say good luck, but you know you're on the wrong team.”
“We'll see about that,” he replies with a wink before he turns and leaves.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, breathing in the scent of the rose, my head full of Alex. It's so weird when you decide something about a person, and they show every sign confirming you’re one hundred percent right, and then not only do you start to get feelings for them against your better judgment, but they do things that make you completely rethink their character. Things like giving you a single white rose to remind you that you are his chosen one.
His chosen one.
Talk about going from hating a guy to… not hating him. Not even close.
The very opposite.
As a Texan, watching polo for the first time is completely baffling. Horses dash, mallets swing, people yell. It's like a fancy, chaotic rodeo with dashing men on beautiful horses chasing a tiny ball. It's like hockey, but with horses.
I'm sitting next to Grandpapa, pretending to understand the fast-paced horse ballet, confused by the whole dang thing. Up until today, my entire experience of polo was the Ralph Lauren shirts Eric wore to the office on casual Fridays. It’s safe to say the only thing I knew about the game came from the little monogram on the top left of the shirt.
“What a chukka!” the man to my right calls out, Lord Something-I-Can’t-Remember, a man with too many teeth for the size of his mouth.
I nod knowledgeably as others agree it was indeed an awesome chukka. Of course I have no idea what a chukka actually is, but everyone around me likes to talk about them, so it’s clearly a polo term I need to know.
Seeing the game in action is a whole other thing, particularly as Alex is playing.
Talk about a great way to help me appreciate the game.
He’s commanding his horse as though it were an extension of his own body as he whacks his stick at the ball. He’s athletic and strong and proficient and ridiculously sexy. He’s a born athlete, just to add to his ever-growing list of skills.
And oh, my, is he good to watch. Prince Alexander is one fine specimen of manhood.
An involuntary sigh passes my lips.
As his horse gallops, he takes a swing at the ball, his mallet sending the ball flying. I can barely keep my eyes from him, just like every other woman here.
Why do I have to have gotten feelings for the most eligible bachelor in Europe? Talk about inviting unnecessary competition into my life.
He barrels past us on his glistening horse in a flurry of thundering hooves, the smell of the churned grass filling the air. Each time he leans in for a swing, I find myself leaning forward too, holding my breath and waiting for the clunk.
“The prince is in great form today,” Grandpapa says.
