Page 65 of His Royal Highness

I slide off my stool and round the island toward her, putting my hand over hers as she tries to open the box of tea bags. She’s shaking.

“I’m okay. I can’t stand tea. You know that.”

She laughs and sighs, and it’s as bone-weary as we all feel today.

“Whitney?” Derek’s voice calls behind us. He’s at the doorway of the kitchen, motioning for me to join him. “Come on.”

“Don’t be long,” Ava warns. “Dinner will be ready soon and by the looks of it, you both need a decent meal.”

His hand reaches for mine and I let him lead me down the hallway. Though I’ve been in Cal’s penthouse a hundred times before, I rarely go into the private spaces, down the hallways that branch off from the main rooms. Still, from snooping, I know Derek has a room here, the one from his childhood.

That’s where he leads me, closing the door behind him. All the personal items I wanted to find in his apartment are here instead: an old TV with video games stacked beside it, a small framed picture of him playing T-ball. I hold it up and he smiles.

“Had the best batting record in the league.”

I hum, sounding impressed.

There’s a faded Fairytale Kingdom name tag beside the frame. It’s the style the company used years ago. I hold it up and he nods.

“That’s from when I used to sell balloons. Remember?”

How could I forget?

I place it back on his dresser gently and then glance up and catch his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. He’s unbuttoning his jacket, probably anxious to get out of the stuffy costume.

There’s a duffle bag on the bed, no doubt courtesy of Heather. I’m envious. I wish I had a change of clothes. I wasn’t there long, but I still smell like the hospital.

“I need a shower,” Derek says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

He lays his jacket on the bed and then tugs his white shirt out of his pants. I catch a glimpse of his tan torso.

“Come with me?”

My stomach dips as I jerk my gaze back to his. “In…in the shower?”

My voice breaks midsentence.

He nods.

I know it might seem odd, but I don’t get the sense that Derek wants me in the shower so we can get it on. I know he’s a warm-blooded man and I’m a girl who’s waited eight years for him to look at me like he’s looking at me now, but still, there’s no lust in his tone. Not tonight. There’s a vulnerability about him, in the way his frame is slightly sagged, and I realize however hard this day has been for me, it’s been harder on him.

Cal might feel like my only family, but for Derek, he really is.

He turns and heads into the en suite bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, the stream spraying across tile. Steam starts to spill out into the bedroom.

My stomach quivers with nerves, but his invitation hangs like a lasso around my neck, tugging me into the bathroom. The shower glass is already fogged when I peer around the corner and see Derek’s head ducked under the stream. His eyes are closed and the water beats down on his broad shoulders, rolling down his back. I unbutton my jeans and push them to the ground, fold them into a neat stack along with my sweater, and place them beside his on the counter. I keep my panties and bra on, unwilling to part with a small modicum of modesty.

Half of me wants to knock on the glass door before I open it, like, Oh, hello. Mind if I come in?

Instead, I pull it open and step inside. Derek’s head lifts and our gazes lock.

Then his hand shoots out and he tugs me under the water with him.

We don’t kiss. We hug, our bodies completely wrapped around each other. My bra is soaked in seconds and the material is silky smooth against his hot skin. His face is buried in my hair and my cheek is pressed against his chest. My arms wrap around his waist so tight I might be cutting off his circulation.

He turns us, shielding me from the spray of the shower with his body. His hands brush the hair away from my face and he cradles my chin, looking down at me.

I press up onto my toes and kiss his neck, his cheek, his brow, his forehead.

He smiles and reaches for his soap, lathering some in his hands and stepping back so he can wash me.

I stand perfectly still, letting his large hands glide over my skin. He sweeps his sudsy palms up my arms and around my shoulders, dipping his fingers under my bra straps but avoiding my chest. I shiver and he turns me, getting more soap so he can wash my back. The stuff he’s using has a masculine, woodsy clean scent, the kind of soap sold in a dark blue bottle with a picture of a mountain on the label. When we finish, I’ll smell just like him. I won’t want to shower ever again. A small price to pay, I think, to keep his scent on me.

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