Except this is alcohol, so it isn’t exactlyjuvenile,which means it’s a fullyadulttaunt and not matching him would let him win more than resisting on principle would.
Yeah, that’s a strong argument.
Regardless, I force the gulp down, a cough welling deep in my lungs, but I will die before I admit how much I hate strong liquor.
I toss back the rest of my whiskey before I can psych myself out.
Holy fucking shitballs goddamn.
I’m not sure where I find the fortitude to hold in my wheezing gasp, but it’s good to know that when I need to, I can completely control my faculties.
The butler materializes from nowhere and refills both our glasses.
Great.
Lochlann’s gray eyes are pinned on me. Making indentations in my face.
“You all right there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his chuckle.
My neck is bulging against my too-snug tie, throat on fire and eyes tearing, and the only solace is that he talked first. “Fine,” I manage. “Where’s your king?”
I want to subtly insert that Lochlann isnotin charge, not really.
The warmth of the whiskey streaks in lightning arches through my chest.
Well.
That’s okay then.
Lochlann lets his glare hang on me, and when he smiles this time, it’s significantly less performative and more annoyed.
“Off on business. He’ll be at the St. Patrick’s Day Dublin parade, though, if you’re so keen to meet him.”
“I get you all to myself, then.” I give another beaming smile and throw it at the princesses too. “Along with your sisters, of course.”
Lochlann rolls his eyes. “Fucking show pony,” he grumbles.
“Sorry?”
He looks straight at me. “I said you’re a fucking. Show. Pony.”
I laugh, totally humorless. “And yet, youclaimedto have no idea who I was in Cambridge. Wouldn’t afucking show ponylike me have registered in your memory more?”
Did you actually know who I was, you dick?
“You might’ve,” he snipes, “only I did na expect an esteemed Prince of Christmas to be slumping round with coffee-stained sweats and scraggly hair. So you’ll have to forgive me for not automatically recognizing Your Highness.”
My neck aches with how tightly I clamp my jaw.
Okay. Yes. I was a bit… underdressed that day.
But I twist to rip into him when Siobhán bolts up straight.
“Will you be running in the race tomorrow, Prince Kristopher?” she asks in a rush, like she’s been working through possible questions and finally figured out the best one to start with.
Lochlann drops his eyes from me, pushing soup around his bowl.
My smile for Siobhán is real. “You can call me Kris.”
