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“Can you get my friend here a…?”
“Fat free caramel mocha, please. No cream,” she said, smiling and friendly the whole time. “Thank you.”
So much for her never saying please and thank you.
She was proving him wrong on so many aspects without even trying. Usually, that pissed him off, but in this case? It was refreshingly good news. “Living dangerously, I see,” he murmured. “Who doesn’t get whipped cream?”
Tossing her hair behind her back, she met his stare head on. “I don’t live dangerously at all, for the most part. Taking risks is foolish and irresponsible.”
Spoken like a true princess.
“I agree.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in front of his stomach. “If everyone got whipped cream on their mochas, just think of the madness that could ensue. Rioting. Murder. Downright insanity.”
She laughed. It was perfect. Almost as if she practiced it everyday until she got it just right. “All right, Mr. Ass Pants.”
He choked on a laugh. “Mr. What?”
“Umm…” She froze, looking mortified. “Isn’t that a phrase here?”
“No.” Laughing fully now, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “I think you were going for Mr. Smarty Pants. Or maybe smart ass. But the two don’t really get combined.”
“Oops. See what happens when I try to be silly? Utter madness.”
“I think it’s refreshingly cute,” he countered. “Not mad at all.”
She blushed. Actually blushed. “Thank you.”
That was twice in one minute. He’d been so wrong.
And he had no idea what to do with that knowledge.
He shook his head, unable to look away from her. She was so…beautiful. Even more so now that he knew she didn’t have a stick lodged permanently up her ass as he’d originally suspected. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing just yet, though, because it made her even more tempting than before.
The barista came over, a to-go cup in her hand. “Here you go. That’ll be four twenty-six.”
Isabelle reached into her purse, but Gordon beat her there. After handing the cash to the worker, he smiled at Isabelle. “I’ve got it.”
“This isn’t a date,” she said, her lips twitching. “I should pay.”
“In America, we pay when we want to.” He locked gazes with her. “And I want to.”
“You keep throwing that statement at me. ‘In America, we…’ fill in the blank.”
He snorted. “I’ll be honest. We love ‘filling in’ stuff here in America. I can’t argue with that.”
She covered her face. “Oh my.”
“It’s okay. You kinda walked into—”
“Excuse me?” the stern faced, pinch-lipped, gray haired woman interrupted. Gordon recognized her as one of Isabelle’s assistants…or whatever they were called. “We need to go now.”
“Hello,” he said. Time to come clean and tell Isabelle who he really was. He didn’t mind doing so anymore, because he liked her now. A lot. Too much, maybe. “Don’t worry. I’m her—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.” She frowned at him, as if he was dirtying Isabelle by simply being near her. Truth be told…he might be doing precisely that. He wasn’t exactly a prince or anything. “We need to go. You have a schedule to stick to.”
Isabelle’s hands dropped, and she looked up at the woman. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be right over, Mary.” She sat up straighter, her face falling back into that regal expression. “Thank you.”
And right now, he saw the princess he’d expected to see. Regal. Proper. Uptight. Spoiled. “Duty calls, huh?”
