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“Lunch?” Even though a part of me was expecting the invite—why else would he be calling?—I’m still surprised. I mean, it was surreal enough to run into him at a local lake the other day. But this?
“Lunch,” he repeats. “That meal between breakfast and dinner?”
“I know what lunch is. I’m just…surprised.”
“That it exists?”
“That you want me to share one with you.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” His voice is warm, bemused, and I kind of want to wrap myself up in it. Which is reason enough for me to take a giant step back.
Men are often amusing, sometimes pleasurable, and always forgettable is a motto I live by. Which means that thinking about wrapping myself up in a man’s voice—or any other part of him—is totally off the table.
“Look, Garrett, I’m flattered. But I thought it was obvious the other day that I’m not into bowing and scraping.”
“Oh, believe me, it was. Then again, I thought I made it more than obvious that I’m not either.”
“You’re a prince.”
“Second in line to the throne. Of a lesser principality. There’s a lot less bowing and scraping than you might think.”
It’s the last thing I expect him to say and I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. The whole self-deprecating charm thing is…charming.
“Maybe so, but you’d never know it from the tabloid articles.”
He snorts. “You don’t want to know what I think about tabloids.”
There’s more than annoyance in his tone now, and I can’t help flashing back to the million or so stories that have been written about him in the last year. Can’t help thinking about the pictures that leaked after his rescue, pictures of pain, torture, emotional devastation.
It makes me feel like a jerk for being so flippant, when I rarely let myself feel much of anything at all. This guy has been to hell and back several times. The fact that he’s still a sane, functioning human being is worthy of more respect than I’ve shown him so far.
“I bet. I’m s—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, please don’t apologize. I’ve had far too many apologies from far too many people over the last nine months. They don’t…” He cuts himself off, as if suddenly aware of how much he’s revealing. And how vulnerable those revelations make him.
Because just the mere idea of being vulnerable makes me itch, I cut the poor guy some slack with a quick topic change. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get going. I have a work call scheduled to start in three minutes.”
“A work call.” He sounds surprised. Then again, most of the non-torture-related tabloid pics of Garrett show him frolicking with socialites who don’t have a clue what work is.
“I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business?”
“You got my phone number and not my bio?”
“The bio seemed like prying.”
“Nice to know you’ve got your standards.” The alarm on my phone goes off, announcing that my calls starts in one minute. “I really do have to go.”
“What about lunch?”
I think about it. For about one second. But the rest of my day is jam-packed, and making room for a guy who just wants to get laid—no matter how charming he is—isn’t in the cards. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m busy all day.”
“What about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, too. And then I leave for Paris. But it was nice meeting you, Your Royal Hotness.”
He laughs. “No one’s ever called me that to my face before.”
