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“Their loss. You’ve got a good laugh.”
“Lola—”
“I really do need to go. ’Bye, Garrett.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. And before I can change my mind.
Chapter 6
Garrett
She hung up on me.
Lola Barnes. Hung up. On me.
Hours later and my mind is still boggled.
No woman has ever hung up on me before. Nobody has ever hung up on me before. When you’re royalty, it just isn’t done.
Lola obviously didn’t get the memo, though. Then again, from the moment I met her, nothing about this woman’s reaction to me has been normal or expected. It’s why I’m still thinking about her two days later. And why I’m now more determined than ever to see her again.
The fact that she doesn’t feel the same way is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. I’ve brokered numerous treaties that government experts said couldn’t be done. Surely I can convince one sassy, intriguing, sexy-as-fuck woman to have a meal with me.
The old Garrett certainly would have been able to.
But as a knock sounds on my office door, I’m forcibly reminded that I’m not the old Garrett. And I probably never will be again.
“Come in,” I call, even as I pretend to focus on the laptop in front of me. Scrolling through email is a normal thing for a person to do, I remind myself. Even if there are no longer any messages of import to deal with.
“Hello, Your Highness.”
“Hello, Michael. How are you today?”
“Good, thanks. And you?”
“Great, as always.” I wave the man who has been both my nemesis and my salvation these last nine months toward a chair. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. Yada, yada, yada.”
“Optimistic as always, I see.”
“Optimistic is my middle name.” I gesture to the coffee service sitting on the table in front of me. “Would you like some?”
“Just had some, actually.”
“Well, have a seat, then
. I’ll be with you in just a second.”
As Michael seats himself in the chair opposite me, I stubbornly keep my eyes on my laptop. It’s a weak power play, one I’m sure he’ll see through the way he always sees through me. But as I scroll down an email about yet another ridiculous gala I’m supposed to attend in a few weeks, I focus on it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Buying time. Trying to pretend—to both of us—that everything is normal. That I’m normal and so is the life I’m living now.
He waits patiently. Everyone does when you’re royal—can’t rush the man who might be king, even if the gallows is no longer a thing. Michael’s patience is different, though. Part kind, part cunning, I’ve done enough of these song-and-dance routines with him to know that it’s designed to get me to speak.
And I will. I always do. I just need a minute to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.
Seconds tick by, become minutes.
Today—much like the first time I met with Michael—I don’t have a clue where to start.
