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“Why?” I smile. “You might get attached?”
“Oh, I’m already attached.” And just like that, in front of the whole restaurant, he gets up from his seat and leans over and kisses me, full on the lips. “So damn attached.”
And now I get it.
Why you should never exchange doing stuff like kissing a guy with favors. Because this? This is amazing. And it would absolutely kill me if it was in exchange for anything, or in service of anything else, other than the fact that we both want it.
‘What do you want?’I asked Marco two days ago.
‘You on your knees,’he replied.
I am on my knees now (mentally). Begging for this dinner never to end.
“Tell me your dreams, my queen,” Marco asks, settling back on his chair and taking a sip of water, as if he did not just tilt my whole world with that kiss.
His fingers curl around the glass, and I’m jealous. I want them to curl around my wrist instead. Right.Focus. Be normal.
“University was a big one,” I tell him. “Being normal, for once.” He nods. “After that, I have no idea, but I do want to make a difference somehow. To see if I can use all these stifling rules and power for something useful. I don’t think it can actually be done, however, if I’m honest. Being royal has a very specific job description.”
“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” he says, and he sounds as if he really believes it.
My cheeks flame.
“What are your dreams?” I ask him quickly, embarrassed by what he just said.
“Oh, I don’t have any,” he shrugs, looking out of the window.
“Who has no dreams?”
“Lots of people,” he replies. “Some people…” his voice trails off.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say what you were going to say, please.” Now I’m curious.
He swallows, licks his lips. I almost lose all my concentration and miss what he says next. But I hear it all the same:
“Some people just have to survive,” he says quietly. “They don’t have the luxury to dream.”
I’m silent for a bit. I know that, of course.
“Are you one of these people?” I ask him, my tone matching his.
“I go to UVM,” he says, but his eyes don’t meet mine. “I can afford to dream, my queen.” He’s still looking down.
I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I? And not the good kind.
Marco apologizes to me because his phone is ringing, and he gets up to answer it privately. Left alone for a few minutes, I look around me: the restaurant feels too white, too bright, too noisy.
The magic is gone.
***
“Right,” he says in a businesslike tone as soon as he comes back inside. “Romantic cabin, that’s what it says next.”
“Says where?” I ask, distracted. His lips are red from the cold, and he’s shaking a little bit. I’m not sure if that’s from the cold too or from something else.
