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She actually smiled. It was a welcoming smile, one he’d needed to see badly.
Tristan smiled in return, the scars on his cheek pulling tight and his gut churning with apprehension. Jenn was sweet, but she could sass and tease with him. She had once shared her secrets with him too—at least, she had done so before she’d left him eight months ago. Why had she left?
A sickening thought occurred to him. They’d all stewed about whether Henry was in league with William Rindlesbacher, or at least still his puppet because William had taken Leslie as his bargaining tool. What if Jennifer had returned to help her father get her mum back, and part of that plan involved duping the prince who she knew would do anything for her? She could be helping William succeed in his schemes.
Jennifer wouldn’t do that, would she? Could the beautiful woman he loved be a traitor?
“What answers would you like?” she asked while he stewed about her disappearance, her return, her intentions, and if she still loved him like he did her.
“Why did you leave?”
Because he wasn’t enough? Because he was too slow to get the two-karat ring he’d purchased a few weeks before her departure on her finger? Because she didn’t want to be the next queen of Augustine? With her, he could rule the country with benevolence, equality, and happiness. Their country would flourish. Without her … emptiness.
“Not that question.” Her expression closed off.
She owed him a lot of answers. How could he convince her to open up?
“You used to tell me everything.” He eased closer but didn’t touch her. Her pulse raced like mad in her throat. “Remember that night when you chose dare after dare—jumping off a forty-foot ledge into the lake, running through Greenville screaming that Voldemort was chasing you, singing the ‘you got any grapes’ song on the church steps, before finally, finally admitting the truth to me—that I was the best kisser you’ve ever been blessed to tangle lips with?” His voice got husky and far too telling. They’d been nineteen, so young and in love. That blissful and carefree night was also the first night he’d admitted out loud that he loved her. Even though he’d told her repeatedly that they had ‘true love.’
“I remember,” she whispered. A genuine smile decorated her already perfect face. She leaned closer, and he was certain she would let him prove he was still the best kisser.
She softly touched his cheek, trailing her fingers across his scars, and murmured, “I’m terribly sorry you were injured.”
In his mind, it was the first time she’d noticed the scars. She’d seen him all along; the way he looked literally changed nothing. It made him so happy, but he also felt the need to deflect. He hated the scars and didn’t want her dwelling on them.
“Makes me even more devastatingly handsome and I get sympathy attention from all the women, you see.” He was joking as he’d always done, an instinctive defense for him, especially about the scars. He expected her to come back with a tease about what a large ego he had. Instead, she withdrew her hand and her generous mouth tightened.
“I’m certain the crown prince doesn’t need to be any more handsome or get any more female attention.” She flipped her bronzed curls over her shoulder.
His eyebrows shot up. “If you’d be mine again, I wouldn’t need anyone’s attention but yours … ever.” She had to know that was true and always had been.
Instead of agreeing, she glowered at him. “You’ve made it abundantly clear over the past eight months that isn’t true.”
“Pardon me?” Tristan’s neck got hot. “Do I need to remind you which one of us ditched the other with no forwarding address?”
“As if my address would’ve been so difficult to obtain.” She planted her hands on her hips, her dark eyes sparking fire at him. “You are in meetings with my father every day and you never once thought to casually ask, ‘Pardon me, sir, where is my former-girlfriend Jennifer residing currently?’”
Former girlfriend? That was a horrible phrase. But wait—she didn’t know the truth of what had happened between him and the prime minister. His anger flared to life, but not at her—at Henry.
“Jenn.” He kept his voice low and carefully restrained. “I asked, I begged, I pleaded with your father to give me your location. He wouldn’t breathe even a hint of where you’d gone. He said you couldn’t love me any longer and didn’t want me coming after you.”
She studied him, eyes narrowed as if checking for a lie.
He held her gaze evenly. “Have I ever lied to you, Jenn?”
“No,” she admitted. Her lower lip quivered. “But I don’t know you anymore.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t changed.” He touched his face and tried for a charming smile, but it felt as strained as it probably looked. “Besides some new decorations on my left side.”
“My data plan picked up the internet on occasion.” She arched an eyebrow, as if that was all she needed to say. She didn’t care about his scars, but something else he’d done had royally ticked her off.
“And …?”
“You’re a player now, Prince Malik. Oh, excuse me, I mean Prince Tristan.”
Before reconnecting with Sophie Pederson, Tristan’s youngest brother had been a known flirt and proficient womanizer, spreading his charm across all of Europe.
“You call me T,” he reminded her. How dare she call him Malik? She didn’t know how deeply Malik, or he, had suffered. “And I am no player.”
