My Prince (5 page)

“Thanks, Mum,” he said with a grin.

“So, you going out with anyone?” she asked, turning back to the girls, who were spilling sprinkles all over the counter.

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. He carefully peeled back the wrapper, then took a big bite of the cake. “Itsh good,” he told her with his mouth still full.

“I’m just interested,” Mum said, holding her hands up in surrender. “You know I worry about you.”

“Worry about me not getting any? You’re too kind.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay out of it.”

“Nan gave me a grilling,” George said.

“About not bringing a nice…
person
home?” She amended her words at the last moment. George hadn’t come out to the youngest kids yet. He wasn’t sure they’d understand, and he didn’t want to be the one to explain the concept of sexuality to them.

“Yes, about bringing a nice
person
home,” he echoed. “I don’t mind. She cares.”

“I care too!” his mum protested.

“I know you do.”

“Mum!” Felicity yelled, far louder than necessary, considering her mother was standing two paces away.

“What?” Mum yelled back at the same volume, making George laugh.

“I think I did it wrong.”

When she turned around, Felicity had chocolate icing all around her mouth, and George laughed harder. It was good to be home.

Six months later

M
ARCH
IN
Edinburgh meant weak sunshine and plenty of rain.

This year it also meant humidity that the city didn’t often experience due to her proximity to whipping sea winds. George
hated
the humidity. It stuck his shirt to his skin and turned the bow tie he was wearing into a noose that he was itching to loosen.

Speaking of itching… George had made a few mistakes in his life. He was a man, he could own up to that.

Buying a tux from Asda was one of those mistakes.

The reasoning behind his purchase had been sound: he’d never worn a tux in the previous twenty-eight years of his life and had no intention of doing so again in the near future. His income was precious and limited, and the budget supermarket was doing an offer for a whole suit for less than fifty quid.

Two hours into the charity gala his boss had forced him to attend, George was regretting being such a cheapskate.

His day job had only the loosest connection to the fundraising that was going on for some children’s charity that was promoting healthy eating and exercise in Scottish kids. It was the Olympic connection that had drawn his boss in, since they’d had several gold medal winners endorsing the company in London, and they were hoping for even more in Rio.

George never thought of his job as particularly sexy, though it was something he loved. He was a sports engineer, designing and building protective clothing used in a variety of sports.

He sidestepped Tony from accounts, turned his back, and snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. He’d pay for it in the morning, but it was the only free alcohol going, and George definitely needed alcohol to get through this evening.

The gala was being held in the National Museum of Scotland, somewhere George had never bothered to visit the whole time he’d been living in Edinburgh. He was regretting that now, and snuck off at one point to go and have a look in the Natural World Gallery. The room was impossibly tall and had animals suspended in midair all the way up the four-story building. A giant T. rex skeleton guarded the entrance.

George sighed and checked his watch again. It was only 9:30 p.m.—they’d be here for hours more yet.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and George whirled around, thinking one of his senior managers had caught him looking bored.

Then he almost,
almost
, lost his cool.

“Hello, George.”

Alex was definitely not wearing a tux from Asda.

He looked good, better than George remembered, and he remembered plenty from that night back in September. Alex’s hair was shorter now, not quite as curled as before, and he had a soft, fuzzy beard. His blue eyes sparkled, and a dimple puckered in his cheek as he smiled at George’s obvious bewilderment.

George nodded. “Your Highness,” he said, and Alex’s smile faded.

“Well, this is awkward,” Alex said with a self-effacing laugh.

“Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

“What, using my official title? I’d say I’m used to it, but I’m not, really.”

Silence fell between them, growing more awkward by the nanosecond.

“Should I have not come over?” Alex asked. He too held a slim champagne flute, and rolled it between his fingers back and forth, back and forth, making the contents fizz up.

“No. I mean, yes. I….” George knew he was flustered, was sure there was a flush on his cheeks. Stupid fucking cheap suit was making him hot. “I’ve kind of spent most of this year regretting not taking your number.”

“I didn’t offer it,” Alex said mildly.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Another awkward silence fell, then Alex reached into the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket and pulled out a light gray business card.

“This is my number,” he said, the soft smile and dimple returning. “I’d like you to call me.”

George nodded, took the card, and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers. “Thanks.”

“I hope you do,” Alex said, then started to move away.

“Alex,” George said. His hand shot out and gripped Alex’s arm, probably too tightly, too intimately, for this setting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who….” George felt stupid then. “Who you are.”

Alex laughed. “It was a one-night stand, George. I’m not a massive dick. I don’t use my family as a pickup line.”

“Oh.”

He smiled again, his eyes a little sad now. Then he reached up and touched George’s cheek with his knuckles, very briefly. And walked away.

F
OR
THE
rest of the evening, George fought an ongoing battle with his erection, which was happily threatening to chub up, and the temptation to search the cavernous room for Alex. For the event, the different features that usually stood in the museum’s main hall were pushed to the sides or moved away altogether, leaving plenty of space for several hundred guests.

George caught sight of him a few times, always at a distance, never close enough for Alex to notice his creepy, stalkerish staring, thank God. The guy had been George’s main spank bank material for the first part of the fucking year, and now he was sauntering around, looking far sexier than he had any right to, smiling and laughing and being an altogether great guy.

Fuck him.

By the end of the evening, George was tipsy, not drunk; he’d made sure to stay out of that territory while his boss was around. The last thing he wanted to do was be
that guy
, the guy who got drunk at charity galas for children.

People started filing out of the museum at eleven, and for some reason it took forever for George to collect his coat from the concierge and join the enormous queue outside for a taxi.

The humidity had broken and the rain had thundered down earlier in the evening. Now there was a light drizzle falling, enough to make George decide against walking home. He didn’t want to get soaked through.

“Are you following me?”

George whirled around, frowning at Alex and his enormous golf umbrella that he held over George so he didn’t get quite so wet as he waited.

“No,” George said, affronted.

“I’m only teasing,” Alex said. He was still smiling. “Not going on to town, then?”

“No,” George said again. “I have to be in work tomorrow.”

“Really? It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“I know that. I have a really important project I’m working on, and it has to be delivered, so I’m taking the overtime.”

“Oh,” Alex said. “Fair enough.”

They were quiet for a moment, and the queue edged forward.

Then it dawned on George.

“Were you hoping for—”

“No,” Alex said, laughing again. He did that a lot. Smiled a lot, laughed a lot. It was weird. “I gave you my number because I want to
see
you again, George. Maybe take you out for dinner or a drink. I don’t know.” He looked around and smirked, lowering his voice. “Some social activity before we try to fuck each other’s brains out again.”

“Oh.”

Alex’s hand landed on his arm and squeezed gently. “I’d like to repeat our last night together,” he said quietly, “but maybe on different terms.”

“Like what?”

“Dating terms?”

“You want to date me?”

“I’d like to try it, yeah,” Alex said, grinning. “You’re interesting to me. And very hot. It’s a good combination.”

They were almost at the front of the queue now, and the taxis were moving up toward them.

“Anyway,” Alex said, “after you.”

A member of the museum’s staff team was organizing the taxis, and he held open the door for George.

“Where to, sir?”

“Uh, Leith,” George said. “Just off Leith Walk.” He turned to Alex. “I’ll….”

“Call me?”

George laughed. “Sure.”

He hopped into the cab, and it was pulling away before he had a chance to say anything else. The rain had stopped, but the cab driver still had his wipers going, and they squeaked obnoxiously over the glass. George felt itchy again, but in a different way now.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dug out Alex’s card. It was simple: a textured gray card, Alex’s name printed on it, his phone number and e-mail. Just “Alex van Amsberg.” No mention of his royal title at all.

George plugged the number into his phone and saved it, then felt flustered with the thought of sending a message. It was too soon. It was stupid.

Hi. This is George. So you have my number.

Send.

Done.

He turned the phone over and over in his hands, feeling stupid, feeling a knot in his stomach for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

I thought you were going to call me?

I will. Wanted you to know who it was when I called, tho. You might not answer unknown numbers.

That’s a reasonable explanation. Are you home yet?

Almost. You?

Yeah. I would have walked, but then I wouldn’t have had an excuse to wait with you.

George’s breath caught in his throat.

“Where to, mate?” the driver asked.

“Anywhere along here.” The rain had stopped, and there was a cut-through he could take from the main road back to the house.

“Nine forty, please.”

George handed him a tenner and waved away any change. He was tired—he could feel the dragging behind his eyes that told him he needed sleep, and plenty of it, before he went in to work in the morning.

Still, he brushed his teeth in the horrible moldy bathroom before going to bed, and layered up to try to stay warm through the night. Before turning off the light, George turned his phone over and over in his hands, wondering what to say. It was his turn to text back. In the end, he just said:

Good night, Alex.

H
E
DIDN
’
T
have to wait long for Alex to call. They had exchanged a few messages through the week, an easy back and forth, and George quickly realized Alex was very easy to tease. It was cute.

George had missed a call from Alex while he was at work; the first chance for him to return it was as he dashed through the busy, rainy streets on Friday afternoon.

“What, do you think I don’t already have plans for Friday night?” George asked and Alex huffed in response.

“Do you?”

“I might.”

“Fine. I respect the fact that you have an active and stimulating social life. Do you want me to pick you up?”

George picked up his pace—it was cold out, and his hot lunch was going to be not hot by the time he got back to the office.

“It depends. Where are we going?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Alex’s voice was warm, and George could hear the smile in it.

“Well, if you want to take me to Glasgow, then yeah, pick me the fuck up. If we’re going down to the Old Town, then I can walk or get a bus.”

“Okay, I’m picking you up. Leith Walk, right?”

“Are you stalking me?”

George jogged up the steps to his office and pressed his security pass against the barrier, waited for it to beep, then pushed through.

“No, I’m not stalking you. When you got the taxi, after the benefit, remember? You said Leith Walk.”

“Right.”

“So, what number?”

George paused, then rattled off the address.

“Great. Can you be ready for eight?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” George echoed and ended the call.

Since the company was small, the owners decided to use a shared office space rather than owning one. It was barely worth it anyway for a dozen employees, so they had a corner of a floor in a huge building.

It was Friday, so the office was much quieter than during the week. Half the people on this floor either didn’t work Fridays, worked from home, finished at lunchtime, or plain didn’t show up.

George liked his space in this office. He had a desk in the corner, next to the window, and the setup meant no one could see what was on his computer screen unless they were standing next to him. He wasn’t quite bold enough to look at porn at work, like he knew some people did, but if he spent an hour or so browsing the Internet, no one noticed or cared.

He carefully pried open the plastic box that held his jacket potato, which had some cheese, bacon, and mayonnaise sludge melting into it. It looked disgusting, sure, but the sandwich shop just down the road from the office did the best jacket potatoes in Edinburgh, he was sure of it.

Since it was Friday, and no one was around to care, George brought up the BBC Sport website and kicked back, happy to skive off work for a little while longer.