Royal Design (The Royals of Monterra #4), page 6
All I could think about was how it felt to be in Enzo’s arms. How safe I’d felt.
Cared for.
I had to remind myself that this was just a job for him, and eventually it would all end.
Even if I found myself not wanting it to.
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning Enzo stopped by the dining room to ask me if I wanted to work out with him. As much as I would have enjoyed the view of Enzo lifting weights, sweaty and sans shirt, I declined. I wasn’t into the whole working out thing. “I would, but I think I have some cupcakes that are going to expire today, so I need to take care of that.”
I told myself to stop thinking about his fine, manly attributes, but I knew that my resolve would last about as long as Ned Stark.
Lemon called, wanting a recap of my disastrous date the night before. I wasn’t sure there were words to explain how awful it had been. It seemed like a dream come true—handsome movie star, big premiere, dressing up—but it had all sucked.
“Well, what did you think of James?”
“On a scale of one to two?” I asked her, and she laughed.
“Surely it wasn’t that bad.”
“I promise you, it surely was.”
“Well, if nothing else, at least it will make for good television, right?” As long as James allowed the footage to be shown. I wasn’t sure he would, considering how he might come off in it.
“Hey, Lemon, I wanted to ask you about this marriage contract thing James mentioned—”
She cut me off. “Would you look at the time? I need to get going. Today I’ve got you scheduled for a date with Oliver Reynolds. Have fun!” The line went dead.
Oliver Reynolds? Should that name mean something to me? I grabbed my laptop, taking it back to the table so that I could finish the most amazing cinnamon rolls while doing some research. I preferred not to be caught off guard again.
Turned out that Oliver Reynolds was one of the world’s biggest soccer stars and highest-paid professional athletes. He was British, with an adorable accent. He had light brown hair, which was shaved on the sides and in the back, but longer on top. It often fell in his face while he was talking, covering up his eyes. When he played games, he pulled it back into one of those man buns.
I was in the middle of watching some highlight reels when a wet-haired Enzo came into the room. “Scoping out your newest conquest?” he asked as he finished putting on his tie.
Even though that was exactly what I was doing, I wasn’t going to admit to it. “No. I’ve watched this sort of stuff before. I like soccer. Especially when they score a touchdown.”
He smirked. “The rest of the civilized world calls it football, not soccer. And when they score, it’s called a goal.”
Oh. I probably should have picked that up from everybody in the crowd yelling “Gooooaaaalllll!” every time the ball went in the net.
Did Monterra not have any ugly bodyguards? Enzo stood there in his Theory suit, drinking his coffee, looking better than any man had a right to. The sun came in through the big windows, showing off some hints of red in his dark hair. He caught me looking at him and winked.
Literally winked at me, and it made the breath in my throat solidify.
Right before I was about to pass out, he asked me who I was stalking online.
I forced myself to breathe. “I’m not stalking anyone. I’m just being very organized. And his name is Oliver Reynolds.”
Enzo knew exactly who I was talking about, and his eyes danced while a huge grin lit up his whole face. “Oliver Reynolds?” he asked, so excited. It was adorable. Like he had his own little man crush on Oliver. “His team, FC Barcelona, is playing an exhibition game against the New York Red Bulls today. I hope this means we get to see it.”
The New York Red Bulls? It didn’t get more corporate American than that, did it?
To Enzo’s delight, we were going to the game. The camera crew arrived, along with my beautifiers, and before I knew it, we were on our way to the Red Bull Arena in New Jersey.
Without meaning to, I kept rehashing everything that had gone wrong on my date with James Cruz. Especially that attempted public kiss.
“What are you thinking about?” Enzo asked.
“When James Cruz tried to kiss me.” I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and I could feel my face flush.
Enzo’s eyes darkened, like it upset him. “When you didn’t let him kiss you, you mean.”
I shrugged one shoulder. Technically, yes.
“Why didn’t you? Most women would have loved that.” He sounded detached, but there was something there that let me know he really didn’t understand it.
“You mean besides the fact that he’s a troll?” I asked. “I didn’t want to, you know, embarrass myself in public.” I could feel my cheeks getting redder.
“Why would you embarrass yourself?”
“Because I haven’t kissed many people”—other than you—“and I didn’t want to look like an idiot and do it wrong.”
He let out a short laugh. “Trust me, you don’t do it wrong. You have nothing to worry about.”
That managed to both set off effervescent bubbles of joy and send shivers up and down my spine. I let out a weak and breathy, “Oh?”
Then Enzo sat too close, his thigh pressing against mine. He laid one arm along the back of the seat. He used his other hand to turn my face toward his, sending jolts of electricity through his fingers into my skin, down into my erratic heartbeat. “Since I’m assigned to protect you, that includes from public humiliation. I would be happy to practice kissing with you. So you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.” His thumb rubbed along my still-hot cheek, making the flush intensify.
His lips hovered so close that mine were quivering in anticipation.
The car came to a stop, and Enzo stared at me for a long moment before he shook his head and pulled away. “Looks like we’re here.” He undid his seatbelt and got out, while I was a pile of excited nerve endings and liquefied bones. Had he been serious? Was he messing with me? Why would he volunteer to kiss me? Er, practice with me?
And was it bad that I wanted to take him up on it?
In the stadium we were directed to a room they called a box, and I again sat alone while Enzo hovered over me and the camera guys filmed. I quickly located Oliver Reynolds and watched as he scored multiple goals, upsetting the hometown crowd.
Oliver’s publicist, an extremely well-put-together woman with a blonde bun so tight it made my face hurt, found us in the box and introduced herself as Lisa. She asked if I’d like to go down to the field and see the players as the game ended. It didn’t sound fun to me, but when I glanced over at Enzo, his face looked like Christmas morning and his birthday all wrapped into one. I couldn’t say no.
So down we went, until we were on the field. Lisa told me that after the game, Oliver hoped to take me to an exclusive nightclub.
This was all part of what I’d agreed to, but I’d never really been the clubbing kind of girl. I would have rather stayed in and watched an old movie. Eating green M&Ms.
And practice kissing with Enzo.
“Deep breaths,” Enzo said, practically making me jump. “Just keep smiling. It will all be over soon.”
I must have been biting my lower lip again. “Isn’t this the part where you say you’ve got my back?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It will depend. I can’t just sign a blank check.”
Enzo was teasing, but I was still nervous. I reminded myself that nothing could be as bad as my date with James Cruz. “Ha-ha. Seriously though, I’ll live through this, right?”
“Of course. But if you don’t, the local news is going to have one fantastic story. ‘New princess dies from terrible date.’”
I laughed, and my insides stopped twisting themselves into knots. The clock was counting down, and Oliver was on his way to the other team’s goal. At the last second, just before the buzzer, he managed some complicated jumping-in-the-air-and-turning-upside-down maneuver to kick the ball in past the other guy’s outstretched hands.
When he made it, Oliver ripped off his soccer jersey and threw it into the crowd. “He does that after every game,” Enzo said. The losing team filed past first, while the Barcelona team celebrated out on the field.
Then Oliver headed in with the rest of his team, stopping when he saw us. “Lisa! Is this Princess Bellamy?” He grinned, resting his hands against the back of his head, stretching out his torso.
He was a professional athlete. It was kind of his job to look like that. Which meant it wouldn’t hurt if I looked, right? It would be offensive to all his hard work if I didn’t.
Too bad we couldn’t have a chest-off between him and Enzo. I’d be down for that.
“Just Bellamy,” I told him. “And this is my bodyguard, Enzo.”
Oliver held out a hand to him. “Nice to meet you, mate.” I’d never actually seen Enzo tongue-tied before, but he didn’t speak as he shook Oliver’s hand. It was actually kind of darling.
“Let me shower and get dressed, and we’ll be off, yeah?”
“Sure thing,” I said. This was already going better than yesterday’s date. Lisa showed us a room we could wait in. Fortunately, my Reformation crew tee and Victoria Beckham jeans could work for clubbing. I just needed some heavier earrings and darker lipstick. I switched out the earrings, and in the middle of applying a new shade of lipstick, I caught Enzo watching me in the reflection of my mirror. When he caught my eye, he quickly looked away. I brushed out my hair and put it up on the top of my head in a ponytail. Dancing would presumably make me hot and sweaty. Heavy hair wouldn’t help with that.
Oliver came out wearing a pair of dark Ralph Lauren jeans and a tight black Givenchy T-shirt. He had combed his long hair back, and I wondered if it would come loose once it dried. “Should we take a picture before we set out?” He held up his camera and pulled me into a one-arm embrace, putting our heads close together. “Smile!” he said, and I did.
He tweeted and Instagrammed it to his followers, and then we were off. Fortunately, this car ride wasn’t silent. He didn’t have a problem with the cameras or Enzo and was so easy to talk to. Oliver was actually interested in me and my life, and he told me lots of things about growing up in the eastern part of London.
We arrived at the club, and with a nod to the burly bouncer, we were all in. Oliver had a hand on the small of my back, directing me where to go. It was hazy and sweaty and had a lot of very drunk people laughing loudly. Loud techno music thumped through the speakers, making it impossible to talk. Maybe that had been the point. Maybe Oliver had lost interest in talking.
But he kept touching me. In little, unobtrusive and inoffensive ways. He would lightly catch my wrist to pull me in one direction, touch my forearm and smile. He yelled something at me that I guessed was him asking if I wanted to dance.
I nodded, and he kept his hand on my back, taking me out onto the dance floor. It had been a very long time since I had gone dancing. Another thing I hoped I didn’t look stupid doing. Maybe I could tell Enzo about that and we could practice dancing.
Along with other things.
Shaking my head, I tried to focus on my date. Who seemed to be having the time of his life and could move like nobody’s business. Most guys I’d seen at school dances just sort of shuffled back and forth, but Oliver had actual rhythm, which made it even more fun.
After we’d been dancing for who knows how long, Oliver leaned in and said really loudly, “I’ll be right back! Meet you in the VIP section!”
I headed over to said VIP section, and it was nice to cool off and sit down. My new Louboutin espadrille wedges were killing my feet, but they were so cute the blisters were worth it.
Enzo handed me a cold bottle of water, and I said thank you before I guzzled the entire thing down in one gulp.
Fortunately, it was quieter here and we could talk to each other without screaming. “It seems to be going pretty good with Oliver. He’s nice.” Okay, admittedly, I wanted to see if this bothered Enzo. I was wildly attracted to the man, and the upset and trust issues I had with him had started fading away as we spent more and more time together. But was I just a job to him, like he kept saying? Or was there anything real between us?
Enzo quirked up one side of his mouth in a half smile. He put a hand flat against my collarbone, which made my pulse plummet and then race. It took me a second to realize that he was covering up my microphone. “He is nice. But gay.”
Did that mean something different in Italian than it did in English? I was so conscious of his fingers pressing against my skin. “He seems into me. I don’t think he’s gay.”
“Bellamy, my entire job consists of observing people and predicting their behavior. I’m not wrong.”
Maybe this was the jealousy I was looking for? But he was so matter-of-fact about it that it bugged me. And it was aggravating that while I was a frantic mess from one touch, he didn’t seem even a little perturbed.
Wouldn’t I have noticed if Oliver was gay? He seemed really attentive. “He’s not, and I’ll prove it.” How I planned on proving it I had no idea. Kissing him? Asking him? Despite not having a plan, I left to go find Oliver and make Enzo eat his words.
But when I rounded a corner near the bathrooms, it was me eating my words. Because there was Oliver, holding hands and sitting very close on a couch with someone.
Someone who was not me.
Someone who was not female.
Enzo turned around to stop the camera crew from seeing anything, and I didn’t know who looked more shocked—me or Oliver.
“I don’t understand.”
Oliver took off the microphone pack that he’d been given, being careful to shut it off. He stood up. “Didn’t your publicist tell you about this?”
I reached up my shirt and turned off my microphone pack, too. “No one told me anything. Why would you go out on a date with me? I thought . . .” I felt too stupid to say I thought that Oliver liked me. That he might be interested in me.
But he looked confused. “I thought you understood the situation. It’s important for all my endorsement deals that the world believes I’m straight. That’s why I date women in public. I can’t believe no one told you.”
Was Lemon out to deliberately sabotage me? Was she trying to make all my dates go bad on purpose? If so, why? Did she think nice, eligible kinds of men wouldn’t be interested in me, so she was resorting to setting me up with crazy actors and gay soccer players? What end game could she possibly have?
Oliver looked so apologetic, but I couldn’t take his pity. “It’s okay. I’m tired, and I think we should call it a night. Thanks. It was fun.”
He nodded and looked like he wanted to say more, but I didn’t let him. Hot, angry tears burned my eyes, and I blinked several times, trying to see.
Enzo cleared a path to the front door where a car waited. I didn’t know who pulled the strings to make everything run so smoothly, but I was grateful for it.
Was this on me? Because somehow I had mistaken friendliness for flirtation? Was I in danger of doing the same thing with my bodyguard? Was I truly that bad at reading signals from men?
A few minutes later, after I’d caught my breath, I said, “I guess you were right, Enzo.”
“Words I do not hear often enough.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Forget about Oliver Reynolds. It’s never good for a long-term relationship when your boyfriend has a boyfriend of his own.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. Even if it was a little.
“Agree to disagree.” He reached over and put his hand on my knee. I stared at it and felt the shooting fireworks that were happening underneath his palm. “Don’t worry, gattina. The right man is out there waiting for you.”
But I discovered that I wanted the right man to be in here, sitting next to me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I yelled at Lemon a lot the next day on the phone, and she apologized profusely. She said we must have gotten our wires crossed somehow and that she thought I knew. She explained that she had a lot going on and sometimes things fell through the cracks.
Like my dignity.
She promised to send me only straight men from now on. And send them she did.
There was an endless parade of beefcake, some famous, some normal. Models, singers, actors, firefighters, police officers, and a couple of teachers.
But not one of them made the mercury in my Hot Guy-O-Meter explode the way that Enzo did.
And some of them were polite, perfect gentlemen. So many were nice guys. Not to be confused with Nice Guys™, the kind who pretended to be nice in hopes that I’d put out. Because there were quite a few dogs on the prowl, too. One guy invited me to breakfast with him by the pool at his hotel, and when I called him out for ogling a girl in a little black bikini, he’d had the audacity to explain to me that since she had exposed 95 percent of her body, he felt obligated to be polite and keep his eyes on the covered parts.
Another told me he wanted to have my babies.
I had one guy ask me if I got my pants on sale, because they were 100 percent off at his place. Then he said something lewd, which does not bear repeating. I had a very satisfying moment when I imagined Enzo punching him out. While shirtless. Because Enzo was always shirtless in my imagination. While he was brushing his teeth, making breakfast, or paying his bills.
