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Our eyes meet when I take the tea, and I look for something in those haunting gray irises. They give me nothing. Neither coldness or annoyance or even a little bit of amusement. I find this weirdly comforting.
He clears his throat and watches me drink my tea. I stare at the mug, finally deciphering the words, then take a sip. It’s perfect tea, and he’s invited to stay as long as he wants, as long as he continues to make tea precisely like this.
He seems to be waiting for me to speak, so I say, “It’s good. Thank you, ‘World’s Best Big Brother.’”
Sigurd looks confused, but then his cheeks flush. “Present from my sister when she was just a wee thing,” he says, nodding toward the mug in my hands.
“Ah. From Princess Flora?”
He nods curtly and walks away, finished with hovering over me, I suppose.
I feel like an idiot. Of course, it was from Princess Flora. You know this man and all his siblings. Would there be anyone else related to him that you don’t know? It’s hardly possible with the reputations of the Reckless Royals, as the media calls them.
He comes back a moment later, holding a flashlight.
“Hold still and do not blink.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t repeat himself; he only clicks on the light and shines it directly into my left eye.
With a harrumph, he forces my eyelid open and moves in closer. Then he repeats this with my other eye.
Okay, now I feel the urge to run because he’s touching my face, but then I remind myself he’s checking me over for a concussion. He’s helping me because I might be injured. Still, he could have asked before scooping me up and putting his hands all over my face.
“Any nausea?”
I shake my head no, controlling my urge to punch him in the throat. But he is royalty, and I wouldn’t dare. Plus, he seems to know what he’s doing.
You can’t trust a man just because he’s royalty. But this one has huge, weathered hands. Sexy hands, with sinew and soft hairs along the back…thick knuckles that have been cut, bitten, and healed over…calloused fingertips that have swung an ax and held the hand of a little sister.
Gah. Get a grip, Stasi.
I’m attaching a lifetime of stories to a man I barely know. He rescued me, he’s being kind to me, and on top of all that, he’s not hitting on me even a little bit. Therefore, my brain wants to attach to him.
And then I remember that he’s probably here because he wants his tip money back. Jerk.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door. Desperate to end this moment, I stand up to answer it. “That’ll be my groceries!” I say.
“Hey, I said to be still,” Sigurd says, his voice hard but not scolding.
Ignoring him, I answer the door to a sweet young twenty-something carrying several boxes of groceries.
“Hi!” I say.
The kid’s eyes travel over my body before he corrects himself. It’s…uncomfortable.
“Come on in,” I say.
“Stay right there,” the grumpy bear growls behind me.
The bear reaches past me and takes the box of groceries out of the bag boy’s hands. “I’ve got it.”
I sigh. “Please come in while I get my cash to tip you,” I tell the young man.
Despite the prince’s bad attitude, he takes my groceries from the bag boy and sets them on the kitchen table. Then the prince returns to the door and blocks it with his big shoulders, his arms crossed in front of his brawny chest.
“Come on,” I say, chuckling and rifling through my wallet and pulling out a few small bills for the lad.
