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Rowan
I can’t blamethe Scotch whisky for what’s going on in my body—this goes much deeper than a shot and a half of alcohol. I’m burning up. I follow the Prince out of the main room and through a doorway, stealing glances at his broad frame. Every step he takes reminds me of the power inside him. Every movement, so controlled and restrained, makes me want to melt into his arms.
…but I said no.
I pushed him away and told him I didn’t want to take it any further.
That’s the right thing to do…right? Sleeping with him would be fun tonight, maybe, but I’d regret it tomorrow. This is work, after all. He’s royalty.
I’m only a contractor here to do a job. I’ll be gone as soon as the storm clears.
So why does this taste a lot like regret?
My heart beats erratically, bouncing against my chest as I struggle to regain control over myself. Every stitch of clothing feels too tight. The cottage feels smaller somehow, as if all the heat of my desire is pouring into the air and stifling me.
Wolfe pushes a door open and has to bend his head to step through. We walk into a dim space, and the Prince hits a switch. Lights fizzle and pop as they turn on, bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow.
We’re in a studio.
Blank canvasses lean against the far wall beside a huge shelf full of art supplies. A stack of easels is propped against the side wall, covered in a thick layer of dust.
But my eyes drift to the left, where a blank wall has been covered with dozens of paintings. Big and small, they cover the space. I drift over to them, eyes widening.
“Is this…?” I peer at the first painting, recognizing some of the sketches from the archives, where they’d been reproduced in history books.
“My great-great-grandfather painted that. I might have missed a great in there.” The Prince grins. “He lived here full-time.”
“That’s what the palace used to look like?”
“He helped design it. Showed this painting to the architects and builders, and they made it happen.”
My jaw hangs open as I stare at him. “This is the original painting?”
Dipping his chin down, he lets his hand sweep across my lower back. His touch feels so good, I find myself leaning into it. We take a step over, staring at the next set of paintings. A view from the castle out to the meadows in full bloom. A brown bear is in the foreground with a cub.
I shake my head. “Gorgeous.”
“When it was first built, the palace served as a place to hold court, too. There were offices and community events here. It was the real seat of power in the kingdom.”
“And that changed when Stirling became the capital?”
“Sometime in the last hundred years, the Summer Palace became a vacation home for the royal family. The gates were made taller, and it was closed off from the public, except for approved tours during periods my family isn’t here.”
“You don’t agree with that?”
Wolfe lets out a sigh, pinching his lips together. “I think we have an opportunity to give this place back to the people. Show the people that the royal family remembers where we came from.”
I nod, my eyes lingering on the Prince. He stares at the centuries-old paintings, a wistful look in his eyes. I wonder, not for the first time, who this man really is. Is he the cold, rude man I first thought? Or is he a man who’s seen trauma, death, grief—and wants to give something back?
“What’s your vision for the Summer Palace?” I ask.
The Prince flashes a smile at me. “You’re the architect.”
“You’re the client. You’ve already shot down my first design. I need direction.”
“We can’t spend millions making a beautiful palace that will look good on postcards,” the Prince says after a pause. “This has to mean something more.”
“An homage to Nord’s birthplace.”
