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I shake my head, eyelids drooping. “I can’t.”
“Please, Jazz. Keep it.”
“You’ve already given me too much.”
“You have a habit of refusing my gifts.” I can hear the smile in his voice without even seeing his face. We drive in silence for a while, until the car slows and makes a few tight turns. When I look outside, we’re driving along the tarmac toward the royal jet.
My heart thumps and I finally lift my head to look at Silas. His hand is still on my thigh, radiating calm and warmth through me.
“Will you tell me how your mom’s doing?” Silas asks. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“You have my phone number?” I frown.
His smile makes my insides soft and squishy. “I was hoping you’d give it to me.”
A tiny, faraway voice in my mind screams at me to refuse. To stick to my convictions and keep my distance—but the Prince and I have crossed so many lines tonight, what’s one more? I know I’m a reporter, and being here with him, accepting his help—it doesn’t look good.
But what do I care how things look when my mother is in a hospital bed waiting for me?
So I pull out a business card and give it to the Prince, writing my personal phone number on the back of it. “Either number will work,” I say, pointing to the personal and work numbers.
His smile makes my heart flip, and when he takes the card from me and slips it into his breast pocket, I feel like I’ve crossed another line without even really feeling it. One that, somehow, is more significant than kissing him in my hotel room.
At that moment, when he takes my phone number and gives my thigh a gentle squeeze, I realize I want him to call me. I want to feel like this again—supported, comforted, not entirely alone. I want to hear his voice when I snuggle into bed tomorrow night. I want to know that this won’t be the last time I’m alone with him.
Our driver opens the door for me and I give the Prince one last glance. “Thank you, Silas,” I say quietly.
He smiles gently. “Any time.”
It’s a platitude. It’s something people say all the time—but when Prince Silas says it, it sounds like he really means it, like he’d go to the ends of the earth to help me when I need it.
As I walk away from him, my heart riots in my chest. Everything I know about the royals, about the elite, about people who are supposedly in a higher class than me—it all points to him not caring. I shouldn’t believe him when he says he’d help me any time. I should keep my guard up and know that I can only count on myself.
But Silas isn’t Liam Birchal. Everything the Prince has done has been the opposite of what I’d expect, from listening to me to protecting me to helping me get back home when I need it most.
I settle into my seat, accept a warm towel from the air hostess, and stare out of the plane window at Silas’s car as it drives away.
Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I generalized after having my teenage heart broken, and I’ve been carrying around bitterness that doesn’t need to live within me.
Maybe Silas is as good as he seems.
17
Silas
It’s hard to watch Jacinthe walk away from me when all I want to do is go with her. I grip the edges of my seat and nod to the driver when he asks if I’m ready to leave, even though every part of me wants to stay, run up those airplane steps, and put my arms around Jazz.
Instead, I let him drive me back off the tarmac and toward my hotel. Unable to resist, I pull Jazz’s card out of my pocket and send her a quick text wishing her a safe flight.
Aloof and cool? Probably not, but I’m a grown man and I hate playing games. I like her—a lot. What happened in her hotel room felt like the first real thing I’ve experienced in a while. Like she realigned every cell in my body and now I know what I want.
Her.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later. Jazz says thank you. I stare at the message for a stupidly long time, fingers hovering over the screen, heart thumping, wondering what I should answer.
I settle on no response for fear of embarrassing myself, and slip my phone back into my pocket. Seeing nothing on my way back to the hotel, I'm in a daze as I make it up the elevator and into my room. My bed is cold.
After a day off on Sunday, Monday morning feels heavy. Paul greets me with a cup of coffee and a fresh itinerary. His eyes linger on mine, a strange gleam in them. It’s too early for this. I can’t find hidden meaning in my assistant’s gaze, so I ignore it until it dulls. I sigh, nodding and listening to him talk as my mind whirls thousands of miles away, in Nord. There was no text message from Jazz this morning, and I wonder how her mother is doing. How she’s doing.
