Page 64 of River & Rue

“This looks amazing. Thanks. I didn’t know the kitchen delivered to the cabins. Or served breakfast this late.”

“It doesn’t. I may have called Kirk and threatened to complain to PAC’s board about the unlabeled drugs floating around.”

“Diabolical. I approve.”

I grab a thick strip of still-warm bacon and tear into it with a groan of bliss. Four rapid bites later, I’m licking my fingers and reaching for another one.

River coughs. “Here.”

As I lift my head, a cloth napkin smacks me in the face. I manage to catch it before it lands in my food.

“That was rude.”

“The sound effects were rude.”

I frown. “What?”

He blinks. “What?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. I must have misheard him.

River stabs a fork into his eggs and brings the bite to his mouth. His lips part, then close and compress. Clean silver tines slide out. Each chew is slow, precise, his dimple winking in and out of sight as his jaw works. A swallow ripples the strong column of his throat.

He licks his lips. “Hungry?”

I fumble for my fork. “Totally. Just, uh, feeling that chemical jet lag.”

“Mmm.”

The gravelly hum hooks my gaze, dragging it up against my will. His eyes are doing that soft-slicing thing again.

“Eat, Princess.”

24

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As a pet name, Princess has never appealed to me. Too easily and often, I’ve heard it used to catcall, belittle, or infantilize. At best, it’s a patronizing endearment that reduces women to one-dimensional, helpless-damsel archetypes in order to prop up fragile egos.

Except in romance novels.

If the man is written by a woman, I’m usually all for it. But specific conditions still have to be met. Either the sobriquet is a kink explored between consenting partners, or the male love interest has a proven track record of respecting the female main character’s autonomy. Then the nickname isn’t demeaning—it’s an incredibly sexy proclamation of fealty, adoration, and support.

But that’s me. Whether or not a woman enjoys a pet name is ultimately up to her. Context matters. So do personality and life experience.

I’ve never had a boyfriend call me anything but a generic babe here and there, so the fact River has given me two nicknames is a bitter pill to swallow. Not because he’s mocking me—although he often does—but because I have no control over how Ruin and Princess make my confused, affection-starved heart feel. Like I matter, like I deserve special distinction. Like I’m his.

And that, as they say, fucking sucks.

I consume my breakfast with barely restrained violence, aggressively chewing and swallowing bite after bite. Meanwhile, every quick glance across the table confirms that River is unbothered. He eats calmly, pausing only when his phone buzzes. A few times, I catch him smiling as he responds to whoever’s texting him, and it makes me want to stab him with my fork.

I’m not emotionally stunted; at least not enough to misidentify this feeling. Jealousy. I’m feeling uncontainable, utterly asinine jealousy because those smiles are for someone else.

“You okay?”