Simultaneous orgasms? She really was living a fairy tale.
Gently, stroking her everywhere, Elias eased both of them back onto the sheets. “I like your American way of dating.”
Uh-oh. That wasn’t a precedent she necessarily wanted to set. “Well, we don’t always skip straight to the sex.”
“Duly noted.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Let me try it my way next. I’ll cook you dinner, and we won’t have sex again until you’re properly fueled. One caveat, though.”
She’d pretty much agree to anything he suggested at this point. “What’s that?”
“There’s a strict dress code. You’re required to only wear my shirt. Unbuttoned, of course.”
“Of course. As long as you only wear an apron.”
“I don’t own an apron.”
Even better. “Then I guess you don’t get to wear anything.”
“I’ll have your eyes on me the whole time. That’s more than enough.”
Oh, wow. Kelsey adored this man.
Chapter Twelve
Kelsey looked in the mirror.
It showed the reflection of all the other mirrors in the palace’s hair salon. The reflections of Genevieve, Mathilde, Agathe…and Mallory. All lined up like that, under the bright bubble lights circling each station, it was unarguably obvious that she was a part of the Villani family.
And that she and Mallory looked absolutely nothing alike. Sure, Elias’s fingerprint test had already told her that she wasn’t truly a Wishner. They’d done a blood test, too, since she’d arrived. But accepting the words and seeing the proof of generations of blond, violet-eyed women around her were very different things.
Just like watching Elias move with cat-like grace across the gardens and watching that same feline grace as he crawled naked across the bed to her were very different things.
Yup. That’d been her Saturday so far. No matter what she did, or thought, after a maximum of five minutes, her thoughts circled back to last night’s date with her handsome bodyguard.
And oh boy, did he know her body now.
“Valentina, are you quite all right? You look flushed.” Mathilde clapped a plump hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Kelsey. Old habits are hard to break, but I do promise I’m trying.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate the effort, and I’m fine.” Her cheeks, throat, and chest were as pink as cotton candy, but yeah, fine. “Just nervous about what’s going to happen to my hair for this official portrait deal, I suppose.”
Reina, in a lavender smock that looked more suited to a spa, patted her shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. But she didn’t say anything as she kept making tiny snips to Kelsey’s hair. Was she, as staff, not allowed to talk? With all the senior royals in confab? Crap. It probably said somewhere in that damned protocol manual.
“The palace stylists are the best in all the land. They aren’t going to do anything drastic. Merely give you some actual shape and fullness.” Her grandmother’s voice had a snap to it. But at least she hadn’t come straight out and said that Kelsey’s current cut lacked style.
She’d chalk that up as progress.
Mallory angled in her chair to face Agathe. “Thank you, Your Grace, for allowing me the treat of participating today.”
Obsequiousness, thy name was Mallory.
Her sister had memorized that enormous protocol binder backward and forward. Which, admittedly, was helpful for both of them, since Kelsey hadn’t put nearly as much effort into it once she discovered that it mostly applied to people with stations…titles or lack thereof…below hers.
On the one hand, she bristled at the idea of anyone being seen as below her. Both on the feminist, democratic front and because Kelsey knew she was average, utterly ordinary, on her best days. How was it that nobody in this country had noticed this about her yet? And when they did, what would happen? Would they demand the king send her away? Or should she just escape back to America at the end of this trip no matter what, full of relief to make it home before she was called out as a princess fraud?
On the other hand, it did give her a free pass to behave normally toward everyone except the king.
“You won’t be included in the family portrait we’re taking this evening, of course.”
Another almost-barb from her grandmother. Great.
“But we did so want the chance to have a little hen party and get to know you, Mallory. Because you’re so important to our Kelsey.” Mathilde was great at smoothing things over. And she’d gotten her name right this time. As long as Kelsey didn’t walk out of this room with a Priscilla Presley circa 1968 bouffant, this might turn out to be a good afternoon.
Tapping her flawless French manicure against her crystal goblet of lemon water, Genevieve said, “Yes. Do tell us some quaint childhood story where you ate too many cherries and threw up all over each other.”
And there it was. Her royal sis bringing the full bitch. Topping the list of things Kelsey wouldn’t miss if she hightailed it out of this country in a week…
“Oh, so you know Michigan is famous for cherries.” Mallory toed her chair all the way around to beam at Genevieve in the mirror. “It’s so lovely of you to take an interest in our home state.”
Kelsey’s jaw dropped. Holy crap, Mallory could pile on the bullshit. How had she turned that insult so handily into a compliment? She appreciated the assist, but she couldn’t let Mallory do it alone.
“Our best childhood stories revolve around gory, accidental medicine. We both delivered a baby in a blizzard back in high school. Oh, and I used a tourniquet and set a broken leg on a friend when I was only twelve.”
“Did the baby and mother survive the ordeal?” Genevieve asked snidely.
Mallory’s auburn brows creased together into a frown that came and went so fast, Kelsey was sure she was the only one who’d seen it. But it was clear the continual digs were getting to her sister. Nevertheless, her voice was steady and even a tad cocky when she replied, “Of course. We had great training.”
Before Mallory could go on to explain that it was because their parents were doctors—since the Wishner parents were a touchy subject, at best, with the Villanis—Kelsey jumped right back in. “We’re both certified in advanced first aid. Which is a handy, FYI, in case you ever slip on all the marble steps around here and dislocate something.”
Yep, she’d like nothing better than to hold a whimpering Genevieve down on the floor and use all her weight to jam a joint back into place. Petty? Sure. But technically, since it’d end up fixing Her Royal Bitchiness, it was okay for a girl to dream, right?