Bastian Read online

  My cheeks had finally cooled down from my ten seconds of fame when Zara had found me. I had retreated to the back with Mathis once more, finding solace in the anonymity.

  “Oh. My. God.” She was always so dramatic. Any other day, I would enjoy it and her sense of playfulness, but not right now. “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “Uh, she was there,” Mathis supplied helpfully. He had taken the check and placed it against the wall that we were adjacent to.

  Her eye had gone thankfully to the enormous prop and I was grateful for the distraction. “We can do so much with that money,” she said in awe.

  Now this was the kind of conversation I could get on board with.

  A cheering applause could be heard from just beyond the doors, and I assumed the ribbon had been cut. The crowd of people seemed to move as one large amoeba, stuck together like glue, following the prince like a lost puppy.

  Champagne corks were popped and the mingling began. Everyone was trying to vie for the prince’s attention, and it made me almost embarrassed for them.

  Finger foods were loaded on to tiny little dessert plates and matching napkins were handed out.

  “Well, let’s at least get some lunch out of this,” Mathis said. I loved how nonchalant he was about presumptuous things. If a silver lining were to be found, he was your guy.

  Food actually sounded good; I feared I had low blood sugar, and the small squares of cake would help regulate me and make me feel human again.

  The three of us were stopped several times before we made it to the catered area.

  All I wanted to do was take my cake and champagne and become a recluse back in my office. So, after both items were in hand, I slipped past the head of a neighboring department who gave me a nasty glare. He had petitioned for a grant to further his department’s work, but was denied. I know he would have given his left leg for the money we just received. Well, I was just as surprised as he was.

  There were a few ways to get back to my office, but instead of ease, I chose the longer way around, which meant less people. With my head down, I noticed how intricate the detail on the frosting was. As I rounded the corner to a corridor, I clumsily bumped into something that felt remotely like walking into a wall.

  “Ooof!” My hands shot out to my sides like I was making airplane wings, but the damage was done. Frosting was smeared into my blouse—my favorite one, remember?—and cold champagne was now trickling down my front, between my breasts.

  “I am so sorry…”

  I looked up and to my mortification, I had bumped into Bastian. Prince Bastian to be exact. What was he doing down this corridor? It was mainly for staff and why wasn’t he out amongst his fans? I mean, subjects.

  “Are you, ok…?” he asked me, a bemused look on his face.

  “Well, I was,” a certain edge to my tone. He regarded me, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Had his lips always been so full? “Is something funny?” I asked him, feeling my body heat increase. Hot under the collar had never had a more accurate meaning.

  “Funny, no…” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just that, uh, well, never mind.” The smile was growing more evident and within seconds it had reached the corners of his eyes, giving him a youthful look.

  I looked down at myself and found the source of his amusement: the frosting that I was now wearing like a badge of shame was plastered across my chest. Right. Over. My. Nipples.

  “Oooo,” I seethed, letting my anger get the best of me. I took the feeble napkin, that was soaked through with champagne, and dabbed vainly at the area.

  His eyes watched me, lingering on my actions. Well, that did nothing! I stopped dabbing at my breasts and looked at him incredulously. “Seriously?” I asked him, challenging him to deny staring at my chest. He just smiled bigger, guilt proudly painting his face. “How did you manage to get nothing on your clothes?” I asked as an afterthought. His expensive suit was untouched. He wore it with the ease and confidence of a model, his taut muscles threatening in certain areas to bust buttons…

  He shrugged. “Call it divine luck. Sorry, I never caught your name, love.”

  “Divine would imply you were godly, and that you are not. And you didn’t catch my name because I never gave it to you. And don’t call me ‘love’.” I had given up on my clothes and leveled him with a stare. In that moment I didn’t care who he was, I didn’t care what title he held or what his future meant for this country. My subconscious came back to me and reminded me he was just a man.

  He stood there trying to read me. It would take a blind man less time to decipher me. I was upset, embarrassed, annoyed and now covered in food.

  “Let me get this straight: You think I am not worthy of divinity though the Royal Creed states otherwise, you hate to be called names, but yet you remain nameless. Does that about cover it?” There was no hostility behind his words, only evenness and perhaps a hidden agenda. He had some nerve.

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re infuriating, you know that?” I asked him.

  “And you are absolutely fascinating.” His smile was confident, full of sex appeal.

  I took a cue from Zara’s playbook and dramatically rolled my eyes at him.

  That earned a laugh from him. “Can we start over?” he asked, raising his hands in a show of surrender.

  “I don’t know, can we?” I was fully aware of how juvenile I sounded, but I still didn’t care.

  “And here I was thinking you were an archivist…”

  “What does that mean?” I said, taking his bait and hating myself for it.

  “Oh nothing,” he lobbed back at me. “You just sounded like a primary school teacher just then.”

  Fumes were escaping from my ears; I could feel them. I don’t know why I let him have this much effect over me, but the man was absolutely obnoxious.

  “Well, too bad for you I’m not—you could stand to learn a thing or two,” I shot back at him.

  “Is that so, love?” He waited. When I went to open my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought of him calling me that again, he clapped his hands in triumph. “Ha! So, tell me. What would you teach me?”

  Rising to the bait again, I fully got on my soap box and launched into an impromptu lecture. “Well, for one, you should use your status for good instead of galivanting around and flaunting your wealth and position. Secondly, I would fire your PR person because they’re doing a right job of having you come across as smug and insincere. Or perhaps you’re the nightmare for them, defying every piece of coaching advice and winging all your public engagements, hoping your charm and wit will win over anyone that has ovaries. And lastly,” I said, inhaling for the final blow, “you might want to lose the whole bimbo flavor of the month club—it does nothing but discredit who you are.”

  Sometime during my rant, he had leaned against the wall and casually folded his arms across his rather broad chest. He was listening to everything I was saying; whether or not he cared what I had to say was an entirely different thing. But I somehow felt better getting all that off my chest.

  “So, you do respect me.”

  “Not once did I say that I respected you. Quite the opposite actually.”

  “You said it by omission,” he replied. “You said the ‘bimbos’ as you so affectionately called them, discredited who I was. So, the underlying meaning is that you think I am someone who has a head on my shoulders. Oh, and you said I had wit and charm. Thank you for that; I work hard on it.”

  I looked upward, hoping to garner some semblance of strength, but I caught the wink he gave me. Unbelievable.

  “I am sorry about your clothes,” he said, making a conscious effort to avert his eyes from my chest. “May I make it to you? I even used the proper auxiliary verb. Despite what you may think, I’m not a complete barbarian.”

  “Right. So, where would you rank yourself? A solid thirty percent decent, seventy percent barbarian?” I couldn’t help it. Now I had a small smile threat
ening the corner of my mouth.

  He dipped his head slightly. “I-I’m sorry, but is that a smile?” he teased.

  I blushed and cursed my body for betraying the persona I was going for.

  “Because if that infinitesimal movement is indeed a smile, then you should do it more often.” He held my gaze, serious as a heart attack. “Let me make it up to you. I insist.”

  “That won’t be necessary, but thank you. Your donation was more than kind, so let’s leave it at that, shall we?” I had no idea what he even remotely had in mind to make up for stained clothing, but I wasn’t interested.

  “We shan’t,” he countered. He pushed himself from the wall in a fluid, agile movement, circling me. “The way I see it, you owe me a debt of gratitude.”

  Was he being serious? He was using the donation check as leverage for this? “So, because you know that my work is my life and so dear to me, you’re threatening me with what? Revoking the donation? You wouldn’t dare.”

  He was facing me again, and leveled me with a knowing look. “I wasn’t threatening you—you’d know if I was. I was shedding light on the fact that we have a perfect opportunity for the two of us to get something we both want: you get to erase your beastly thoughts of me by getting to know me better.”

  I snorted.

  “Care to elaborate?” he asked, placing his hands in his tailored suit pants.

  I giggled again. “Oh nothing, I was just picturing an analogy in my head.” He looked at me and cocked his head slightly, looking confused. “You know, a comparison of two seemingly—”

  “I know what analogy means, love. I was wondering what analogy you were referring to.” It was the first time the tiniest bit of an edge creeped into his voice.

  “Oh. You said ‘beastly thoughts’ and well, since I work with books and love them, and well, you’re you, it just made me think that I’m sort of a real-life Belle. And you’re the real-life Beast.” I bit my bottom lip, trying but failing horribly at concealing an honest to goodness smile.

  Another look. The man was intense, I’d give him that. A ghost of a smile hinted on his features, but when he didn’t respond, I pressed on. “I can understand getting to know you better. I suppose a quick coffee would suffice. An hour tops. I could endure that. But tell me,” I said, finding his eyes once more, “what do you get out of all this?”

  “A chance to prove that I am more than you think. To hopefully erase this disdain you feel towards me. Say yes.”

  “Do you always get your way?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Pretty much. I can be very persuasive.” And the knowing look of confidence was back.

  “You get one hour of my time. Thursday at one. That’s the time I take lunch.” I secretly hoped that he had no idea what his schedule was and would have to have his people call me, and by any chance of luck, he’d be booked for something else and couldn’t make it.

  “Perfect. Thursday it is, love. I’ll meet you here, then?” He wore a look of victory and the smugness was back in full force.

  I gathered as much dignity as I had left and turned on my heel to leave. “Oh, and Bastian?” I asked, saying his name for the first time, “if you ask the front desk for me, there’s no one here by the name of ‘love’.” My heels clicked behind me, deciding to further withhold my name. He had infinite resources and would have my name before I made it back to my office.

  “Fair enough,” he said turning to rejoin the crowd. “Oh, and love?” We both turned at the same time, but now it was several feet that separated us, not inches. He walked back towards me and closed the gap in three strides.

  I sighed. “Yes?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned in. His breath was but a whisper, warm against the shell of my ear. “I can show you the true meaning of divinity and guarantee you’ll beg me for more.” He was gone as quickly as he approached.

  And like a cobra striking, I didn’t feel the bite until after he was gone. What had I just agreed to? And better yet, how had he coerced me so easily?

  Chapter 2

  Alana

  Confusion was the only way I could describe the state of my being for the rest of the week. After the confusingly ambiguous tête-à-tête, I had gone back to my office and was utterly useless. I kept replaying the entire conversation back in my head, over analyzing everything.

  Bastian was utterly awful, yet utterly handsome.

  He was infuriating, yet charming.

  Naughty, but…intriguing.

  And the constant contradictions were what had my mind reeling, spinning out of control, mounting more and more trepidation about our lunch meeting. Which was tomorrow.

  Why—how could I have allowed this to consume me over the last three days? He was just a man. Well, that tid bit of information was doing nothing currently to soothe the tidal wave that was sloshing around in my stomach.

  Tea. Tea always helped.

  I had managed to keep the triple C—confusing corridor conversation—to myself. But as my earl grey was steeping, I could feel Zara’s eyes boring a hole in my back.

  “How’s the project coming along?” I asked her, wanting to keep the topic work related and neutral as possible.

  “Fine,” she replied. “How are you coming along?”

  I took a sip of the tea, ignoring her meaning. “Fine. Do you expect to have that wrapped up by next week?”

  “Do you?” she retorted.

  “I can’t fathom what you’re going on about,” I told her.

  “Really? Can you honestly tell me something hasn’t been bothering you lately? You’re all weird and quiet, seemingly occupied. You haven’t had your mind in the game this week, since I don’t know, since the opening. What gives?”

  I had a feeling she wasn’t going to give up anytime soon. I was never good at lying, so I settled for the best I could come up with. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just that things have been weird for me since I met Bastian.” I twirled a fresh number two pencil between my fingers before switching to tapping the eraser against my desk.

  Zara’s prematurely Botox’d forehead was threating to show its first crease. “You mean Prince Bastian? All you did was take the check from him and here you are talking about him like you’re on a first name basis.” She snorted at the idea. And up until three days ago, I would’ve snorted right along with her.

  “We never had a chance to get to our first names,” I said mostly under my breath.

  “Um, what? You mean you talked to him a second time after the stage incident? Tell me right now,” she practically shouted. At least we were the only ones in the office right now; Mathis was down the hall working on a restoration process.

  “You cannot tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, do you understand me?”

  Now she was on her feet, and leaning against my desk. Have I told you she had a flair for the dramatic?

  “Promise. Now spill.”

  “It’s not like, a big deal or anything, and it’s not like I even want to go…” Zara raised her eyebrows in a gesture to get on with the story. “I, uh, I’m sort of having coffee with him tomorrow.” There. It was the first time I had said it out loud and it sounded strange even to me. I mean, who just ups and has coffee with a royal figure? Me, apparently.

  “Him? You can’t seriously mean the prince.” When I didn’t correct her, she started flapping her hands, trying to expel the shock and newfound adrenaline she was experiencing.

  “Trust me, my insides have been going faster than your hands right now. I don’t want to go. It’s absurd. I don’t even like him,” I sighed.

  “I know, so why are you going?” she asked.

  After recapping what was said during the triple C, I was convinced she forgot how to blink.

  “Say something,” I coaxed.

  “I don’t know what to say. You’ve finally rendered me speechless, Lana. I can’t believe he asked you out—wait, you don’t think he’ll stand you up, do you?”

  The
thought had crossed my mind, and all my worrying and anxiety over this would be for naught. “Is it bad if I hope he does?”

  She threw a crumpled piece of paper at me. “Of course, it’s bad! I’ll use one of your words: don’t be so obtuse. You’re beyond smart, you’ve got the whole hot librarian look going on, and he was obviously taken with you and your cantankerous ways,” she said winking at me.

  “I think that’s one of the things that’s been catching me up. I was nothing but rude to him, I never even addressed him correctly, I just called him Bastian. Why me? What does he want with me?” I cradled my face in my hands, at a loss.

  “Some men like the challenge,” she offered. “Think about it: he probably has people kissing his ass all day, every day. Then you come along and knock his entitled world off kilter. You’re a mystery to him, and therefore he’s taken with you.”

  That was just absurd. I took another sip of my tea, mulling over her words. It’s not like I had a ton of dating experience, but I wasn’t a celibate nun either. Her words settled, sifting to the back of my mind.

  “Why do men have to be so complicated, Zara?” I whined.

  “They’re not. They’re the simplest creatures. What you just encountered was the most basic form of interest a guy can show you. It’s no different than a boy pulling your hair in primary school or liking you because you said something mean to him.”

  “But I wasn’t trying to make him interested, I was genuinely put off by him and it translated through my snarky comments.”

  “Regardless,” she said sounding impatient, “your snarkiness called to him like a siren. Now, what are you going to wear?”

  I glanced down at my slacks and chambray button down with tiny embroidered foxes. “What I always wear,” I deadpanned. “I’m not looking to further impress him, nor will I change my appearance for a man.”

  “Suit yourself,” Zara said, walking back to her desk.

  It suited me just fine.

  The next morning came and as I slowly woke, I had two blissful minutes where the entire coffee-with-a-prince thing was a dream that was fading from memory with every passing second.