Bastian Page 5

  Turns out he was quite eloquent with his communication, a regular Bill Shakespeare. A string of emojis littered the screen. But at closer look, each line was a riddle made up of emojis. Some were raunchy, some were funny and the last one gave me pause. It was the raincloud and the heart with the arrow through it.

  I was quickly finding out that Bastian wasn’t indecisive. He was resolute, assured and confident. I had a feeling he was the type that meant what he said—good or bad. That type of honesty was like finding a four-leaf clover—it was hard to come by, but something that was treasured once it was in your possession.

  I was also quickly finding I liked his sense of humor and playfulness. A lot. And the flirting? I didn’t like it. I loved it.

  I took a stab at responding, not sure if he was busy doing whatever it was princes did, but I typed away anyhow.

  Pompous Prince: Sugar Tits! I thought you’d leave me hanging all day, and speaking of well hung…

  Me: I’ve never heard a worse segue in my life

  I had to laugh at his preposterous nickname for me. Having hated it at first, I wished he would go back to calling me ‘love’.

  Pompous Prince: I aim to please…aim…(too soon?)

  I about spit out my mouthful of wine.

  Me: You’re incorrigible

  Pompous Prince: Back to the flattery, I see

  Me: I highly doubt you’re in need of flattery, your highness

  Pompous Prince: Wait. You just addressed me in a formal capacity. I don’t know how I feel about it TBH

  Even though it was said with sarcasm, I didn’t know how I felt about it either. My manners had waned from the moment I met him, and at this point I secretly enjoyed not addressing him, and he seemed to not mind.

  Me: Clearly it was done as an act of indignity; I didn’t even bother capitalizing it LOL

  Pompous Prince: There you are, love. Thought you’d been replaced with a respectful imposter

  Me: As a wise royal once said, I aim to please

  Pompous Prince: So. You never answered me about Saturday

  Persistent, that one.

  Me: I’ll check with my other prospects, but I do believe I have some time available on Saturday

  Just like Zara said, don’t seem too available. And that was as elusive as I could muster.

  The bubbles popped up and stayed on the screen for several seconds. Then they were gone. As I was about to place the phone on my lap, his lengthy response filled the screen.

  Pompous Prince: If you have other suitors, I will arrange to have them offed. (I have people for that, as a prince I would never get my hands dirty). I’m surprised your prickly persona hadn’t landed you a permanent relationship yet. (their loss, my gain) As far as Saturday…hopefully you’re not afraid of heights. Any food allergies I should know about? I’m fine to do mouth-to-mouth, but I’m afraid I’m a little rusty with my medical response to anaphylactic shock.

  I found myself shamelessly smiling as I read his lengthy response, and as silly as he was being, I was flattered. But with our cat and mouse conversation that had become our go-to style, I was nervous about what he planned. Was I afraid of heights?

  Me: Am I afraid of heights? Unless I’m falling to my death, no. No food allergies. You?

  Pompous Prince: Eggs. Fav type of food?

  Me: Eggs? How do you eat breakfast? Italian and American.

  I couldn’t imagine not being able to eat eggs. They were in everything. Cakes. Cookies. Certain breads…

  Pompous Prince: I tend to go for savory over sweet. Fav color?

  Me: Black, light black, dark black and medium black.

  He replied with a GIF of Lily Munster captioned, Black is such a pretty color.

  Me: Agreed. Am I keeping you from any royal duties?

  I honestly didn’t know what those duties would be, but perhaps he was entertaining foreign guests, having dinner with his parents (the king and queen), or practicing a speech.

  I was grasping for straws, using fairytales and movies to guide my assumptions. It wasn’t the highest point of my academic knowledge, but I was just a woman spending my evening texting a prince, not exactly your average Netflix and chill evening.

  Pompous Prince: Not tonight, love. I’m at home, drink in hand, getting to know a beautiful woman. Am I keeping you from any scholarly duties?

  This was definitely a tit-for-tat exchange, but we were learning things about one another, asking the questions that could’ve been addressed during coffee if we had had more time. Getting to know a beautiful woman. I re read that part more than once.

  Me: Does a riveting article count? I planned on reading it while soaking in the tub.

  Pompous Prince: Tub? You, naked? Go on.

  Me: Such simple-minded creatures, men. This time I sent him a GIF of Leslie Knope shaking her head, captioned Why do men have to behave like this?

  Pompous Prince: Because we’re MEN, love

  Well, he was nothing if not honest. I responded with an LOL.

  Pompous Prince: Up for a game?

  Me: That’s rather open-ended, no? What type?

  Pompous Prince: Rapid fire! You first.

  I giggled at his antics, wondering if he was indeed the thirty-five-year-old man I was talking to, or if he’d been mysteriously replaced by a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Me: Back to your original segue… I deleted that, knowing he’d take the jest to the next level. So, I kept it benign, trusting Bastian would take it in the naughty direction of his own volition. Fav place you’ve been?

  Pompous Prince: A particular corridor in a certain Archives building comes to mind, Sugar Tits. But if we’re talking countries, then Greece. You travel much?

  Me: A hallway hardly counts as a special place. I’d love to see Greece. Not much of a chance to travel, no. If you had a day to do anything, what would you do?

  Pompous Prince: Honestly?

  Me: Isn’t that the point of the game, Bastian?

  Pompous Prince: I’d be invisible for a day. I’d steal Harry’s cloak and just fade into the background. No responsibilities or expectations.

  The possibility of knowing what a typical day was like for him was futile. Venturing a guess was as good as I could come up with, but his words made me feel bad for him. A strong sensation overcame me, wanting to give him that simple gift. Only it wasn’t simple. He was a man bound to his country, the upper echelons of the monarchy and its staff, his people…the list went on.

  I wondered if he had ever known that feeling of anonymity before. Being in the public eye since birth was something he never had a choice in, he was simply born in to it.

  Sure, he had been groomed from the get-go, trained in the proper etiquette, and so, to us, his subjects, he was a natural. But how much of it was show? All of a sudden so many questions came to mind.

  Me: What would you be doing with your life if you’d never been born into royalty?

  It took a few minutes for him to respond, but when he did, there was a raw honesty to his answer.

  Pompous Prince: No one’s ever asked me that before. I’ll get back to you on that, love. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before

  Me: I’m afraid of not making a difference

  That was the funny thing about texting. It was easier to be more open, say things you wouldn’t necessarily in person; the soft glow of the screen was a metaphorical wall, protecting you from any looks of judgement or backlash.

  I hadn’t even thought twice about my answer, typing it as fast as my fingers could. Vulnerability be damned. Leap of faith, my new motto.

  Pompous Prince: You affect me

  Three words. Arbitrary by themselves. Strung together in a sentence? Together they made my heart flutter. They took flight inside my chest, and if it weren’t for the cage my ribs created, it would’ve flown away.

  There were no false lines bolstering me up, telling me I had made a difference. He didn’t know me well enough to say such things and I appreciated the fact he didn’t us
e a Hallmark response.

  And now I felt tongue-tied, not knowing how to respond exactly.

  Me: I’m afraid the feeling is mutual

  I said it, deciding there was no reason to pretend I didn’t like him, wasn’t responsive to his words, or equally as affected by him.

  Pompous Prince: What are you afraid of?

  Me: You. This.

  A beat passed before his response came.

  Pompous Prince: I have a confession to make

  And my heart, that had taken flight mere seconds ago, dropped to the deepest recess of my stomach.

  Great.

  In the moments it took for my stomach to do a somersault—not from joyous butterflies, but more like vomit was churning—he typed his explanation.

  Pompous Prince: I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me either. But I’ve never been happier to be unsure of something before. My life is made up of decisions, actions that usually I have no control over. This? You and I? I have complete control over us, and the fact that my heart races every time I think of you or picture your face, I’d prefer to be scared than live another day of absolute assuredness.

  Us.

  How could such a small word move me like it did?

  This entire conversation had started out with immature animated images. Various phallic shaped foods. Hand gestures. Words.

  But now? Things had changed, shifted to something that held such sincerity and promise.

  And if I was indeed taking this leap, I’d do it with every ounce of my being, committing to whatever this was that we were experiencing.

  Me: How do you go from crassness to waxing poetic about us?

  Pompous Prince: All part of the charm, love. Has it worked?

  I imagined him in a plush wingback, next to an enormous fireplace, swirling his tumbler, waiting for an answer.

  Me: I think you know the answer to that, Bastian.

  Pompous Prince: Have I ever told you that I love when you call me Bastian?

  The heaviness that was there had lifted to a lighter, flirtatious tone once more. We talked until the early hours of the morning, neither of us willing to end the magical string of words that lent insight into who we were as people.

  It was a strange feeling having talked about seemingly everything under the sun, but nothing all the same. Our conversation was an odd balance of serious, hard-hitting questions to less important ones and everything in between.

  And the emotions I was experiencing were contradicting as well. I felt thrilled and exhilarated, yet comfortable like we’d known each other forever. Bastian was a chameleon, surprising me one second, making me hot the next and then literally laughing out loud.

  By the time one-thirty rolled around, I was fading.

  Me: If I stay up any later, I’ll be complete rubbish at work tomorrow. So, this is me bidding you goodnight, sadly.

  Pompous Prince: If I was with you in person, I’d render you incapacitated, giving you no option but to call in sick, while you stayed in bed while I took care of you.

  I’d have blushed if I wasn’t as tired as I was. But again, his words made me feel things I either hadn’t in a very long time, or never had at all.

  Me: I like your euphemisms. Text me tomorrow with details about Saturday. Good night, Bastian.

  Pompous Prince: Good night, love

  I switched my phone off, climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. After all, dreaming of a swoon-worthy prince wasn’t necessary; I had a date with a real one in two days.

  Chapter 5

  Bastian

  Being a prince had its downfalls on the best of days, but the perks were fucking fantastic. Like having personal transportation at my disposal, 24/7, no questions asked. And I’m not talking something as mundane as a car.

  Everything had been arranged for what would hopefully be the date to end all dates.

  But with a last-minute invitation, I spent the morning having brunch with my parents, a rare occasion where the three of us relaxed and were able to catch up. Usually our time was shared with dignitaries, heads of state, or other people vying for a piece of our time.

  As it turned out, our time was to be shared.

  “Nikola,” my father greeted.

  “Oh, my apologies for interrupting, Your Grace.” Nikola turned to me and gave me a tight smile. “Bastian,” he said with a slight nod.

  I nodded, greeting him. Nikola Von Juric was the Prime Minister and one of my father’s oldest acquaintances. He, like my father was in his sixties, but where my father was fit, Nikola had a staunch belly and a pointy goatee.

  “Please, won’t you join us?” my mother asked, gesturing to an open chair. “Tell me, how’s Luna these days?”

  “Thank you, but I won’t intrude. And she’s very well; I’ll tell her you inquired.”

  Luna was his daughter; the two of us were the same age and we spent a lot of time together growing up.

  “Very well, Nik, but meet me in the drawing room in an hour?” Father dabbed at the corner of his mouth, wiping away imaginary crumbs. The man had manners for days.

  Nikola turned to leave and the three of us settled back into amicable conversation.

  I always enjoyed my time at the castle, which was few and far between anymore, seeing as I had an apartment in the city. The capital city. Where Alana worked.

  I wondered in the past how close our paths had ever come.

  That was the shit end of the stick growing up the way I did: my circle was small and particular. The potential prospects were not abundant in numbers, but they were the most groomed, beautiful and well-mannered women I’d been around. Did I mention they were spoiled, entitled and a complete bore?

  Early on I had made it abundantly clear that I wouldn’t marry for status. Like my father, I’d marry for love.

  So, the first step to achieving that for me was to fly the nest. I couldn’t rely alone on people visiting, nor being the visitor myself to serve as an active dating pool. Broadening my horizon was the only way I stood a chance at finding what my heart sought.

  I glanced at my watch and needed to head back to the city. Devmont Castle was nestled on a lake over an hour from the capital of Slaždin. The formidable structure sat at the base of the country’s highest mountain range. The placement helped fortify it from invading armies back in the day, and though I knew it was true, I always thought it had been constructed there because it was majestic and regal looking—quite fitting for a structure that housed a lineage spanning almost four hundred years.

  And the future of the monarch, the country—it rested on my shoulders. Having been engrained early on, I understood my role: produce heirs. I was an only child, so the pressure was mine and mine alone to bear.

  Forcing the stuffy thoughts out of my mind, I took in the beauty of the region before trees were slowly replaced by buildings.

  I had a date to get to, and with that thought, my foot hit the gas pedal a little harder.

  Yesterday I let Alana know the details like she had asked. Keeping it as vague as I could, I told her to bring something warm and to be ready by two o’clock. I was sending my driver Henri, to pick her up and from there, he’d drop her off where I’d be waiting.

  From my vantage point on the roof, I could see the black vehicle pull to the curb. Henri rounded to the passenger side where he held the door open for her. She looked around, confusion clouding her face, and then Henri handed her an envelope.

  We were at Slaždin’s Modern Art Museum. The architecture was modern—almost futuristic—in its design. It was a huge topic of controversy when the bill had passed for its construction. But the deciding vote had won marginally, the opposing half calling it a ‘scar on the quaintness that was Slaždin.’

  Gothic cathedrals dotted the skyline, while prime examples of Romanesque architecture made up the remainder of the city’s buildings. So, yeah. The Modern Art Museum sort of stuck out like a sore thumb, but what was a city without a little modernity?

  I was indifferen
t to its aesthetic personally, but today I was in complete favor of it for one reason: it was the only building in the city that had a helicopter pad on the roof.

  Alana had read the paper in the envelope and walked inside. Everything was set, so all I had to do was wait. I leaned against the chopper, a Bell 212, twin engine, two-blade beauty. The weather had cleared drastically from earlier in the week, and the sun was shining proudly at the moment.

  Moments later, the door to the roof opened cautiously and Alana walked out. I adjusted my AV1 sunglasses as she made her way to me, questions in her eyes.

  Unsure of what was to come, she glanced from side to side, taking in the entire scene.

  Being a little past two in the afternoon, the sun was still relatively high in the sky, backlighting her as she walked. It was as if her movements were in slow motion, or at least that’s how they’d be etched in my memory.

  Her movements were fluid and graceful, her hair illuminated from the warm rays, casting a golden halo around her. Surprisingly she was in a gray sweater—not black, dark denim jeans that hugged her figure in all the right places, and had her same trench coat folded over her arm. She looked fantastic and positively enticing.

  An errant breeze picked up, dislodging a few strands of hair from her pulled back style, giving her a tantalizing wind-blown look. Her scent made its way to me before she did, the same complex notes hitting me like an aphrodisiac.

  “I got your note,” she said shyly. “Obviously.”

  I had left instructions in the envelope Henri had given her as to which lift to take and where the roof access was.

  I smiled, leaning in, and I placed a kiss on her cheek. It was the most forward and physical I’d been towards her, though we’d only been in close proximity for an hour thus far.

  Her skin was soft and velvety, and as I pulled away, I could tell I caught her off guard. Her cheeks flushed and she averted her eyes momentarily. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi to you too,” I replied. “You haven’t changed your mind about heights, have you?”

  She shook her head, looking between me and the cockpit. “Of course, you know how to fly. Being a prince isn’t enough on the impressive factor?” She feigned annoyance, but it was obvious she was impressed.