Page 54 of The Prince Who Loved Me

“Nope. Completely biased. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” She stood on her toes to kiss the tip of his nose. “When’s the show?”

He had a hard time focusing on her words when her mouth was that close to his. “In a month.”

“That doesn’t seem like a lot of time.”

And he had a lot of work to do. Inspiration struck. “Come upstairs with me.”

She took half a step back. “Sebastien, I—”

“I need help picking sketches, Brandi.” Damn, he had scared her. That’s the last thing he wanted. But she had kissed him this time.

“Oh.” She fidgeted with the neckline of her shirt.

He wasn’t going to let her run off. “Don’t say anything, don’t do anything. Just help me pick out pictures. We’ll talk about anything and everything else later. But right now,” he said, “I need your friendship.”

It was true. He wouldn’t object if she wanted to help him while naked, and he was still reeling from that kiss, but being with her was as important as beingwithher.

She paused, biting her lip. “Are you sure I’m the best one for the job? I don’t know anything about art.”

“You know me.” His voice was soft. He brushed a lock of hair off her face, resisting the urge to run his fingers along her soft skin. “That’s all I need.”

She picked up her wayward softball, and they entered the Hall, leaving behind the cooling evening air. He added a steady stream of uncharacteristic chatter so she wouldn’t change her mind as they climbed the stairs. “I have to pick the sketches, make some new ones, maybe. Find themes among them.” They reached the second floor landing and some of his elation fled. “I don’t think I have enough to do an entire show. Most of mydrawings are for me. They’re not show-quality.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not careful with the lines. Some are too abstract. People are going to look at the drawings and say what the hell is that? And I won’t have the buffer of my name to keep everyone civil.”

She grinned at him.

Why was she grinning at him? “What?”

She gestured to his door. “Let’s go in.”

Curiosity piqued, he opened his door and stood aside, allowing her to enter first. Massimo gave him a quick bow, then exited.

“Find me three of your sketches.” She clapped her hands. “Chop chop. Let’s go.”

He huffed out a laugh at her replay of his art talk. “This is different.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“Then is what you told me a lie?” Brandi widened her eyes. “Sebastien, even if you show them the most perfectly drawn sketches, there are still going to be people out there who don’t like it. You know this. You told me this.”

“This is a professional show, not a learning experience.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “There will be art critics. Patrons. Those who are looking for a hot new artist to hang on their walls.”

“Is your work good?”

Was it good? If he stripped away his fame, what was he left with? “Yes. It is.”

“So why are you letting … fear!” She snapped her fingers and pointed. “It’s fear. Why are you letting it stop you from doing the one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

He had to laugh. “I’m not scared, Brandi.”

“No?”

He’d been a soldier, trained in martial arts, been to college in three countries and—most importantly—faced off with his father the King and won.