Who of us was I lying to?
“I’m not marrying Lottie,” he said.
Even more hope, even more pounding in my chest. “You’ve said that before, Mr. Grayson.”
“I spoke with my grandfather and my mother. I’ll tell Lottie tonight.”
It ricocheted through me. He’d told them. Had he really told them? I slowly lifted my eyes, meeting his earnest ones.
“And they just accepted it?”
“I made them accept it.”
I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t. It was too much like a happily ever after, too much like a dream come true.
He gripped my hands. “I need a date tonight, Story.”
“You’re really not marrying her?”
“There will be a lot of paparazzi, tonight, Snitch. The whole world will see who I really want. Can you handle that?”
Forty-Eight
STORY
* * *
He wasn’t kidding when he said there would be paparazzi. Outside the town car, I couldn’t see beyond them. A sea of white-hot lights was barely muted by the black-tinted window. Beyond them, rows and rows of stone stairs led up to hulking columns, lit up at the base by lights, looking somehow more giant, haunting, and regal. Embossed in the stone were the words Du Lac Library for Rare Books and Scripts.
A hand slid along my thigh, and Grayson’s lips found my ear, warm. “Second-guessing?”
I swallowed and shook my head, just as the door opened.
Grayson got out first, and the paparazzi swarmed him like piranhas. He paused, then turned around, giving me his hand.
I sucked in a breath and took his hand. They were everywhere. Overwhelmingly so. A machine-gun fire of flashbulbs and questions. Grayson pulled me tight to his side, arm wrapped around my waist.
Grayson!
Who is she?
Grayson, over here!
Through it all, his grip on my waist remained secure, and I felt sheltered by him. He never looked more in his element than right here, with the flashing white light silhouetting his angular jaw. His trademark crooked, cocky smile as he easily navigated choppy waters. He spoke with the paparazzi like old friends.
When I imagined the life of Grayson Crowne, this was what I’d always conjured up. Glamorous parties every night, schmoozing the paparazzi. Not the lonely prince I knew to be true…but this. Even now, I saw through his smile, saw the weight on his shoulders.
Then all eyes were on me, and I realized someone had asked me a question.
He leaned down, lips whispering against my ear. “What’s your name, Snitch?”
“I, um, Story.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
I blinked a trillion times in what must have produced the worst photograph in the history of magazines, because ow! Are they taking a picture or trying to blind me?
“She’s my date,” Grayson supplied easily.