Waiting for Prince Harry Page 5

  I read the comment above the picture:

  Hi all, I decided to run off and marry Harrison in private so you all won’t be jealous. Now please excuse me, he’s waiting in the bedroom to have his way with me. Let me grab the handcuffs. Love all, Bridget.

  What the fuck?

  I scroll through the posts, they are all pics of Harrison and comments about how they love his red curls, his broad chest, his rock-hard abs. Apparently he did a fitness article that provided the Flynnbabes with bunches of drool worthy photos. There is one pic of him holding a baby. What? I quickly read that one and then my heart starts beating again. Okay, not his baby, but a teammate’s, and all the girls start posting about how he obviously wants to be a father and volunteer to carry his child.

  Good Lord. People do this?

  Okay, so I know they do because Gretchen is obsessed with the current Doctor Who and has mentioned forums and fandoms, but I had no idea . . . No. That’s a lie. I had an idea, but I never thought I’d be reading a forum about a man I actually know.

  About my Prince Harry.

  Who will never, ever, be my Prince Harry. How could he be? The Harrison I met was intrigued by the Dallas girl who liked to sew.

  For conversation purposes.

  Not for anything more.

  And I know this is stupid, really, really, really stupid, but disappointment is practically swallowing me up right now. This is stupid because I don’t even really know him. We just spent an evening talking. How could I even think there could have been anything to it?

  The fact that he found me means nothing, not after reading all of this. Harrison wants to have intellectual conversations with his good friend Kylie, then go date some hot supermodel with an exotic name like Valentina.

  I log out of my iPad and toss it aside on the couch. Then I decide to make some chocolate chip, sea salt cookie dough and eat it with a big spoon and wallow in my new—but forever place—in Harrison Flynn’s Friend Zone.

  Chapter 6

  The Pop Quiz Question: The idea of your crush spending time with another woman makes you feel . . .

  A) My crush wouldn’t be spending time with anyone other than me.

  B) I don’t like it, but he’s not dating me so why waste energy obsessing about it?

  C) How does it make me feel? Jealous beyond words...

  I drape the toffee-striped washed silk fabric over my dress form and sigh. No. Not right. Then I move it over more to the left. Still not right. I try envisioning the gathered bust line of my newest apron design—the one that looked oh-so-wonderful in my head and HP notebook—and I just can’t get the fabric where I want it.

  I wonder if Laurel has left Harrison’s yet.

  No, I think anxiously, moving the fabric again. I will not think about this.

  I remove a pin from my wrist pincushion and practically stab it into the dress form as I think of Laurel. It’s Wednesday night, and while I’m in my bedroom trying to sew as a distraction, Laurel is dropping off Harrison’s outfits for the show tomorrow at his house. And oh-so-sweetly offering to stay and see if they fit his “athletic frame immaculately” she said as she sashayed out the door of Boutique Dallas at six-thirty tonight “so she wouldn’t keep Harrison waiting.”

  I glance over at my phone, which is on my sewing machine table. It’s after seven-thirty. Surely she has left by now, right? I mean, try on clothes, mark them if a few adjustments are needed . . .

  Unless she weaseled her way into him opening a bottle of wine or something. Are they sharing drinks in his Highland Park mansion? Has Laurel kicked off her heels to get comfortable on his couch? Is she tilting her head and listening to him intently as he speaks like I did at the Rattlesnake Bar—

  I jerk the pin out of the dress form and toss the gorgeous washed silk-striped fabric onto my bed. I flop down backward next to it, putting my hands over my eyes.

  KNTBAF, I repeat to myself. I’m his friend. If he hits it off with Laurel, I should be happy for him. Except that she is fake and stuck-up and completely awful and he could do so much better, and as his new friend, I wouldn’t want that for him, right?

  Of course not. As his friend, of course. I wouldn’t want that for him as his friend.

  Suddenly my phone buzzes. I sit up and go to my sewing machine where I have parked it and see I have a text message. From Harrison Flynn.

  My hand starts shaking the second I see his name. We exchanged phone numbers the day he came to Boutique Dallas but he has never texted me.

  Until now.

  I hold my breath and read.

  Kylie where are you? Can you talk?

  Butterflies shift around in my stomach, and anxiously text him back.

  Yes, I’m at home.

  Seconds later, he responds.

  Thank God. Laurel won’t leave. Call me and play along with my conversation, OK?

  I text him back a ‘yes’ and then feel a mixture of happiness and relief wash over me. Harrison is not into Laurel! And I get to help rescue him from her, whoo hooo!

  I quickly dial Harrison. He picks up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Kylie Reed Rid Yourself of Annoying People Service,” I say, smiling. “How can I help you, Mr. Flynn?”

  Harrison coughs for a moment, and I wonder if that is a cover for a laugh.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks.

  I decide to answer his questions as part of the game. “I’m sewing an apron. Very exciting. But not as exciting as you plotting an escape from Laurel’s evil clutches.”

  He pauses for a second. “Oh, no, your car?” Harrison says, going to his own script. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

  I laugh. “Well done.”

  “Give me your address,” he says.

  “Very detailed role playing,” I say, winding a lock of my hair around my fingers as I talk.

  “I’m serious.”

  Wait . . . Harrison is serious?

  “You . . . are?” I say, my heart stopping for a moment.

  “Please be specific so I can get there quickly,” he says firmly.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No,” Harrison says slowly, “I’m not.”

  Oh my God! He wants to come over? Harrison wants to see me?

  I suddenly get all nervous and excited and ramble off my address.

  “So you’re in Uptown,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “All right I got it. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I have to see a guest out but then I’ll be right there.”

  I seriously think I might pass out. “Okay. See you soon.”

  Harrison hangs up.

  I jump off my bed and run down the hall to the bathroom. Fuck. I never have visitors so of course I look like a train wreck. I’m in a tank top, yoga pants, my hair is wound up at the nape of my neck, and I have no makeup on. I sprint back to my room and fling open the closet door. I rifle through my clothes, which I have organized by style and color on wooden hangers, and quickly select my dark-wash Joe’s Jeans and change into them, dumping my yoga pants into my laundry basket. Then I move to the shirt section of my closet and select a white tank top and a white eyelet peasant blouse. I change into them, then slide my feet into a pair of shimmery rose-gold sandals.

  Okay. Clothing on. I scan all my necklaces, which are arranged on pegs on my closet wall by length. No, wait, I want a bracelet. I move to my shelves and go to my mini cubes for organizing bracelets and select my teacup bracelet. It is made of teacup china and in a beautiful blue and white floral pattern, and I love the uniqueness of it. So I slip that on and then race back to the bathroom.

  I grab my makeup bag and quickly dab on some tinted moisturizer. Then powder, cream blush, a little nude lipstick,
some mascara. Okay. Better, but not enough to make it look like I’m trying too hard.

  Because, really, Harrison is coming over as an escape.

  We’re just friends.

  And I need to remember my mantra: KNTBAF.

  But with that said, it never hurts to look good, right? A good hostess would look pulled together for her guest.

  So that’s all there is to it.

  Riiiiiiight. Good lord, I can’t even talk myself into believing that theory.

  I bend upside down and brush my hair, then I flip back up and spray it into place with a little hairspray. I reach for my bottle of Fresh Sugar Eau de Parfum and spritz my neck and give a light mist over my hair.

  I straighten up the bathroom and head into the living room. And shriek out loud.

  “Shit!” I cry, looking around. It’s Gretchen’s week to straighten up, and she promised to do it tomorrow on her day off from the restaurant, but the living room is like a scene from Hoarders. It bothers me, really, really bothers me, that she is so disorganized and messy but I overlook it because she is my best friend and I know I’m rather, um, kinda sorta Type A about organization.

  But this living room is a disaster.

  I decide there’s no time to put everything back into its proper place so I begin a frantic round of hide the crap. I scoop up all of Gretchen’s mail and cooking magazines, which are haphazardly piled on the coffee table and toss them into the magazine basket I put out for her to use . . . or ignore, as she seems to prefer. Normally I’d sort by date order on the magazines, but there is no time for me to be Type A. Highland Park, where Harrison lives, is not very far from here.

  I pick up Gretchen’s coffee mug, cup, and plates off the end table and dump them into the kitchen sink. I grab her shoes, which are kicked off near the front door, and fling them into her room. I scoop up piles of re-useable canvas shopping bags—really, Gretchen, why are these abandoned in the living room? and open the hall closet door, tossing them inside. I roll up her yoga mat and throw it on top of the bags.

  I find a ton of workout DVDs out of the cases—I can’t even think about what I am about to do because it gives me hives—and just start shoving them in empty cases without matching the DVD to the title. It’s killing me to do this but time is of the essence.

  Now I feel sweat on the small of my back. Awesome. I can be nice and sweaty just as Harrison rings the doorbell. I do a quick assessment, now that I have crammed most of the living room into the hall closet and used my body weight to press the door closed. Then I race over the coffee table light my favorite Seda France candle to give the room a nice scent.

  And there is a knock on the door just as I blow out the match.

  Harrison Flynn is here.

  I feel nerves and excitement race through my veins in equal measure. My heart flutters. I take a deep breath as I walk to the door. I glance through the peephole, and yes, Harrison is on my doorstep.

  This is happening. Harrison Flynn, the famous professional athlete, is waiting for me to open the front door. Me!

  I take a second to compose myself. Then I unlock the door and open it, and composure goes flying out the door the second I look at him.

  Oh, he’s seriously gorgeous tonight. I drink him in, from the green baseball hat with University of North Texas logo on it that just lets his silky red curls stick out to the white T-shirt that is straining across his broad shoulders and muscular chest.

  Harrison has a black string bracelet on his left wrist, one with silver bead detail that is really cool. He’s wearing another pair of nice dark wash jeans, ones that fit his athletic hockey legs just right, and a pair of hip sneakers.

  I swallow hard as my eyes meet his beautiful bright green ones. He is staring at me, too, and my pulse zigzags all over the place in response.

  “So, Ms. Reed,” Harrison says slowly, a slow grin spreading across his handsome face, “I’ve come to thank you personally for operating a rescue service for men ensnared by painfully boring, self-absorbed women who refuse to take a hint and leave my house.”

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing as I step aside to let him in. “I know Laurel, and I knew the danger you were in, Mr. Flynn,” I say, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

  Harrison laughs loudly as he steps into my foyer. “You have no idea how accurate that statement is. And I felt it was only right that I thank you in person for getting me away from her.” Then he pauses and stares at me. “You look lovely tonight, Kylie.”

  I feel my face burn from his words, but luckily with my olive skin tone, I know Harrison can’t see how I’m reacting inside.

  “Thank you,” I say, butterflies shifting around in my stomach. “This is my casual bohemian, 60’s vibe side. The other side of me is like a modern Jackie Kennedy vibe.”

  “The anti-Kardashian vibe?” Harrison replies, grinning.

  “Yes,” I cry, delighted that he gets it. “I strive to be a Middleton, not a Kardashian.”

  Harrison laughs. “Good plan.”

  I smile back at him. Then I clear my throat, as I realize he is still standing in my foyer.

  “Please, have a seat,” I say. “Can I get you something to drink? I’m afraid I don’t have any beer, but I do have Chardonnay, iced tea, or water.”

  Harrison takes off his baseball hat and runs his hand through his red locks, and I feel my knees nearly buckle as a result. God, he’s the most gorgeous ginger I have ever seen. Prince Harry included.

  “Iced tea works,” he said, putting his hat back on.

  I take out some glasses and set them down on the countertop, and he moves toward the kitchen.

  “So, Harrison, I’m curious. You’re from Boston. So why are you wearing a University of North Texas hat?”

  “The fans here have been good to me during my career, very loyal and supportive,” Harrison says, leaning against the bar stool countertop and watching me. “I like to show allegiance to the schools around here as my way of acknowledging that.”

  I’m about to respond when suddenly I hear a loud bang from the hall closet. A crash follows and much to my horror, the door flies open and all the shit I had crammed in there earlier comes catapulting out onto the floor. An avalanche of DVDs, yoga mats, shopping bags, hoodies, and a stability ball explodes out the door.

  Fuck! Stuff is everywhere, just everywhere, and Harrison is staring at the pile of assorted crap with his eyes wide.

  “Oh my God.” I fly into the living room and begin kicking the offending crap back toward the closet. “I swear, I’m not this messy. I’m not. My roommate Gretchen is, and when you said you were coming over I—”

  “Decided you could hide it all in the hall closet?” Harrison asks, his eyes dancing at me.

  I want to die.

  “Erm, yes,” I confess, taking the stability ball and smashing the damn thing back into the tiny closet.

  “Gretchen isn’t here. How do I know you’re speaking the truth?”

  “I’m not a slob!”

  Harrison rubs his hand along his jaw line. “Hmmm, I don’t know about that. Maybe you are. Maybe Gretchen is the organized one and she’s taking the fall because she’s not here to defend herself.”

  Now Harrison is grinning at me, just grinning, and I know he’s teasing me.

  “I can prove that I’m not,” I blurt out.

  “Oh, can you now?” Harrison says, laughing.

  “Yes. Follow me,” I say, leading Harrison through the tiny apartment. I take him to my bedroom, flip on the light, and walk into my room.

  “I think you’ll find that my room speaks for itself,” I say smartly.

  I watch as his eyes widen. Then I can see Harrison is scanning everything—the vision board I have that takes up one wall, with my swatches, sketches, and photographs of
sewing meticulously organized; the racks I have for hanging fabrics; the cubbies I have for my pencils, tape measures, and scissors; my desk with mesh file holder with color-coded tabs; the way I have photos of my friends and family all framed and hanging in a deliberate pattern on the wall . . .

  I watch his face, and I already know, just know, he is doing an analysis on my personality.

  Then Harrison turns toward me. “You’re Type-A organized,” he says slowly as he walks over to my designer vision board. “You don’t like when things are out of place. Out of control.”

  I nod. “Again, a proper diagnosis, Psychologist Flynn. Are you sure this hockey player thing isn’t a façade? That you’re really a world famous analyst or something?”

  He turns and stares seriously at me. “Kylie,” Harrison says softly, “you’re the only person who has ever thought that about me. That I’m smart enough to do more than play hockey.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I feel this is a moment between us. That he hasn’t had this conversation with anyone else, not the starlets or models or gorgeous society girls he has been snapped with.

  This moment, I realize, is something new. And just between us.

  “I see you,” I say with all honesty, “as Harrison first. Not a professional athlete.”

  His gorgeous green eyes flicker.

  I’ve touched him. I instinctively know I have.

  “That’s what makes you different, Kylie,” Harrison says in that soft-spoken voice.

  We lock eyes again. My heart is just all over the place, fluttering in a way it never has before.