“Tricky girl.” He narrows his eyes. “I like that in an adversary. And a partner in crime.”
“Lucky me.”
He extends his hand. “I’m Willem.”
“And I’m Lola. It’s nice to meet you.” I start back toward the front door. “I’ve got a few wardrobe bags in my car. I’ll go get them, so I can pack up the clothes and get out of your way.”
“To the victor go the spoils.”
“That’s what they say,” I answer with a laugh.
“I have another sale scheduled for Monday,” Willem calls after me. “Just in case you’re interested.”
“I’ve already got it on my calendar. My last event before I blow this pop stand.”
“I’m honored.” He bats his eyes to make sure I know he’s playing with me.
“As you should be. I don’t stick around for just anybody, you know.”
An hour and a half later, I pull up to my rented cottage with seven wardrobe bags filled with amazing clothes in the trunk and the makings of a light picnic supper on the passenger seat beside me. Add that to the fact that a real live prince asked me out this morning—even though I said no—and I made an amazing auction contact this afternoon, and I’d say that, so far, the weekend has been a complete and total success.
Now that he’s popped into my head, I can’t help thinking about Garrett as I carry everything into the cottage. Or, more accurately, fantasizing about him and his big, strong hands, broad shoulders, and too-sexy-for-my-own-good smile. Not to mention the wicked, and self-deprecating, sense of humor he kept giving me glimpses of when I least expected it.
The man is hot with a capital H, no doubt about it. I’ve seen his picture before—of course I have—but in photos he always looks a little too plastic, a little too perfect. Completely untouchable. In real life, with his too-long dark hair and too-serious blue eyes, he’s a lot more real. And a hell of a lot more sexy.
So sexy, in fact, that I can’t help thinking about what would have happened if I’d said yes to his invitation this morning. For a minute there, I really wanted to. Just to have a little fun. Just to see what might happen.
But those kinds of impulses—at least when it comes to men—have gotten me in trouble before, even if I was little more than a kid at the time. They’re sure as hell what got my mother in trouble over and over again. And there’s no way I’m making her mistakes, no way I’m letting my life get derailed the way hers was. Not even for a hot-as-hell prince.
Especially not for a hot-as-hell prince.
I have more than enough issues with relationships already. Why the hell should I go looking for more?
It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to carry in all my loot. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating and gross and all I really want is to take a long, cool shower, where I can think about anything but Garrett and the surprising—and very hot—attraction I felt for him.
So I do, stripping off my clothes and diving into the luxurious shower stall that the cottage owners had put in a few months ago when they remodeled—or so they told me when they were showing me around the place when I got here a couple of days ago.
Ecological guilt is a real thing as I turn on the second showerhead and let it rain down on me along with the first. But life’s all about the little pleasures, so I shut off the guilt and concentrate on the glory. And if I end up rushing the shower to make up for the extra showerhead, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
After slipping into my pj’s and drying my hair, I make my way back out to the cozy family room that is currently piled high with wardrobe bags. Now that I finally feel human again, it’s time to dive in. My stomach’s growling—I’ve barely eaten all day—but right now I’m more interested in getting my hands on the piles of rich, gorgeous fabric that are waiting for me in those bags than I am in taking time to put something in my stomach.
Besides, I’ve got to get all these clothes sorted and cataloged in the next thirty-six hours—along with the ones I picked up at yesterday’s estate sale two villages over. It’s a lot of work, but I’ve got two models booked for the day after tomorrow and I’m not going to waste their time or my money by not being ready for them.
I need to get this stuff up on my site so I can sell it and move on. Getting out of this town, and away from Gorgeous Garrett and all the temptation he poses, is pretty much my first order of business.
Yes, hunger can wait until I have at least an idea of what I’m dealing with here. That way, while I’m eating I can make a plan about everything that needs to be done and how long it will take. I mean, I already have a basic idea because I’m the one who packed everything up at the estate sale, but that was just me shoving things into bags in the most expedient manner possible. This is me getting a look at the stuff, grouping it, then pricing it to move on my website, vavoomvintage.com.
I open the first bag and pull out the grouping of vintage Chanel couture that made me hunt down this estate sale to begin with. A closer inspection reveals that two out of the three pieces are in pristine shape and the third is in very good shape, with only a few loose threads on the back and a tiny spot on the peplum part of the blouse. After marking the spot with a sticker—for further inspection and treatment—I pull up a spreadsheet on my computer and start to log in the pieces. Condition, origin, my best guess at pricing.
An hour and a half later, I’m deep into the second wardrobe bag when a knock sounds at the door. I’m not expecting anyone—I don’t know anyone in this village to expect. I got here four days ago, and save my landlord, who gave me the longest tour imaginable when I rented the place, no one knows where to find me. And I haven’t met anyone who’d be looking, anyway.
The knock comes again and I think about answering it, but I’ve got stuff to do and no time for wild goose chases—my own or anyone else’s. Especially not when I just found a Gaultier skirt that was overlooked in the estate sale’s inventory. The label is missing, so they probably didn’t know what they had—but I’m a huge fan and recognize it from his Spring 2016 collection.
I’m about to try it on—right over my pj shorts because I’m too excited to wait—when a third, louder knock all but shakes the door. Screw this. Dropping the skirt onto the closest pile, I march to the door and fling it open, prepared to tell off whoever is on the other side.
Except I’m stunned pretty close to speechless when I realize that the person on the other side of my threshold is none other than His Royal Highness, Prince Garrett of Wildemar.
Or should I say His Royal Hotness?