Waiting for Prince Harry (2 page)

Chapter 2

The Pop Quiz Question:
Would you ever pick up a guy in a bar?

A) Heck yes, if he’s hot and interested.

B) No, absolutely not.

C) Normally I wouldn’t even dream of it, but sometimes there is an exception to the rule . . .

I literally have no words as I stare at the man whose lap I was just in two seconds ago.

Because this ginger-haired man is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

More gorgeous than Prince Harry, God help me.

“Miss, are you all right?” he asks, standing up, furrowing his brow in concern.

I drink him in with my eyes. He is tall—about 6’1 or 6’2—and
very
broad-shouldered. He’s strong and athletic looking. This man has glorious ginger curls, silky and flame red. I’ve never seen hair like it in my entire life. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt—a designer one, I can tell by the cut and fabric—and jeans with an up-to-the-minute color wash that fit him perfectly. He has a cool black leather bracelet that looks like a belt—complete with a silver buckle—around his left wrist and—

“Miss?” he asks again.

The sound of his soft-spoken voice—one tinged with an East Coast accent—snaps me from my thoughts.

“Um,” I manage, now looking into his brilliant green eyes, “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. I look at his shirt and it is
drenched
with white wine. I’m horrified as I see the huge stain across his broad chest and over his shoulder. “Please, let me give you some money to have your shirt dry cleaned.”

He glances down and then slowly lifts his eyes back up at me, an eyebrow lifted. “I think,” he says in a serious tone, “it will survive the incident.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he smiles at me.

“Your dress, however,” he then says, nodding down to the floor, “looks like it was on the losing end of a battle with a stiletto.”

I quickly look down and see the mermaid tail is ripped. I raise my head at this Ginger Boy and smile.

“I can’t say I was planning to wear it again anyway,” I say honestly. Then I clear my throat. “Listen, I would like to buy you a drink for interrupting your evening like this.”

Suddenly his brow creases in a quizzical manner. “You want to buy me a drink?”

Shit. What if he’s here with a date? What if he thinks I’m trying to pick him up? What if he’s repelled by that idea, of me wanting to buy him a drink?

Evacuate mission, my brain screams. Abort, abort, abort!

“Just for the inconvenience,” I say quickly. “Nothing more, of course.” I glance around to see if anyone nearby looks like they are with him.

“Are you wondering if I’m here alone?”

Damn it. Think of something, Kylie. Fast. This is humiliating.

“No, of course not,” I blurt out.

“Does it
matter
if I am here alone?”

Yes. No. Does it? Oh God.

“I’m not trying to pick you up,” I say. “I would
never
pick up a guy in a bar.”

Right? I mean, I just took a
quiz
on this. He’s hot. Yes, but he’s in a
bar
. Alone. Which only means one thing—

“So,” he says, slowly rubbing his fingertips over his jaw line back and forth, “if I’m alone, having a beer here on a Saturday night, I must be looking to pick up a woman?”

I stare at him, stunned.
How is this man reading my mind
?

“To answer your question, I’m here because it’s a nice place to get a drink and be undisturbed. Until women in pink-cotton-candy-colored gowns fall into my lap and drench me in some kind of fruity white wine.”

Then he smiles at me. A beautiful smile that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners of his face.

I find myself laughing and he does too.

“Would you please let me buy you a drink?” I ask again. “I don’t feel right not doing
something
for you. I mean, you’ve been incredibly understanding about your shirt.”

Even though I know nothing is going to happen—obviously, we are in a bar, and I don’t pick up people in bars—and apparently neither does he—I find myself wishing he would agree to this. Which is stupid. It’s not like he wants to sit down and talk to me or anything. He pretty much just said that—

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Would you like to have a seat? We can remain nameless to simplify things. You know, since neither one of us is into bar pickups.”

All right, names might not be exchanged but conversation is in play.

I sink down into the rich leather sofa, and he sits down next to me. A cocktail waitress appears, hands him some napkins to blot his shirt, and we order drinks. He requests some kind of beer I have never heard of. I try again for another glass of white wine. After the waitress leaves, we are left with each other.

“I’m really sorry about the shirt,” I say again.

“Honestly it’s no big deal,” he says easily. Then he raises a brow. “Are you running away from a bridal party?”

I hesitate. Okay, we have agreed to remain nameless. I’ll never see him again.

And this is against every rule I have, but as I look into his handsome face, I want to be completely honest. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. Maybe because I’ve already sat in his lap? I don’t know. But something inside me wants to share with him. So I decide to tell him the truth.

“Very astute observation,” I say, grabbing the throw pillow that is behind me and setting it in my lap. I run my fingers over the edges absently. “My brother just got married.”

“So why did you ditch out?” Ginger Boy asks.

I sigh and look down. “I’m not really good in big social situations like that. I . . . I don’t exactly blend.”

The waitress comes back with our drinks. We take them and I try a sip of my wine.

“Why on earth would you even want to?” he asks, his eyes focused in on me.

I laugh. “Oh, it makes a life a lot easier when you aren’t different.”

“And how are you different?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer.

“I’m not like anyone else in my family,” I say quietly. “I don’t like big social settings and partying. I like small groups of people. I enjoy staying home and watching a movie with takeout. I like to sew and design. I work in visual display at a clothing boutique, which horrifies my parents—”

“Why do you care what they think as long as you’re successful and happy?” Ginger Boy interrupts.

I stare at him, amazed. “Wow, you’re good. I feel like I’m in a therapy session.”

Suddenly I see something change in his green eyes. They light up. Like he is pleased with what I said. A tingling feeling sweeps over me in response.

“Really?” he asks, rubbing his fingertips along his jaw again. “You think I sound like a therapist?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Yes. You really listen. A lot of people act like they do, but they don’t. And you seem to know what questions to ask to make me think.”

He grins, but this time, a broad grin, one that completely spreads across his face. My breath catches in my throat in response.

“Well, if that’s the case, let me move over to this chair and you can recline on the couch for the rest of the session,” he quips.

We both laugh.

“So what’s your story? You’re not from Texas,” I say. “That is an East Coast accent.”

“Boston,” he confirms. “I moved here for my work.”

I take another sip of wine. “What do you do?”

I notice Ginger Boy hesitates for a moment. He rakes a hand through his hair and clears his throat before answering.

“My work is on hiatus right now,” he says vaguely. “It will start again in the fall.”

Hmmmm. He didn’t exactly answer the question, but I guess he doesn’t have to since I’ll never see him again.

And why does that thought make me feel a bit anxious?

“So you sew?” he says, coming back to me again.

I nod. “I do.”

“So you could fix your dress.”

I laugh. “Um, yes. But I won’t. I do not see the need to be wearing a mermaid pink gown that gives me Pippa ass.”

He roars with laughter. “Pippa
what
?”

Good lord, I blurted out Pippa ass? What is wrong with me?

“Um, I was told that. Pippa Middleton ass. You know, because of the dress she wore for Kate and William’s wedding?”

Why am I talking about the royals? Why?

“Um, so I was told. By my new sister-in-law. And a groomsman,” I finish.

Much to my surprise, he doesn’t excuse himself and walk away. Rather, he appears amused by my story.

He laughs again. “Nice.”

I laugh at myself. “I can’t believe I just told you that. And I promise I’m not drunk.”

“I don’t know. You threw a drink on me and fell into my lap, now you’re talking about your ass—”

“Pippa’s,” I interject.

“I stand corrected. Pippa’s ass,” he says, grinning.

“So why are you here?” I ask, desperate to get off the topic of Pippa Middleton’s famous derriere.

“I like people watching,” he says. “I like to observe, to try and figure out their stories.”

“Really?” I ask, intrigued.

“Yeah,” he says simply. He leans in closer to me, and I get an intoxicating whiff of him, of a warm, spicy-vanilla cologne. He bends toward my ear so he can talk directly to me, and much to my shock, a shiver rips down my spine. “Like see that lady up at the right hand corner of the bar? Mid-forties? Expensive outfit, perfect hair, but hair long like she’s trying to look younger? Newly divorced. Hanging with other divorced friends. Wanting to see what is out there.”

“You don’t know
any
of that.”

He grins wickedly at me. “I know, but isn’t it interesting to think about the story behind the stranger?”

My breath catches in my throat. My God, this Ginger Boy is not like any man I have ever met. He’s smart. Observant. Gorgeous.

And utterly fascinating.

So we spend the next few hours watching people and spinning stories about them. We’re laughing and drinking and he even orders us some food. So while noshing on lobster nachos, we share little bits about our lives. I confide in him about loving vintage things, and my dream of eventually selling aprons made of antique fabrics, when the time is right. I tell him I like to bake, I love the movie
The Holiday
, and I have a whole organized file folder of all the things I want to do once my career is where I want it to be and I’m married. Once my life is in place, I tell him.

Ginger Boy, as I now call him in my head, tells me he’s a mess when it comes to organization, that he misses the snow at Christmastime in Boston, but loves the beautiful Texas nights. He’s an avid reader, everything and anything, and can’t live without his beloved Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in the mornings. He has two dogs and runs with them every day. He’s a news junkie and loves reading
The Dallas Morning News
with his coffee . . .  

And before I know it, it’s late. Very late.

I have spent hours with the most fascinating man I have ever met, and now it’s time to say goodbye.

The waitress brings us the tab and Ginger Boy goes to get it. I quickly snatch it from him.

“Hey, let me have that,” he says.

I shake my head. “Nope. On me. For being so nice about the shirt.”

And before he can protest, I hand the waitress my credit card on top of the bill.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, smiling.

Now we are quiet. The bill comes back, I sign, and then we both stand up to leave.

We move through the lobby, pausing by the table with the gorgeous flowers in luxurious vases.

I bite my lip.
Break your rules, Kylie. Tell him you want to have a drink with him again. Ask him first.

Are you kidding? Guys don’t like when girls are aggressive
, my other voice screams. Think of all the quizzes you have taken. No, no, no. If he is interested he’ll ask.

“Well,” Ginger Boy says, raking a hand through his glorious curls, “this has been a pleasure tonight.”

My heart beats rapidly. “It has.”

“So . . .?”

“So . . .?” I say, hoping he’ll ask me for my number.

“So I guess this is goodbye,” Ginger Boy says.

My heart absolutely sinks. Right. He even said he doesn’t pick up people in bars, and I guess that would be me now, wouldn’t it?

I force a smile onto my face. “Of course. No bar pick-ups, right?”

I watch as his eyes flicker. “Right. It’s against your rules.”

Fuck. I hate my rules.

But before I can say anything, he extends his hand to me.

“Goodnight,” he says.

I take his hand in mine, feeling his warm and rough skin. He definitely does something physical with them, but what exactly that is shall forever be a mystery to me.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“No, thank you,” he says in return.

We stare at each other for a moment.

Then Ginger Boy turns to leave.

He goes a few feet before I stop him.

“Wait!”

He stops and turns around. I go up to him.

“I . . . I just want to know your name,” I ask.

He smiles. “Harrison. Sometimes people call me Harry.”

And then he turns and strolls out the door and into the Dallas night.