Waiting for Prince Harry (3 page)

Chapter 3

The Pop Quiz Questions:
Do you believe in relationship omens?

A) No.

B) Sometimes I think people do get a sign about someone.

C) I never have until this very moment.

His name is Harrison.

Harry.

My God is he my Prince Harry?

I stare at Harrison as he goes to the valet stand outside. My heart jumps inside my chest.

This is a sign.

It has to be a
sign.

I have just had the best conversation I’ve ever had with a man and his name is
Harrison
. He’s gorgeous, he’s smart, he listens, he’s observant—

And he’s leaving.

Go after him,
a voice inside my head whispers.
Go out there and tell Harrison you want to have coffee with him. Do it. Do it now, or you’ll regret it.

No!
the other side of my head screams back.
If he liked you, he’d ask for your number. Guys don’t want to be pursued. Every quiz you have ever taken, every article you have clipped from women’s magazines makes that clear—

I stare at him outside in the Dallas night, patiently waiting among the throng of people at the valet stand.

Suddenly he turns. Our eyes meet again.

Electricity shoots through me as I think I see the same longing that I’m feeling reflected back into those stunning green eyes.

Fuck it. I’m going to do it. I’ll regret it if I—

“Kylie, there you are.”

I turn and see one of Candace’s bridesmaids hurrying toward me.

Oh no. I will the size zero blonde in pink hurrying toward me to trip. Trip, so I can run outside before Harrison leaves.

I glance back at Harrison, who is still looking at me.

“Candace is about to throw her bouquet but we are waiting on you,” Julianne cries gleefully as I turn to her. “Let’s go.”

“Give me just a second,” I say quickly. “There’s someone outside I need to talk to—”

“
Pippa
,” she says firmly, smiling sweetly at me, “we can’t keep the
bride
waiting. It’s
her
day, remember?

Then she gives my arm a tug in the direction of the ballroom.

“Just one minute,” I cry, trying to jerk my arm back. “I just need a second.”

“Oh thank God you’ve found her, Julianne,” my mother declares, approaching. “Kylie, where have you
been
? You do realize you’re missing your brother’s
wedding reception
? They’re about to leave. Now let’s go.”

“But—”

“No buts,” my mother says firmly. “And what’s so important out here in the lobby anyway?

I look out the glass doors. Harrison is walking around to the driver’s side of a very expensive-looking Range Rover.

My heart lurches as he climbs inside.

The opportunity is gone.

My indecision—my awful gift of being unsure about
everything
—has now cost me the chance to possibly get to know Harrison.

“Now, Kylie,” my mother says firmly.

I swallow hard and head back toward the ballroom as my mom and Julianne chat excitedly about the bouquet tossing.

I don’t say a word because I don’t care.

Because all I can think about is one thing.

Harrison.

And I just can’t help but wonder if I have just let my own Prince Harry slip right through my fingers.

“So that’s the end of the story?” Gretchen asks, her hazel eyes wide. “That’s where you’re going to let it end?”

I listlessly push my banana bread French toast around on my plate. I have just told my best friend, and roommate, everything about Harrison last night as we eat brunch outside on a patio in Uptown, the part of Dallas that is full of the young, hip, and upwardly mobile people. I take a deep breath and toy with my fork.

“But what else can I do, Gretchen? I only know his name is Harrison,” I say. “What can I do? Google ‘Harrison + Dallas’?”

Gretchen adjusts her sunglasses. “Hello? Yes. Then you move to Connectivity, Twitter, and Facebook. You have to at least try.”

I sigh in exasperation. “And then what? Go to his house, ring the doorbell, and say, ‘Hi, Harrison! Remember me? The girl who fell into your lap at the Rattlesnake Bar? Well, I’ve done endless hours of cyber stalking and found you. Not that you should be alarmed and all, but after poring over everything related to Harrison and Dallas, I found you, researched your address, and hunted you down. So would you like to hit Starbucks for a latte?”

“What if he’s just flattered that you found him?”

“Or what if he calls the police because I’m a stalker?” I ask. “No, I can’t do it.”

“But even if you don’t do anything, aren’t you curious to see if you can find him?”

“Of course,” I admit, putting my fork down. “But what’s the point of that? Self-torture?”

Gretchen nods and takes a sip of her coffee. “But he was really hotter than Prince Harry?”

I sigh. “Yes,” I say, thinking of his red curls and broad, muscular shoulders. The striking green eyes—

“And he never mentioned what he did for a living?” Gretchen asks, interrupting my thoughts. “That’s really odd.”

I bite my lip. “No, he didn’t. But maybe he figured it didn’t matter since we were never going to see each other again.”

“Hmmm. And he had that super-expensive Range Rover?”

“Yes,” I say slowly.

“Maybe he’s a drug dealer,” Gretchen says excitedly. “And maybe that’s why he didn’t let it go any further.”

“Yes, Gretchen, because all drug dealers hang out at the Ritz,” I deadpan.

“Exotic dancer?”

I burst out laughing. “He has the body for it, but doubtful.”

The waitress comes by and places our check on the table between us.

“Anyway, it’s irrelevant now,” I say softly. “My chance is gone.”

“I’m sorry, Kylie,” Gretchen says. “I’ve never heard you talk about any guy like this except for Josh.”

I nod. Josh was my boyfriend while we were at SMU. We met our sophomore year, and were together until the summer before my senior year. Josh said we were getting too serious, that he needed time to sort things out, and asked to take a “break.” I was devastated, spent most of my senior year in a blue fog, and came out of it to realize that we weren’t meant to be. That someone else is in store for me. Of course, I jokingly told my friends I’d be content to wait for Prince Harry.

But did I really find him, my own Prince Harry, last night?

Even if I did, he’s gone now.

And there’s nothing I can do to change that.

I juggle the cardboard tray filled with ridiculous Starbucks concoctions as I open the door to Boutique Dallas. It’s Monday, and I’m still thinking about Harrison. At least work will be a big distraction from the endless loop of “what if” scenarios playing in my head.

I step inside and head toward the back. The chic boutique is filled with exquisite designer clothing for both men and women. In addition to clothing, there are gorgeous things for the home like rich cashmere throws and expensive scented candles. As my eyes scan the boutique, I see myself everywhere. After all, I’m responsible for all displays in the store: how things are arranged under glass cases; the props used to emphasize our products; the outfits that are put together on the mannequins; the displays in the front window. It’s all my vision, all of my ideas to help merchandise look its very best, and I love seeing that vision come to life.

I open the door to the back, where everyone is getting ready for the day. The latest clothing shipment is being opened by Alyssa and Bradley, our sales associates. My manager, Laurel, is going over inventory on the computer, and Mona, the assistant manager, is putting cash in the register drawers. The store is due to open in a half-hour, and since I’m the newest employee, part of my job is to get the morning Starbucks for everyone.

“Oh, I was hoping you wouldn’t be much longer,” Mona says. “Of course, it will be a miracle if my coffee is the right temperature by the time I get it.”

I bite my lip. Mona is a chic woman in her early 40’s, but her mission in life is to find misery in everything. I honestly could not exist in her mind set for 10 minutes, let alone a lifetime, without going completely insane.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say confidently as I put the cardboard tray down on a table. “Here’s your grande coffee with a splash of soy milk, extra hot.” I hand her the cup and Mona takes it, sighing heavily as doom weighs down upon her.

“Thanks, but I’m sure it is not extra hot now,” she says, walking away and patting her super sleek platinum-blonde hair.

I pick up Laurel’s cup, which is the most picky order in my tray: a tall latte with 1 packet of Splenda, ½ packet of Nutra-Sweet, ½ shot of espresso, and ½ shot of decaf and extra foam. Actually all the orders are stupid insane, almost like everyone is trying to one up each other on the complexity of their drinks. Again, so not me.

“Laurel?” I say, waking into her office. “I have your coffee.”

I study her for a second. Laurel is gorgeous, with long jet-black hair and light blue eyes. She is tall, thin, and dressed in a chic Victoria Beckham dress.

“Thank you,” she says, simply extending her hand to me without lifting her eyes from the screen. “Are you ready for Thursday?”

“I’m going to work on my timeline for it this morning,” I say.

Thursday night is Boutique Dallas’s big charity fashion show called Heat of Summer. Local celebrities—models, society people, Dallas athletes, etc.—are going to model hot summer fashions, then there’s a cocktail and appetizer reception afterward. All the money raised goes to different women’s cancer charities serving the Dallas area.

My role is to have the runway placed, the chairs arranged, and create décor for the show to reflect a hot Texas night.

“Good,” Laurel says, again not lifting her eyes from the screen. “I’ll ask to see it after lunch.”

“Okay, great,” I say. I excuse myself and pick up the cardboard tray, going over to Alyssa and Bradley. “Alyssa, one iced coffee with two pumps hazelnut and two scoops vanilla bean powder. Bradley, your vanilla bean latte with no bubbles.”

“Thanks, Jackie,” Bradley says, winking.

I smile. I love 60’s inspired fashion, and in particular, Jackie Kennedy’s kind of style.

“The outfit is particularly Jackie today,” Alyssa says, smiling as she takes her coffee.

I glance down. The clothes at Boutique Dallas are ridiculously expensive, but we have to wear them as employees. Thanks to a twice a year super generous discount, I was able to score this amazing Moschino dress. It’s a gorgeous ivory dress, sleeveless and fitted, with a black Peter Pan collar and ruffle and small stud detail at the waist. My black strappy heels complete the look.

“I like to think of it as Modern Jackie,” I say, grinning. Then I take my coffee—just black coffee with half-n-half—and head to my workspace at the back of the ‘Employees Only’ section.

I take a sip of my coffee, absently run my fingers over the chignon twist I have turned my dark hair into, and then open up my iPad and begin working on my timeline. I get in the zone, and I hear the employees go out front to open the store and start the day for the customers.

After about an hour, I hear heels against the concrete floor. I look up and see Laurel walking toward me, a quizzical look etched on her face.

“Since when do you know famous athletes and not tell me?” Laurel asks.

I furrow my brow. “What? Don’t be silly. I don’t know any athletes.”

“Interesting. Because the captain of the Dallas Demons says he knows you.”

I laugh. “He must be mistaken. I don’t know any professional athletes at all, let alone
hockey players
,” I say, referring to Dallas’ professional hockey team.

“Well, there’s one up front, says he wants to be a last minute add to our fashion show, and is requesting you pull together his look. Which I’m more than okay with because he’s a
huge
get for the show.”

“Laurel, who are you talking about?” I ask, puzzled. “He must have me confused with someone else. I don’t know any professional athletes.”

Laurel stares at me. “Weird. Because
Harrison Flynn
, Captain of the Dallas Demons, is pretty sure he knows
you
. And he’s waiting up front for you right now.”

Chapter 4

The Pop Quiz Question:
THE GUY—the one you thought got away—has found you. How do you react?

A) Cool. Never let them see that you care.

B) Wow, he must be interested!

C) I’m so shocked and excited that breathing is impossible at the time being . . .

I stare at Laurel, stunned by what she has just said.

“Harrison?” I whisper, my heart stopping. “Did you just say
Harrison
is here?”

“Hello, Kylie, are you listening to me? Yes,
Harrison
,” Laurel snaps. “The secrets you keep, Kylie Reed. I mean, it would’ve been nice if you mentioned him when we started planning for this show in the spring.”

“I just met him,” I say, reeling from what Laurel has just said. Harrison is
here
. He found me.

He wanted to find me.

And he’s a professional athlete? The man I spent the evening engrossed in conversation with two nights ago is a
hockey player
?

“You seriously just met him?” Laurel says, interrupting my racing thoughts.

“Only a few nights ago,” I confess.

“Well, he’s up front asking for you,” Laurel says, lifting an eyebrow. “I’ll tell him you’ll be right with him.”

As soon as she is out of sight, I leap up from my chair. I’m all nerves and excitement. Harrison Flynn,
professional hockey player
, wanted to find me!

I dash into the restroom, check my appearance, then walk through the ‘Employees Only’ area, butterflies shifting rapidly around in my stomach.

I open the door to the retail area and go to the front of the store.

And there he is.

Harrison is looking at something underneath a glass display case—the men’s jewelry. His palms are spread out on the glass, his head bent down as he inspects the items. This time his gorgeous red curls are covered by a gray baseball cap. I see he is wearing another expensive pair of jeans—Rag and Bone—and another gray T-shirt.

I take a few more steps, and he raises his head.

Oh dear God. He is possibly even hotter than I remembered him being on Saturday night. My heart does this weird ricochet thing—something it has
never
done before—and I freeze dead in my tracks.

He turns toward me, and my pulse skyrockets. I notice he has on a graphic shirt, one with a black architectural bridge sketched on it and the word ‘Brooklyn’ on it. I can’t help but notice he has a great casual style vibe.

A shy smile passes over his face. I find myself smiling back. I resume walking toward him and stop as I meet him. The scent of him—of cinnamon and vanilla—comes wafting back to me, and I drink it in. Oh, he smells as good as he looks . . .

“Kylie,” he says softly, tugging on the brim of his University of Texas at Dallas baseball hat.

“Harrison,” I say, nerves sweeping through me.

Harrison looks around, and I follow his gaze. And, damn it, freaking Mona, Laurel, Bradley, and Alyssa are gawking at us. I shoot them all a look, but of course they don’t notice because they are too busy staring at Harrison.

Harrison turns his attention back at me. “Can we talk somewhere private for a minute?”

I nod. “Let’s go to the back of the store.” I glance at Laurel and Mona, who look utterly stunned that I know the famous Harrison Flynn. “I’ll be back.”

“Take as long as you need,” Laurel cries out gleefully. “Do the fittings for Mr. Flynn, please.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I’m going to have to fit him for clothing for the fashion show? Which means measurements and intimate contact—

I blush furiously at the thought of it.

“Um . . . yes,” I manage, trying to figure out how I’m going to do this without my hands shaking all over the place.

Then I turn back to the gorgeous Hockey God standing next to me. “Let’s head this way,” I say.

We walk side-by-side through the store, my pulse zipping the entire time.

“I hope you don’t mind that I found you,” Harrison says softly as we walk.

“No, of course not,” I say quickly. Then I mentally facepalm myself.
Ugh, way to be cool, Kylie
, I think. I clear my throat. “How did you find me, anyway?”

Harrison rubs his hand along his jaw line. “If I tell you, will you promise not to think I’m a stalker?”

I laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

We reach the back room, and I let him inside.

“Sorry, there really isn’t a good place to sit, but at least it’s private,” I say, grinning.

“That works for me,” Harrison says.

I lean against a countertop that is stacked with tape guns, box cutters, and inventory lists on clipboards. Harrison stands right across from me, next to a pile of shipment boxes.

“So you found me,” I say again, looking into his green eyes.

Harrison smiles. “I did. I left the Ritz, and I kept thinking, ‘How could I leave without getting her name? Her number?’”

My heart leaps.
Harrison wanted my number!

“So I drove back to the Ritz. You said you were there for a wedding, so I went to the ballrooms. Luckily for me, the bride and groom’s seating chart for the reception was parked out in the hallway, next to the entrance doors. It wasn’t hard for me to figure that part out. Google, of course, paved the way to Boutique Dallas, who had publicized your hiring in the business papers a few months ago.”

I’m so surprised I can’t speak. Harrison went to all this trouble to find me. Me, Kylie Reed.

“Kylie,” Harrison says softly, interrupting my thoughts, “I know you don’t believe in dating people you meet in bars. You made that very clear. So I have a proposal for you. I . . . I’ve never talked to anybody the way I talked to you on Saturday. And even though I know you wouldn’t want to go out with me, I was wondering if you would agree to be friends.”

My heart suddenly spirals into my stomach and lands with a huge crash. Oh God. He’s put me in the
Friend Zone
.

But as I look at him, it makes sense. Harrison is a
professional hockey player
. They don’t date girls like me, who like to sew and bake cookies. They date models. Actresses. Girls like that.

Girls,
I think,
who are the exact opposite of me.

The smart answer would be to decline. To stay far away from Harrison, because he’s the kind of guy my head tells me I could fall really hard and fast for.

The kind of guy I would fall for, but he would never see me the same way.

But my heart—my stupid heart—can’t say no. I had an amazing conversation with him. And I want more of that, even if it’s just as friends.

“Harrison,” I say, “I’d like that. I really would.”

He grins at me, and it’s that same flashing smile he gave me at the Rattlesnake Bar.

“Really?”

I laugh. “Really.”

Then I secretly pray that I can keep my feelings in the Friend Zone where Harrison wants them. If I know that’s the rule upfront, I can follow that. It can’t be that hard, right?

Riiiiiiiight.

But I’m going to do it anyway. If there is one thing I’m really good at, it’s following the rules.

“So why didn’t you tell me you play hockey?” I ask, curious.

Harrison’s gaze stays intently on mine. “Does it matter?”

I furrow my brow. “Of course not. Does it matter to you?”

“Touché.” Harrison grins. Then he sighs. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, “it’s nice to talk to a person who doesn’t know who you are. Who doesn’t have a preconceived notion of how you should act, how you should dress, how you should talk . . . The fact that you didn’t want to even know my name made it even better. When people see you on TV, or read about you in magazines or on the Internet, they think they know you. But they really don’t. They know Harrison from those glimpses. They don’t know
me
.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I admit.

Harrison shrugs. “It’s part of being a professional athlete, and I accept that. I don’t like it, but I accept it. But that is why talking to you was
different
. I was a blank slate to you, Kylie,” he says, his eyes shining with sincerity. “What I talked about with you . . . that was me. The real me.”

Oh God. I really like the
real
Harrison Flynn. I might have to write the friends rule on the palm of my hand so I can constantly remind myself that’s where I need to stay.

Then I notice a wicked gleam come into those eyes. “And I also knew you weren’t a Puck Bunny.”

I burst out laughing. “What,” I ask, “is a Puck Bunny?”

Harrison grins. “A Puck Bunny is a girl who has her radar locked on a hockey player. You aren’t one of those. Or if you are, you’ve been masterful at hiding it.”

“No, I can assure you I’m not a Puck Bunny,” I say, smiling. “I’ve never even been to a hockey game.”

“I can rectify that one,” Harrison says, smiling back at me. Then his expression changes. “If we aren’t locked out this season.”

“Locked out?” I say, confused.

Then I see it. I might barely know Harrison but the carefree expression on his handsome face just changed. Now he looks . . . concerned. As if some kind of worry crosses his mind as he thinks of the phrase “locked out.”

“The players and the owners are working on some labor issues,” Harrison says slowly, tugging on his gray baseball cap. “And if there isn’t an agreement before we start training camp in September, they could lock us out. I . . . I can’t deal with that,” he says, quietly. “I can’t imagine not playing—”

Suddenly he stops speaking. “You know what? I don’t want to bore you with the details of that. I think it’s time to pick out some clothes for this fashion show.”

I bite my lip. Obviously this is not something he wants to talk to me about, so I have to respect that.

But clearly the idea of not playing hockey this fall is something that is weighing on his heart.

“Sure, let me grab a few things,” I say, smiling at him. I go into the bay where the tailors keep their stash—tape measures, pins, and chalk—and arm myself. Then I come back to Harrison. “Okay, let’s pick out your runway attire.”

Harrison opens the door for me and allows me to step through first. “So, Kylie, enlighten me. What do I get to wear for a summer fashion show?”

I look up at him and smile as we head toward the Men’s Department. “You can pretty much choose anything in the Men’s Department to wear. The possibilities are endless.”

“I have to say I like endless possibilities,” he says, staring at me.

Oh God, when he looks at me like that, why do I feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle right here on the showroom floor?

Friends, friends, friends.

Yes, I’m totally going to have to write that on my hand. Or get one of those rubber bracelets and have this stamped on it: KNTBAF. Meaning
Kylie Needs To Be A Friend
to remind myself exploring a romantic relationship with Harrison is off the table.

“Kylie?”

I snap out of my thoughts. “Um, yes, let’s look at some suits for you. Who are your favorite designers? I think you would look really sharp in—”

I’m about to speak when we get to the men’s section and all of my displays have been changed. All of them. I had a really cool selection of ties in trays on a low, teakwood table, they are gone and replaced with stacks of Jil Sander T-shirts. Yes, T-shirts crammed and stacked in a
tray
? The motorcycle helmet and aviator sunglasses on another table—oh, no! The glasses are replaced with wallets next to the helmet. That doesn’t even make sense!

“Unbelievable,” I say, putting down the tailoring supplies and picking up a wallet. I look at Harrison, who is studying me with a crease in his brow. “All of my displays have been changed. These were aviator sunglasses,” I say, waving the wallet around. “Like a wallet next to a motorcycle helmet makes any kind of visual connection.”

I put the wallet down and sigh. “Why do I even bother?”

“Who does this to you?” Harrison asks.

I quickly look around then I step closer to him so I can speak softly. “Mona.”

Harrison looks amused. “Go on.”

“She is that lady with the blonde hair,” I say quietly. “She complains about
everything every second of every day
. And she always says there are things wrong with my visual displays, and when I leave for the day, she rearranges them.”

“Have you confronted her about it?”

I bite my lip. “Harrison, I just started here a few months ago. She’s been here a decade. I can’t challenge her at this point. I’m still the newest person on the team.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes, Kylie.”

I furrow my brow. “I . . . I just can’t. Not yet.”

“Not yet, or because you fear confrontation?”

I blink. “How did you know that? You don’t know me, not really, but how did you figure that out?”

Because it’s true. I absolutely hate confrontations and avoid them at all costs. It’s so much easier to stick things that bug me into my little mental drawer and slam it shut and not deal with it. That idea appeals to me way more than walking up to Mona and having it out with her over my displays.

“Well,” Harrison says slowly, going over to a row of suits and beginning to flip through them, “if you weren’t afraid of confrontation, you would have already taken her aside, told her you’re in charge of visual displays and to quit undermining your work. My guess is if you did that, this shit would stop.”

Dear God, he’s really intuitive.

“Are you sure you aren’t a psychologist?” I ask. “Because you really sound like one.”

Harrison stops and gives me his full attention. A huge smile lights up his face, and he grins.

“You keep telling me that,” Harrison says.

“You’re very intuitive,” I say honestly. “More so than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Really? I—”

Harrison is cut off by the voice of Victor, our in-house tailor.