Thanks so much for the reviews, faves, and follows! As long as your curiosity is piqued and you're ready for more, my work here is done. ;)
Without further ado, here's the next chapter. It's about time these two properly meet.
Reviews are like mini marshmallows in a mug of hot cocoa, so please leave one. xoxo
Enjoy! :)
Chapter Two
The apologies are numerous—Stefan, Giuseppe, then Stefan again.
But not a word from Damon.
Geoff gently raps on her door when it's time for dinner, but she can't summon the strength to go downstairs. She's not in the mood for another of the eldest prince's tirades, and even if he's not still planning to throw her out, the thought of being scowled at for an hour or two makes her appetite vanish.
Sending her regrets to the king and Stefan, she feigns a headache and crawls into bed in her fuzzy PJs. Maybe she'll suddenly develop amnesia and forget about the morning's embarrassing spectacle.
One can dream.
Her growling stomach and a craving for sugar cookies wake her from a deep sleep. She pats around for her phone, sending a box of tissues, a hair clip, and a couple pillows tumbling to the floor before she finds it.
11:34 pm.
Whoa. Any leftovers from dinner were probably cleaned up long ago, but there might be a sleeve of crackers or some bread and jam to tide her over until breakfast.
She pads to the kitchen, a smile creeping onto her face when she spots the empty mug waiting for her. There's a tin of chamomile tea, a dish of sugar, a jar of hot cocoa mix, and a spoon. Next to that is a plate of cookies covered in plastic wrap and a miniature, folded card—the sort of thing you'd see on the table at a wedding—with Miss Elena written on it in elegant script.
Another card sits beside the spoon: Milk and fresh cream in the refrigerator.
The kitchen staff must think she's visiting royalty. Or this is Geoff's handiwork. Either way, it's the sweetest thing anyone's done for her in ages.
She goes with the tea, figuring it will help her unwind, and puts the kettle on. She turns it off just shy of the shrill whistle that would wake the entire household and fills her mug, choosing which cookie to devour first while she waits for her tea to steep.
"Ms. Gilbert?"
Elena jumps at the tentative greeting, and hot water sloshes over the rim of her cup and onto her hand. "Ouch!"
She darts to the sink and runs cold water on the burn, wincing at the sting.
"Here."
She turns, her eyes meeting a cool, blue gaze. Damon Salvatore—heir to the throne and raging asshole—carefully wraps a towel around her hand and when the chill hits her skin, she realizes there's an ice pack tucked in the folds of fabric.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he says in a much more civilized tone than she thought him capable of. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot. When I heard someone in the kitchen and saw it was you, I came to—"
Something snaps inside her and she yanks her hand away. "The wrong foot?" Her mouth goes dry and she suddenly doesn't give a damn if he's the future king or just another garden-variety jerk. "You insulted me in front of your father and brother without even knowing anything about me. We're way past wrong-foot territory."
"If you had let me finish," he grits out through clenched teeth, "I was about to say that I was coming to apologize."
"That's hard to believe. Did Stefan put you up to this?"
"No," he answers abruptly, which is code for Yes, but I'm too proud to admit it.
Despite the late hour, Damon's still wearing dress pants and a button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She recalls he had a tie on during his earlier explosion, but that's gone now.
"My outburst was . . ." He pauses and clears his throat as if the words are stuck there. "Highly inappropriate. I'm sorry for the way I acted."
He must be out of practice because his semi-scowl and pursed lips don't jive with his apology. Then again, "My bad!" is probably a rare phrase in his princely vocabulary.
Once more with feeling, buddy. Still, that's as good as she's likely to get, and it's better than nothing, she supposes.
"Thanks, I guess." She shuffles to the fridge to fetch the cream.
Now that he's done his penance or whatever, she expects him to leave—with or without a goodbye, it doesn't really matter. Instead, he trails after her.
Damon leans against the counter, frowning at her pajamas. "Are those . . . unicorns?"
"Yes," she mutters, sticking her head into the refrigerator to hide her flaming face. Nothing screams Of course I'm a professional, why do you ask like PJs with mythical creatures on them.
"Huh."
She spins around, pointing the pitcher at him like it's a weapon. "Just because they're not monogrammed and spun with gold thread doesn't give you the right to make fun of them."
His brows drop, a dark gleam returning to his eyes. "I don't wear gold—" He kills the argument before it can gain steam and sighs, raking his fingers through his unruly hair. "I didn't say that."
Elena shrugs and stirs cream into her tea. "You were judging."
"I was not," he snaps. "I wasn't expecting you to be wearing those . . ." he gestures helplessly in her direction, ". . . bubblegum-pink things."
"There you go again." She hops onto a stool and selects a star-shaped cookie from the plate, dragging it closer in case he gets any ideas about trying to steal one. "Look, we're clearly not going to agree on anything, so why don't you tell me whatever it is you're dying to say then we can go our separate ways."
He blinks slowly, like he's having trouble processing her I'm-not-taking-anymore-shit-from-you attitude. Truth be told, she's still adjusting to it herself. "Are you kicking me out of my own kitchen?"
Technically, it's your father's, she almost quips, biting her tongue at the last second. "I didn't say that," she murmurs instead, tossing his words back at him.
"Fine." He crosses his arms over his chest, and her gaze lingers a little too long on the outline of his biceps. "I don't want you to do the assignment. My life story and my family's history don't belong on the front page of a newspaper."
Her heart skips then shifts into overdrive as panic sets in. "What?"
"I'm sorry." At least this apology sounds more genuine than the last.
"Wait—"
With one final, unreadable look, he exits the kitchen, leaving her alone with the jumble of thoughts rioting in her brain.
###
So, no story. Elena might as well book a flight back to New York. There's no point in wasting her time on something that's never going to happen.
She considered shifting the focus of the piece to Stefan, but the whole idea was to introduce her readers to Mystfallia's next ruler, even if he is a judgmental creep. Mercifully, she hasn't crossed paths with said creep since their encounter last night. She's on her way to her room to call the office and break the news when she glances out the glass-paneled doors leading to the courtyard.
There's a frozen pond in its center, about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. The glossy surface shines in the late-day sun, and a wave of wistfulness washes over her. She misses the rink at Rock Center where the staff lets her sneak in before the general public show up in the morning and after they leave at night. She repays their kindness by volunteering as an instructor during the busy season. Zipping across the ice, with only the giant Christmas tree for company, is like nothing else in the world.
"Do you skate, Miss?"
Her heart leaps into her throat then settles back where it belongs when she spots Geoff beside her. The ancient butler missed his calling as a librarian or maybe the world's stealthiest assassin. She shivers and studies the man's uniform for any suspicious outlines in case Damon's decided to get rid of her permanently then shakes her head at her own nonsense.
Stop being ridiculous, you idiot.
"I do, yes," she mumbles.
"Shall I bring you a pair of skates?" Geoff asks, waving a hand at the pond.
It does look lonely out there, all by itself, and an hour's difference isn't going to change her boss's disappointment. What if they fire her? Shelving her latest fear—for now—she nods at Geoff.
"I would love that."
The ice is perfect, not that she expected anything less, and by her fifth time around the rink, she's flying with ease. When she was a kid, she spent hours glued to the TV, watching graceful figure skaters twirl and leap through the air. She wanted it all—the sparkly outfits, the standing ovations, the gold medals—but there was no money for lessons, so she settled for borrowed skates and practiced every chance she got. She's no expert, but she's not the worst there is either.
After landing a tiny jump and launching into a spin, she passes a blur of black that wasn't there a second ago. Skidding to a stop in a spray of ice crystals, she turns to face the intruder.
The blur is a wool coat, topped with a gray scarf. Both are wrapped around Damon, his dark hair tousled by the chilly breeze and a hint of pink in his cheeks. He's clearly been standing there long enough for the cold to nip at his skin, which is . . . curious.
He doesn't vanish when she notices him watching her, so she cautiously glides closer.
"You make it look easy," he says.
"Thanks."
Cue the awkward silence. She picks at a piece of lint on her mitten and stares at her skates, mostly to avoid his intense—but not hostile, yet—gaze.
"Geoff asked if I wanted to skate. Sorry if I'm trespassing on your personal rink—"
"Elena," he says gently, "relax. You're not trespassing. And it's not my personal rink," he adds with a chuckle. It's a warm sound that heats her veins like a sip of the finest bourbon.
"Okay, well . . ." Her eyes settle on his watch, revealing she's been out here far beyond an hour. "Crap. I mean, sorry." What is with all the apologizing? "I need to call the airline."
She tugs off her mittens and coasts to the bench where she left her boots, Damon following beside her.
He quirks a brow. "What?"
"I'm leaving. That should make your day," she mutters under her breath.
"I thought you were staying for the week."
His mercurial mood is giving her whiplash. "Yesterday, you made it crystal clear you want me as far away from here as possible."
Damon sighs and rubs his temple like a headache is forming there. "I told you I overreacted."
"Either way, there's no point in sticking around for a story that'll never be."
He has the good grace to wince, just the tiniest bit. "You should stay for the holiday ball, at the very least."
She would expect this kind of wheedling from Stefan or even Giuseppe, but Damon?
Her hands settle on her hips. "Why?"
He shrugs, an elegant lift of his shoulders. "You came all this way. It would be a shame to miss it. Have you ever been to a royal ball?"
Elena blinks, a dose of sarcasm hovering on her tongue, sharp and lethal. "Do I look like the type of person who is regularly invited to balls?"
"I wouldn't want to make any assumptions," he says smoothly, his lips twitching with a barely there smirk.
Oh, he did not just . . .
"But you probably have family you're anxious to get back to."
She doesn't miss the way his gaze dips to her hand—the left one, specifically.
"It's only me and my brother, but he's in Seattle. My parents died when I was five. Car accident," she explains. "My aunt raised us."
Damon looks stricken and he steps forward, his hand raised as if to offer comfort, somehow. "I'm so sorry."
"It was a long time ago, but thank you," she murmurs.
"You live alone, then?"
Elena nods then reconsiders. "Well, there's Arthur."
Sympathy fades into something darker. "Who is Arthur?"
She shouldn't, but she can't resist needling him a little. "My roommate."
"Is he your boyfriend?" he asks, his stormy eyes flicking again to her ring-less finger.
"He leaves scratches on my back that are hard to explain." She covers her mouth to stifle a laugh as Damon stiffens. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who's staunchly anti-prying," she teases.
"Then answer me."
"I think I'll pass." She flashes a grin and digs the toe of her skate into the ice, pushing away from him. Spinning into the center of the rink, she strikes a ta-da pose.
Except Damon's not there to witness it.
"Oops," she whispers, staring at the spot where he had been standing. So much for the slight thaw between them. One more lap then she'll go find the cranky prince and make nice.
On the final curve, the slice of blades skimming over the ice gets louder. She glances behind her and yelps. Damon is several feet back and quickly closing the gap with long, rapid strides.
"What are you doing?" she asks, picking up enough speed to stay ahead of him. For now.
"Getting my answer," he says smugly.
"I didn't know you were into figure skating." There's a tug on her scarf and she squeaks in alarm.
"Not figure skating," he growls. "Hockey."
Oh, crap. She digs in, abruptly changing direction and waving as he sails by her.
He curses and stops, showering the rink with ice shavings. When he sets his sights on her again, a hunter sizing up his prey, she knows she's toast. There's not enough space to escape him.
Using every trick in her arsenal, she manages to dance out of his reach for a minute or two before a pair of strong arms lock onto her waist. He spins her around and holds her against his chest.
"Who's Arthur," he demands, freeing a lock of hair from the tangle of her lashes.
"You really want to know?" she pants, embarrassingly winded from the extra workout.
"Yes."
"He's . . ."
Damon leans in, his breath warming her lips and sending tingles to places that have no business tingling. "Yes?"
"Arthur is . . . my cat."
His mouth falls open and Elena can't keep it in anymore. She snorts with laughter, the undignified sound echoing in the courtyard.
"Your cat?" he sputters. "Dio."
"Satisfied?" She's not sure what's more bizarre—the fact that he just chased her, or that he did it because he was . . . jealous? Wild.
"Hardly." His voice lowers to a deep rumble, and the way his gaze drops to her lips does funny things to her insides.
She shakes her head to clear the fog. "So, now you know my dirty little secret."
He frowns. "What?"
"That I'm a crazy cat lady."
"I agree with the crazy part."
She bats his arm. "What about you? Anybody who's dying for you to put a ring on it?"
He grimaces as if he's in pain then his pale eyes glaze over with their familiar frost. "No. There was someone once, but I'd prefer not to talk about it."
Oh. There was nothing regarding a significant other in her research. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
Damon slips his arm from her waist and she immediately misses his warmth. "I should go. I'm late for a meeting."
His skates scrape the ice as he departs and she tilts her face toward the darkening sky, wishing she could press rewind.