A Princess for Christmas - Jenny Holiday Page 0,56

stuck it into his pocket. He took her hand, spun around, and pulled her into his arms. Into a classic slow dance stance. “No need for steps. Just sway.”

He started moving, willing her to move with him.

She did. It felt like a small miracle.

All that was audible was the crunching of the snow under their feet. His breath, heated from the fire stoked inside him by both her ridiculous take on royal beauty and the nearness of so much royal beauty, came harder than usual, made visible puffs of steam in the chilled air. She shivered, and he pulled her closer. “See? Easy as pie.”

“This isn’t the kind of dancing we do at the Cocoa Ball.” She was a head and a half shorter than he was, and she was nestled so close to his chest that her voice came out muffled.

“No?” His came out all raspy. He would like to think it was due to the cold, but he feared not.

He felt her shake her head no against his chest. They kept swaying in the dark, and even though it was cold and they were swathed in layers of clothing, his body was lit up. Those angry embers inside him had diffused, sending heat to every inch of him. “Well, you must be dancing with the wrong people then.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because she pulled away instantly.

“I am,” she said. “I am dancing with the wrong people.” She sounded sad. Resigned.

He didn’t know what to do other than follow her down the hill. He thought about making a speech about how not-ugly she was, just to make sure she’d gotten that through her head, but the moment had passed.

Marie hadn’t been to the Owl and Spruce since before her mother died, but it was the same as always. The red fabric banquettes and dark wood walls of the village pub were comforting in their sameness.

She felt a little guilty that it had been so long since she’d seen Imogen, the proprietor and someone Marie had once considered a friend. After Marie left for university, they’d grown apart. And when she’d come back, it had been to a different life. A grieving father lashing out in anger even as he let his responsibilities—and the economy—slide. She had tried to take over as much as he would allow her. The new workload meant a lot of Marie’s old connections—at least the ones that didn’t directly benefit the crown—had been left to founder.

Imogen greeted her with genuine warmness, though, and somehow managed to clear out a snug for them. Imogen’s father had been Irish, and he’d built the pub in the traditional style, including with a row of snugs—private booths with doors.

“Do you have time to join us for a drink?” Marie asked after she’d introduced Leo and they’d placed their orders.

Imogen smiled her cat-that-ate-the-canary smile—she always looked like she was up to something. “I most certainly do. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Some of that awkwardness Marie had been referencing earlier settled on them once she and Leo were alone. The snug was big, and the large wooden table between them suddenly seemed an impossible gulf to bridge. She was tempted to make another speech about how she couldn’t get caught up in anything with him as she had so awkwardly done when they’d kissed in New York. Even if Max managed to buy them some time, she was eventually going to have to get married. And even if Max managed to get himself entirely off the hook when it came to marrying her, whoever else her father might have in mind to take his place would be . . . not Mr. Leonardo Ricci of the Bronx. But as she’d learned last time, any speech she might be tempted to give on this topic was irrelevant. As Leo had told her himself, there was “no universe” in which he wanted to marry her.

Of course there wasn’t. Her face still burned thinking about the rebuke. She’d only meant that she couldn’t get involved with him in any capacity. She couldn’t kiss him in the snow. She couldn’t do anything that would put her in danger of losing her heart to him. But of course it had come out all wrong.

And then, completely disregarding her own advice, she’d let herself dance with him. If you could even characterize that hugging-with-minimal-moving as dancing. That would never be tolerated at a palace event, both because