Royal Pain by Megan Mulry Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t-even-think-about-trying-to-pay-for-breakfast lecture, ending his diatribe with one eyebrow raised.
    “I hate that you can do that, by the way.”
    “What? Pay for breakfast?”
    “No. That.” She tipped her head toward his. “The one-eyebrow thing. I tried for forever to do it… it’s one of those you-either-can-do-it-or-you-can’t type of talents.”
    “I suspect you have other talents.”
    They were making their way out of the restaurant then, and out onto the sidewalk, when Bronte looked up at Max. She had not realized how tall he was until this moment. In the bookstore, he had always been crouching or sitting down there near that bottom shelf, and at the restaurant, he had been sitting across from her, at eye level. She was nearly six feet tall and he was a good four inches taller.
    “Well, that’s a relief,” she thought, then realized she had said it aloud.
    “What? That you have other talents?”
    “No. That you are taller than I am. I mean, it wouldn’t have been a deal breaker, but April informs me that when looking for the ideal, er, Transitional Man, physical compatibility is near the top of the list of necessary prerequisites. Since soul-mate compatibility is irrelevant, the corporeal sort takes on, shall we say, greater importance.”
    Max laughed: a deep, rolling, joyful sound that coursed right through Bronte and settled somewhere deep in her belly.
    “I say, Miss Talbott. I think you are planning on using me.”
    Good God. When he reverted to that faux-formal Brit-speak it was sexier than the naughtiest, most graphic pickup line she had ever heard. His arm settled easily across her back and around her waist, his hand coming to rest on her hip as they moved in tandem down Halsted Street.
    Her head leaned on his shoulder momentarily and she marveled at how terrifically natural it all felt. No false hope. No empty promises. No more sawdust for food.
    “I lost some weight recently, due to the, uh, recent unpleasantness, so you’ll have to pardon the slightly protruding hip bone. Buckwheat banana pancakes are a very good sign that I’ll be back up to my fighting weight in no time.”
    “I think I can make do with things as they are.”
    “That’s good to know.”
    With the hand resting on her hip, Max’s thumb found its way up under Bronte’s T-shirt and traced the upper ridge of said hip, leisurely caressing the indentation, then sliding back up around, meandering under the waistband of her jeans.
    She was toast.
    Whether it was the hiatus in her sex life or the hot, English, 100-percent-male specimen currently taking his time mapping a few mere inches of her body, she was a goner.
    After walking around Wicker Park and Bucktown for the rest of the afternoon, pretending to pay attention to the shops and parks and noisy teenagers and arguing parents and street musicians, and laughing more than she had in months, they stopped for a coffee at the sidewalk café that had just opened on Division Street. Bronte was overcome with the sense of promise that pervaded the universe. She was, as Carol would say, totally blissed out.
    They settled into a free table out on the sidewalk and Bronte put her elbows up, resting her chin in her hands. She was so happy just to gape at him. Max trailed his fingers along the back of her hand and down her neck, then across her shoulder, then put his hand down on the table and looked out to the street. Bronte almost felt bereft when his hand moved away.
    “I think—”
    “I think—”
    They both started and stopped simultaneously. Max turned back to look into her eyes again, his lids intensifying. “You first.”
    Bronte swallowed. “Well. It’s been a grand day so far, and I was just starting to think about later and—”
    “Yes.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said yes. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to do it, however many times you want to do it. My answer is yes.”
    “Just like that?”
    “Just like that.”
    “You don’t want to know