The Prince's Secret (Prince Harry Fanfic)

Part 7 - "To Sam. And Harry."

Samantha

I asked for directions to the private boxes, but as I approached them, I slowed. Stopping another passerby, I asked "Can you tell me where the washrooms are?"

Vain of me, I know. I highly doubted the prince would care what I looked like, since he had already seen me in my barn-clothing best, and there weren't a lot of improvements I could make in such a short time without a change of clothes. But I did yank the scrunchie out of my hair so it fell down my back, finger-combing it into what I hoped was an artsy, carefully casual look.

Of course I had no makeup with me—not that I'm a big fan of the stuff anyway—but I did have that British-winter pale look going on, unfortunately. I rolled up my sleeves to hide the worst of the horse drool stains and unbuttoned my blue overshirt to show the cleaner white tank top underneath. It would have to do.

I stood outside the door to box 7A for what felt like the longest time, agonizing over whether I should knock or just open the door. At last I knocked, and a muffled voice called, "Come in."

The box was smaller than I imagined but well-appointed, with cushy seats behind a glass window overlooking the arena and a bar along one wall. Prince Harry was leaning on the bar when I came in, and as the door closed he turned to face me.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm sorry—"

We spoke at the same time and he smiled, giving me space to speak first.

I really didn't know what to say after that opening, so I blurted out, "I'm really sorry. It was stupid of me to ask you out. I didn't realize who you were. Sir," I added, not able to wrap my brain or my tongue around the title Your Royal Highness.

He held out a glass of champagne, and I took it gingerly while he tossed back his drink and poured another. "While we are here, let's have no more Sir. It's Harry. Unless we meet in a more formal environment, where those who care about such proprieties are present." He raised a glass to me. "To Sam. And Harry."

I lifted my glass to that and took a large drink, hoping to steady my nerves.

"And let me apologize for being so full of myself I assumed that everyone knows who I am. It was a bit of a surprise, you know. Receiving such an...interesting invitation...from someone who had no clue who I was." He took another drink. "Even more interesting is the fact that for a brief moment I considered accepting it."

Sometimes I open my mouth without thinking, and the craziest things come out. Like that time I stood on the street corner exchanging Shakespeare quotes with a homeless guy. But this time my words surprised me.

"So what's stopping you?" I said.

There was a long silence. I recklessly tossed back the rest of my champagne and set the glass down a little too hard. "I know, I know. It's not appropriate. Forget I said anything." I forced a smile. "Thank you for your hospitality." And I turned to go.

"Samantha." His voice was a low, almost painful hiss.

The tone of his voice was so unexpected I stopped and faced him again. He leaned on the bar and buried his face in his hands.

"So if you weren't a prince, you would consider it?" I asked, trying to sound light-hearted.

"That's not what's holding me back."

"Ah." I smiled. "Then it's the—"

He cut me off with a fierce slash of his hand. "Don't say it."

This encounter was getting truly weird. Wasn't he supposed to be happily partnered up, like all the reporters said? He sure wasn't acting like it. He was acting more like someone who was looking for a way out.

So, Sam, I asked myself, are you interested in being a way out for someone like him? And what would that even mean?

I couldn't go there yet. I only knew that I found this man attractive—even before I knew he was titled and crowned—and very, very interesting. I wanted to know him better.

And if something came of that besides friendship? Well, I could deal with that later.

If it ever happened.

I leaned back, propping my elbows on the bar. "So let's imagine you were a cute polo player I asked out for a beer after a good match. I know of a quiet little pub, not far from my neighborhood, where I am good friends with the owner and the barkeep. There just so happens to be a quiet, dark little booth in the back. If I were to invite a friend there, we could just sit at that little booth and talk over a couple of pints. No questions asked. And no expectations other than talking about horses and getting to know each other a bit better."

He stared at me for the longest time without speaking.

I grabbed a napkin off the bar and scrawled my phone number on it. "You don't have to answer right now. Or ever, if you'd rather forget this little chat. But if you would like to go for a pint sometime, you can text me."

And then I smiled, and forced myself to walk out of the room.