The Prince's Secret (Prince Harry Fanfic)

Part 13 - The Sleeping Lion - Part 2

Samantha

I nibbled my way through the bread and cheese while we talked, and I let Harry pinch a bit of the cheese. He seemed eager to know more about me, but he didn't volunteer much about himself.

"Did you come to London to work with horses? You can't be going to university. You sound far too busy."

I laughed. "No, I came to London to avoid going to grad school or having to make a decision about what I want to do with my education. My dad will probably put up with my little sojourn for a year or so, but after that he will want me to do something productive. And I doubt he will think that mucking out stalls and holding polo ponies while someone jumps on and off them is productive."

"So what did you study?" he asked.

"Textile arts," I told him, and laughed at the surprised look on his face.

"Like fashion design?" he asked.

"No, not really, although I do make a lot of my own clothes—weird things that nobody else wants to wear."

"You have any photos or sketches? I can't imagine anything that is too weird for London."

I stood up and spread my arms wide, displaying my made-over tapestry coat to its fullest glory. "Like this."

Harry's eyes widened. "You made that? I thought it was some designer. I know I saw something like that in the window of some Mayfair shop. You're barmy if you think that there aren't women in London who would not only wear that, but pay a couple thousand pounds for it."

I sat down, my cheeks flushing, somewhat embarrassed. "I'm not a designer. I can't sketch clothes to be made in some factory or workshop. I have to feel the fabric, get a sense of its history and what it can be made into."

His smile was soft as he reached across the table and took my hand in his. "You're an artist, a craftswoman. I can see the passion in your face when you talk about it. If you could do anything, is this what you would do? Sew artsy and unique clothes?"

I was so flustered by the warmth of his hands around mine I barely heard the question. "If I could do anything? I don't know."

"Say your Fairy Godmother is ready with her magic wand and anything is possible. Anything. Money is no object, time is no object, you have all the resources in the world available to you. And she asks you, 'Samantha, what is it you want to do? How do you want to spend your days?' Answer quickly, without thinking."

I closed my eyes, partially to shut out the intensity of his gaze, and tried to focus on the question. "I want to make art. I want to live a creative life. I don't want to sell my time and my soul just to make money. I want to ride horses and sleep late and share it with someone who understands me."

I made the mistake of opening my eyes, then closed them again and yanked my hand from his, burying my face in my hands.

I had no idea where that had come from. It felt like Harry had conjured the words from me, had tapped into some deep and secret part of myself that I tried to keep hidden from everyone, even myself.

"Don't be embarrassed or ashamed," Harry said, his voice velvety-soft and low. "It was honest and beautiful. I appreciate your trust in saying that to me. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"I didn't intend to," I muttered.

He laughed softly. "I know. And you probably don't realize how much I value that."

I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself to meet his gaze. "So what is your answer? Fairy Godmother—or Godfather, if you prefer—asks you the same question. 'Harry, what do you want to do? If you had no responsibilities, no expectations, and you could spend every day doing just exactly what you want to do, what would it be?' Quick answer."