The Coldest Summer✓

Twenty

"I miss the ocean," I say nostalgically.

"It can't be a perfect summer without some salty water, right?" Malik places his mobile on the table and gives me his full attention.

"Exactly." Smiling, I glance up at him. "I mean, Montana is really nice, but I still miss L.A. I want to get tanned at the beach, hearing the sound of the waves, swimming . . . I miss that."

A long silence takes a reign, Malik's now-calm eyes pitching me some kind of avuncular concern. And suddenly his mouth widens into a grin.

"How about we go to Miami?" he asks lively, his gaze expectant.

"Miami?" I almost choke on my drink.

"Yes . . . Miami." He bobs his head, jubilantly. I blink twice at him. "Don't you want the perfect summer with the beach, Professor? Then say yes."

It's so hard to fathom when he's serious and when he isn't. Does he mean it or he's just pulling my leg? I pout at the thought.

"You're kidding, right?" My voice is grouchy.

"Come on, just say yes already," Malik exhorts. God, he's not kidding! "I'm being serious, Professor. Do you want to go to Miami or not?"

"Of course I do." I leave it to him. "So, why aren't you staying in the palace? Aren't princes supposed to be in the kingdom?" I alter the course of our conversation.

Malik scowls. He takes out a cigarette from his jacket and slowly lights it up with the golden lighter that could've paid for my monthly bills.

Did I touch the sore spot? And . . . he smokes? I'm a bit surprised.

He takes a puff of cigarette, his gaze indescribable, and then says, "Because I like being free, just as I am." He halts to blow some smoke to the side. I remain attentive as he adds, "My brother is the crown prince, and so only he is obligated to stay in the palace."

I clasp my lips together like a toddler in front of a story book. "And when did you leave the palace?"

He frowns a bit in recollection, his look subdued for the reasons only he knows. "When I was fifteen, I guess." He glances at me softly.

"Wow, that long? But why? I think you were too young. I mean, if you're willing to talk, that is." I don't want to pressure him.

Malik leans back in his seat and blows the smoke again. I try to chill despite my feud with cigars and the smell. "I had an accident at the time," he replies coolly, full of hidden emotions.

My heart tightens. Does he have a painful story? I wonder.

"I had to move to Houston for rehab." Malik proceeds calmly, revisiting his memories, it seems.

"I'm very sorry."

I suddenly regret asking about his private affliction. More than anyone else, I understand how tough it can get when talking of some deadly memories that you'd rather forget.

"I used to do illegal motorbike racing back then. Of course behind my father's back," Malik says.

My eyes widen, but I'm not surprised at all that he was once a troublemaker.

"So, one day I pulled a dangerous stunt and ended up with a few broken ribs and leg." He laughs briefly.

"That's terrible!" I say in horror, imagining the scene.

"It was." He smiles as though it's water under a bridge.

Maybe it is.

"So, did you get banished or something? I mean, after getting better of course," I ask curiously.