‘‘You know, I’ve done that sort of thing before,’’ he said. ‘‘Sex, I mean.’’
‘‘So I assumed.’’
‘‘Yeah, well, the point is, I know the difference between sex and something more.’’
What could be more? she wondered. ‘‘You’re talking about the act versus…’’
‘‘Feelings. Connection.’’ He cleared his throat. The hat in his hands spun faster. ‘‘I don’t have all the answers.’’
She hadn’t realized there had been questions. Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or sit down and cry her eyes out. For as long as she lived, she knew she would remember this moment: the scent of the straw and horses; Mitch’s nervous fingers betraying his tension; the way his dark hair fell over his forehead; and her own desire to go to him and be held.
‘‘I doubt anyone hasallthe answers,’’ she said.
‘‘Agreed.’’ He looked at her. ‘‘I don’t know what it was, but I know it was more. Which makes the whole thing scary, but in a good way.’’ He stopped spinning his hat. ‘‘I want you, but becoming lovers is going to complicate things a whole lot more than either of us realizes. Or maybe you know because you’ve done this sort of thing before.’’
He wanted her? In his bed? The thought was thrilling. Impossible, but thrilling.
Alex wondered if she should take this opportunity to clear up his misconception about her experience level. Then she decided that if Mitch knew she was a virgin, he would take off running for the very picturesque mountains behind the ranch, and she would never see him again.
‘‘Itwouldchange things,’’ she agreed.
‘‘That’s what I thought. So I figured the best thing would be for us to just back off. For a while at least. Until we figure out what we want.’’
Was he talking about life in general or them in particular? What did he want? What was he saying? That they might have a chance at a regular relationship? Did he care about her? She knew that he liked her, but was he talking about being more than friends?
Too many questions and absolutely no answers.
‘‘I’ll see you at dinner,’’ Mitch said, and turned to leave.
Princess Alexandra, who had been told she was imperious and bossy, couldn’t find the courage to stop him so she could ask him what he meant.
‘‘So much for the power of royalty,’’ she murmured to the mare when they were alone. ‘‘Apparently in the whole man-woman game, having a tiara doesn’t matter for spit.’’
Chapter Twelve
‘‘I’m going to be cleaning pie dough off the ceiling for weeks,’’ Betty complained good-naturedly.
Alex looked at the flour covering the countertop around her, not to mention the light dusting that climbed nearly to her elbows as she rolled out her piecrust. She grinned. ‘‘I warned you that I’d never made a pie before. My cooking classes never covered them.’’ She paused, trying to remember all her instructors had discussed. ‘‘I’m great at tortes and cakes and can make you a dozen perfect roses in marzipan, but pies are a mystery. Especially pumpkin.’’
Betty arched her eyebrows and looked suitably shocked. ‘‘It’s a tradition.’’
‘‘I know. But I must remind you that I’ve never really celebrated Thanksgiving. It’s strictly an American holiday.’’
‘‘I hadn’t thought of that,’’ Betty admitted. She stood at the stove, stirring a sugar-and-evaporated-milk mixture that was the basis of what Mitch had promised was killer fudge. ‘‘So you’ve never had a real Thanksgiving dinner?’’
‘‘I vaguely remember my mother insisting on turkey dinner a few times when I was growing up, but somehow the celebration got lost.’’ Alex shrugged. ‘‘There are so many events going on at any one time. The palace sponsors many of the arts. Then there are the visiting dignitaries, not to mention our own national holidays.’’
Betty pulled the heavy pot off the burner and poured in a bowl of chocolate chips. ‘‘When you’re all gussied up in one of your suits, talking on the phone or getting something messengered to you, it’s easy to think of you as a princess. But now, you’re just like a regular person.’’
Alex carefully folded the crust in quarters, then lifted it to the pie pan and unfolded it. She glanced at Betty. ‘‘That must mean I have pie dough in my hair.’’
‘‘Nope, but you have flour on your face.’’
Alex started to wipe it away, then realized her hands were too dirty to be of any help. ‘‘If someone sneaks up and takes a photo, I’ll simply claim to be setting a new style.’’
‘‘You do that,’’ Betty said. ‘‘I’m sure they’ll believe you.’’
Alex chuckled as she crimped the edge of the piecrust in place. When she’d finished, Betty nodded to the remaining dough. ‘‘Now do it all again. You’re making three pies all together.’’
