An Unexpected Love

Everything at this event has been thought out perfectly. From the foyer to the ballroom, everything is clad in gold and marble, real candles flicker in huge crystal chandeliers, stunning flower arrangements in shades of orange occupy every available space, and women in elegant ball gowns perfectly accessorized with dazzling jewelry chat attentively to men in formal suits. Amidst them, waiters in tailcoats and black bow ties wind their way through the crowd with laden trays to ensure the guests imbibe enough alcohol to make the evening at least halfway bearable.

The tables around me are covered with pristine white tablecloths that cascade gracefully to the floor, and there is also a small arrangement of orange roses on each. Naturally, the shade of orange perfectly matches the hostess’ dress—being the florist for this event must have been a nightmare. I grin, imagining the hostess running through flower shops in her ball gown, comparing her dress to different roses. I can even hear in my mind what Madame Dubois would have said: “His Royal Highness is coming. It needs to be perfect.”

That thought doesn’t hold my attention for long. Instead, it shifts back to the dance floor. My good leg tries to tap along to the wonderful rhythm of the music. But even though I’ve shifted part of my weight to the high-standing table in front of me, my bad leg can’t hold enough of my weight for me to lift the balls of my good foot off the floor.

Even that can’t bring me down. I’m having a great time. Unlike ballet, ballroom dancing never was my great passion, which makes it much easier to enjoy. Thinking about it, though, I really should give ballet another try—as a spectator this time.

I chuckle softly as a mature lady wrestles a man around the dance floor—at least, it looks more like wrestling than dancing. He is at least twenty years younger and not at all impressed by her eyelash batting. He gamely grimaces through the pain when she steps on his toes for the third time—the third time since I’ve been watching them, anyway.

It’s at this point I hear an unknown voice behind me, interrupting my fun.

“Haven’t you found a suitable dance partner yet?”

Without turning around, I pick up my walking stick, which is leaning against the table next to me. Today, I chose a black one with silver filagree as it’s fancy enough for a ball, but maybe I should have brought my rainbow one instead to bring a little more color to this event. It would also make a little statement about LGBTQIA+ rights, which never hurts either. I really should spend more time on my wardrobe choices.

I answer with an uncomfortable truth, hoping to get rid of whoever is so rudely interrupting my musings.

“Unfortunately, I’m unable to dance anymore.”

My unknown conversation partner stops in his tracks.

“Oh.”

I’ve had worse reactions.

I turn to see who I surprised. But it’s me who’s stopped in my tracks as I see one of the most eligible bachelors from European royalty standing right next to me. It’s none other than the brother of the king of Terengia, and he appears to have a slight blush on his face.

Madame Dubois has talked about nothing else for weeks since the royal family of Terengia, a small island nation in the North Sea, accepted her invitation. They assured her that Prince Leo himself would attend her ball. I guess half of the people here only came to see if the prince would really show up.

I never thought I would meet him. I mean, beyond a head bow or maybe a handshake like most people here tonight. Now he’s right next to me, biting his full lower lip and watching me intently with bright green eyes that shine cautiously. He seems concerned about my response to his unintentionally inappropriate question, and that’s kind of cute.

Immediately, my formal education kicks in as I bow and address him with, “Your Royal Highness.”

“I’m sorry. I put my foot in my mouth … didn’t I?” he replies almost shyly. “And please, call me Leo.” He reaches out his right hand, and I notice his fingers are long, like a pianist’s. Surprised, I raise an eyebrow. I would never have expected that he would introduce himself so informally, especially when meeting someone for the first time, but of course, I shake his offered hand without hesitation.

“Guillaume,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Guillaume.” It almost seems like he’s testing my name on his lips. “That’s the French form of William, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leo.”

“Yes, Leo.”

His voice is like velvet, and I notice his gaze following his name on my lips. Wow! What’s going on here?

There’s a tense pause as we both turn back to the dance floor, and then he asks, “Is there anything exciting to see here?”

Is it my imagination, or does he sound a little breathless?

I’m not sure how to answer this question, so to buy some time, I lean my walking stick back against the table and support myself.

“People-watching is fun,” I say. Which is a true but dull answer.

“Is there anyone in particular … someone who has especially caught your eye tonight?”

My attention is caught by how surprisingly close we are standing. Our shoulders are almost touching. This whole conversation feels almost … intimate. I wonder if this sensation is normal for the people he meets. Is this intimacy something everyone feels when they’re near him?

As I’m thinking this, I notice an older man out of the corner of my right eye. I’ve seen him many times in the background of various photos of His Royal Highness in the media. His private secretary, perhaps? Or his valet? Whoever he is, he also seems astonished by the prince’s actions. So, maybe this isn’t his boss’s usual way of making new acquaintances, after all. I should be honored.

I debate whether pointing out the unequal couple that amused me so much earlier is a suitable answer to his question. But since the two are currently on the other side of the dance floor, I decide against it.

Instead, I dodge the question entirely and say, “I have just thought about how similarly yet differently the steps of the waltz are interpreted in ballet and ballroom dancing.” Oh my god, can I be any more boring? Unexpectedly, this triggers a joyful reaction in the prince.

“Oh, you’re a ballet fan too …”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Leo turns slightly toward me again. Oh, that twinkle. I have a feeling that I would do almost anything to see it again. Especially on such a sexy man. It could get me in trouble. Is trouble the right word? Yes, I think, looking at him again, that’s exactly the right word—I’m in trouble.

“Up until my accident, I was a ballet dancer myself.”

Once again, my words cause Leo’s eyes to lose their sparkle—what a shame!

“I’m sorry to hear that. I keep putting my foot in it today …” Leo groans.

“First of all, Your Royal Highness …”

“Leo,” he corrects me immediately.

It’s so cool that he keeps insisting that I call him by his first name. With a smile, I start my sentence again.

“First of all, Leo, you couldn’t have known about my accident. And anyway, my accident was almost twenty years ago.” I take a breath and continue. “To be honest, though, I’m only now beginning to enjoy dancing again, even if it’s just watching.”

I really want to look away in shame after this not-entirely-intentional confession, but his open, understanding green eyes keep me trapped. Usually, I avoid talking about this issue, and if I’m honest with myself, I probably could easily have steered the conversation in an entirely different direction. But somehow, it feels different with Leo—strange—so I keep on talking. “I was just thinking that because watching it here has amused me so much, I might be ready to risk watching a ballet performance again.”

His hand comes up to press my shoulder in understanding, and I can feel his touch travel down my body to the tips of my toes. Never in my life have I experienced such an immediate attraction. For a second, I lose my breath. Leo seems to notice something as well. His gaze registers surprise before he slowly pulls his hand away. Then, he swallows and turns back to the dancers.

“I haven’t been to the ballet in ages. Is there a performance you’d recommend? Maybe we can go together.”

I almost miss his question, that’s how busy I am getting my body back under control. While I’m collecting myself, Leo leans against my table, and our upper arms and shoulders touch—it doesn’t exactly help me. I must have taken a few seconds too long to answer because he turns to me and tilts his head slightly in a silent prompt for an answer.

I manage to force out a reply. A reply that startles me as much as Leo. “When? Where?”

Leo

“When? Where?”

Guillaume’s answer makes me smile. Half the people I meet get totally flustered being in the presence of a real prince. Some are even hardly able to talk. The rest try to get something out of the meeting, be it a favor, an investment in some business venture or another, or an introduction to my brother, the Terengian king.

But with Guillaume, it feels different. Yes, he wants to spend time with me, but he seems to be genuinely interested in me—Leo, not the prince—and he hasn’t even asked about my family.

I look at the handsome man in front of me. It’s easy to imagine Guillaume as a dancer. He’s a few inches shorter than me, slim and willowy, and despite the obvious problems with his leg, he has an elegance that I have rarely observed in anyone. His shoulder-length blond hair is tied up at the nape, and I wonder how soft his skin is there.

Why am I thinking about how the skin on his neck feels?

I quickly ask another question before my introspection throws me even further off track. But instead of arranging a performance to attend together, my brain decides to ask a rather inappropriate question.

“May I ask you … what kind of accident you had?” I whisper softly. Then, mentally cursing myself, I immediately add, “I guess I’m not done asking inappropriate questions today. I’m so sorry! You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

Although Guillaume’s face still shows an open and friendly smile, it becomes a mask. He turns his gaze away—a gaze that has fascinated me in the last few minutes more than anything else in my life. The loss hurts more than I thought possible.

His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. I get another apology in my head ready, but then he raises his head and looks me in the eyes determinedly.

“I was part of the master class at the Paris Opera. Everyone predicted a great future for me. They said I was one of the new greats of ballet, a bearer of hope that would bring our art back into the mainstream. Then, there was a rehearsal, one of countless rehearsals. Everything was normal. I was dancing a solo when I suddenly heard screams. That’s the last thing I remember.”

Guillaume swallows. I notice how he has to force himself to talk about his accident. I know I shouldn’t have raised this topic, but this man fascinates me so much that I want to know everything about him. I’m beginning to feel it would have been better to curb my curiosity. Seeing him on the verge of tears and knowing that it’s my fault he’s in such a bad state almost breaks my heart.

As I feverishly contemplate how to turn the conversation around, he continues to speak, quietly and with a trembling voice.

“Two days later, I woke up in the hospital. Apparently, the screws on one of the big spotlights above me had loosened without anyone noticing. And just as I was gearing up for a jump across the stage, the spotlight fell on me. It shattered my hip and broke my thigh in three places.”

Guillaume’s gaze becomes empty. The despair he must have felt when he woke up in the hospital is almost palpable to me. I would do anything to rid him of this pain.

“I was lucky that my spine wasn’t injured. Nevertheless, the doctors believed I would probably never be able to walk properly again, let alone dance. They were right about the latter. But I was determined to walk again. After more than a year of rehab and more than ten surgeries, I was finally able to walk on my own feet again.”

While Guillaume was telling his story, and without me realizing it, my right hand had found his. It feels odd to have his hand in mine—almost intimate. And as I caress his soft skin, it feels … right.

So now, I find myself in the amazing situation of holding hands with another man in public. I never thought that this was something I would want. But I do. I really do. I swallow hard. What is it about today? About this man in particular? I’d been about to grab a glass from the tray of one of the passing waiters, enjoying a break from the overbearing hostess while she was “powdering her nose,” and my gaze turned toward the dance floor. But it didn’t linger with the dancers. Instead, it turned to Guillaume. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I was almost magically drawn to his striking figure. I had this immediate feeling that there was something there … there is something here.

I struggle to catch my breath. It’s too much. I need a little distance. Perspective. But neither do I want to let this go.

I quickly clasp his hand and try to put all my sorrow for his lost passion for ballet into my touch. Then, I quickly pull my hand back. It’s harder than it should be.

I don’t know why, but I seem to have an almost magnetic attraction to this man. Usually, I’m not the touchy-feely type at all. I’ve always been more reserved—a cold fish, to quote some of my ex-girlfriends. But it seems I can’t keep my hands off him, and it costs me a lot of mental strength to not reach for him again immediately. What is going on with me? Why am I so drawn to him? I have never felt anything like this before.

I try to refocus on the conversation. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Guillaume shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

“Yes, but it’s … fucking awful if you’re the one affected.”

Upon hearing the swear word, Guillaume looks at me in amazement. Then, his eyes start to sparkle teasingly.

“Your Royal Highness! I never thought I’d have to tell someone royal to wash their mouths out with soap!”

I laugh loudly and am rewarded with a smile that is radiant and open.

“What else should I put in my mouth …” Wait, what am I doing? Am I flirting?

But before I can come to a conclusion or before Guillaume can answer, I hear a loud shriek. It seems like my loud laughter has attracted the attention of our hostess. She’s obviously been looking for me. Now, she rushes toward us as fast as her high heels allow.

With a sigh, I turn to Guillaume. He gives me a crooked smile, which puts a smile on my face as well.

“Max …” Before I can finish calling his name, my loyal companion discreetly hands me one of my business cards and a ballpoint pen. He really does know me better than I know myself. Not for nothing does my family call him “my better half.” Max has been with me since I was a teenager and saved me from countless tricky social situations. But he’s sixty now. What will become of me once he leaves for his well-deserved retirement with his real better half, Isabel? I quickly force myself to let the thought go because I know if I don’t, I’ll find myself drowning my worries in champagne. Instead, I take the pen and scribble my number on the thick paper under my name, printed in gold.

“This is my private phone number,” I explain to Guillaume. I quickly hand him the card before our hostess arrives at our table. “Text me.”

Before I can say anything else, the lady of the house claims my attention and, with exuberant and enthusiastic calls to other important people, leads me away to meet them.

I’ve only walked a short distance before I can’t stop myself from looking back. At this precise moment, I would give anything not to have to represent my country and my family and instead have the freedom to stay talking with Guillaume. Because I have this strange feeling dwelling inside me—like I’m leaving a piece of myself with this man. The feeling’s inexplicable. I hardly know him, yet I want to be near him. No, it’s more than that—I don’t want to let him out of my sight. Even thinking about him talking to other people gets me … jealous. The realization sends my thoughts reeling. What I do know is if I was asked about what I would really love to do right now, it would be to talk to Guillaume about anything and everything until the wee hours of the morning.

I snap out of my thoughts, and my eyes catch sight of Guillaume’s eyebrow still raised in amusement. I also can’t fail to catch Max’s thoughtful gaze on me.

The next thirty minutes are unbearably long. However, my good mood does not disappear as my cell phone vibrates repeatedly in my chest pocket and triggers a glimmer of hope that there might be a message from the amazing man I met tonight.

Guillaume

Who would have thought that this ball could be so much more exciting than the boring evening I expected? I’m almost giddy. Originally, I had only come so my father could stay at home. At his age, the journey to Paris isn’t as easy for him as it used to be. I certainly wasn’t expecting to end up having a nice chat with Prince Leo.

My fingers touch the high-quality paper of the business card, and I trace the name that is imprinted.

If I’m honest, it’s still hard to believe. I mean, I knew His Royal Highness would be at the party tonight—everyone knew; Madame Dubois had talked about nothing else for weeks. But …

Leo.

His name fits him perfectly, but by allowing me to call him by it, Leo brought me so much closer, making our meeting more intimate than I could ever have imagined. The Power of True Names. I remember seeing a documentary with this title a long time ago. I always thought it was silly, but maybe there’s something to it after all.

I look at the card in my hand in renewed amazement and inspect the scribbled number. A pleasant, warm feeling courses through my body as I study the card. It’s not in the usual copperplate calligraphy, not that it matters. A smile sneaks up on my face. Somehow, this angular font fits my Leo.

My Leo?

Really, subconscious, really?

I need to give myself a talking-to. Those few minutes, even if they were some of the most intense of my life, do not make him my Leo. But even as I remind myself of that fact, another thought edges it out, leaving me with a question: But why does it feel so right?

I have no answer, but it’s true. Nothing has ever felt so right than calling the Terengian prince my Leo.

Is he even interested in men, though? I wouldn’t have thought so. There certainly haven’t been any rumors of that sort in the newspapers or online. And pictures of him in the press are always with women—different ones every time. Could it possibly be overcompensation?

I look back at the card. His private cell phone number is on it. Does he give that to a lot of people? Judging by his servant’s reaction, his behavior today was not exactly usual.

Is it really his private number?

I stare at the card. Just at that moment, the dancing lady from earlier floats by. Now, she’s in the arms of an even younger man who appears to have even less stamina than her last dance partner—he looks in more pain too. That gives me an idea.

With a grin on my face, I grab my phone and take a picture. I get lucky. I snapped the photo at the very moment when she stepped on his toes for the umpteenth time. His expression is just perfect. Giggling to myself, I send the photo to the number on the business card.

I look across the room. Madame Dubois is presenting Leo to a group of elderly gentlemen, most of whom are acquaintances of my father. Two of them went to school with him decades ago.

I chuckle, thinking about their stories about vintage cars and whiskey. I mean, everyone needs a hobby, and I even like vintage cars, but it seems like that’s all anyone talks about. I wonder how Leo is going to cope with the bores.

Leo’s hand suddenly moves to his chest pocket before he catches himself. A smile appears on his full lips.

Maybe it is his private cell phone number after all.

Leo

After what feels like an eternity, I manage to say a surprisingly polite goodbye to our hostess. Isn’t it amazing how a good mood can change everything?

Max disappeared quietly a few minutes ago, and I am sure that as soon as I step outside, he will be waiting for me in the limousine.

My phone is practically burning in my chest pocket. I can still feel its vibrations from when the messages came in. My fingers twitch. I want to take it out and finally see if one of the messages really is from Guillaume. I grind my teeth and beg myself for patience while I’m being helped into my coat.

Patience!

Patience is a virtue, as my mother used to say. Unfortunately, neither she nor I have a lot of it.

I step outside. At last, I’m leaving this boring event. I take a deep breath of cold, fresh air. Sadly, neither the deep breath nor the pleasant coolness of the night calms me.

Normally after such an event, I would happily fall straight into bed. And if tonight had gone as expected, I would lie there thinking about getting back home after weeks of traveling and representing my family all over the globe. Instead, my whole body is vibrating. It’s almost as if I had received the texts, not my phone. I can’t wait to finally look at the small electronic device. I can’t really fathom why a potential message from Guillaume would excite me so much. But nothing is making sense when it comes to that wonderful man. So why should this?

Get a grip, I warn myself. I attempt to reach into my jacket pocket, but my hand is too shaky.

Luckily, Max and the car are already there. But my patience is completely worn-out. I can’t wait anymore. My fingers begin to fiddle clumsily to get my phone out of my chest pocket, and it almost falls to the ground.

Max steps forward. He catches my hand together with the phone and presses it firmly against my chest. He guides my body a step forward and helps me sit down in the back seat of the car—the whole movement is surprisingly smooth.

“Breathe, sir,” he whispers to me.

I give him a grateful look as he shuts the door. I close my eyes briefly, take a deep breath, and then check my phone.

Three messages from an unknown number.

I thank all that is sacred for Face ID, as my trembling fingers probably wouldn’t be able to enter a PIN right now. The first message consists of a photo of two dancers: an older woman who seems to be floating on cloud nine and a much younger man with his face distorted by pain. The image was obviously taken near the dance floor where I met Guillaume. This is the second time today I can’t help but laugh out loud. And for the second time, it’s Guillaume who made me do it. Max’s amused look in the rearview mirror makes it even more clear how atypical my behavior is.

“I just received a funny picture,” I say to Max.

“It’s good to hear you laugh, sir,” he replies from the driver’s seat. “Maybe you should keep such positive influences in your life.”

Surprised, I lift my gaze from the phone to the rearview mirror, but Max has already turned back to the road as if nothing had happened. I’m so flabbergasted by his words that I stare in front of me for a moment before turning back to my phone. Then, I discover a line of text under the picture: Fun or torture?

The message is accompanied by a winking emoji.

Before I even read the other messages, I’m already typing an answer: Shouldn’t dancing be a joy for everyone?

As I press Send, I’m already regretting it. I’m such an idiot! Guillaume’s injury!

Right then, the phone vibrates.

I hesitantly look at the screen. There’s a crying-laughing smiley face and one line of text: You’re absolutely right …

A relieved sigh rises deep from my soul. Guillaume’s not mad at me. I haven’t ruined our blooming … friendship? Why does that word feel so wrong? But what else could it be?

It’s friendship. Yes, friendship.

Relieved at finally having straightened it out in my mind, I look back at my phone. My smile gets a little wider as I look back at the smiling emoji he typed. I scroll up. In my eagerness to answer Guillaume, I haven’t even read his other messages.

Message number two consists of text only: By the way, this is Guillaume, in case you’re wondering who’s sending you this strange picture.

I reply to this message immediately: You’re the only one I gave my private number to tonight, so … It’s nice to hear from you.

I read the message three more times before I send it—I don’t want to embarrass myself again.

Immediately, the three dots appear on the screen, indicating that Guillaume is typing. A few seconds later, a new message appears from Guillaume: It was a pleasure to meet you today.

My heart beats faster as I read the message. And I reply: The pleasure was all mine.

A truer sentence has never been spoken … or should that be written? Oh, who the heck cares!

Guillaume messages back: I would like to disagree but who am I to contradict a real prince?

The message is followed by another winking smiley. I laugh and shake my head. Guillaume is … something.

I reply: But you don’t have a problem teasing a real prince, do you?

I hold my breath, waiting for his answer. It’s too much fun messaging with him.

Guillaume: You’re the only prince I like teasing.

My heart skips a beat, and joy fills my whole body. It’s unbelievable how much I like hearing that.

I type out the message with a grin from ear to ear on my face: Well … In that case, I allow it.

Guillaume: You are too kind, Leo.

Even in written form, my name looks somehow special coming from this unique man. My thumb caresses the letters on the screen, and I enjoy the pleasure I feel. Even the smiley that follows the message with its wink and its tongue sticking out can’t change that.

Before I can answer, another message shows up.

Guillaume: I hear you managed to escape Madam Dubois’ clutches.

Me: Yes! Thankfully. The only drawback is not being able to keep people watching with you.

I reread this message after hitting Send, and I realize how true that is. I miss Guillaume. There really wouldn’t be anything better than spending this evening together, talking, laughing …

Messaging is nice, but it’s no real substitute for having Guillaume right next to me.

Right then, Max’s voice takes me out of my intense focus. “Do you want to take a walk today, sir?”

It’s an odd thing for him to say, but I think Max’s suggestion through. I don’t tend to wander alone in the evening through cities that I’m not that familiar with, but now I know a local.

Visiting five European capitals in seven days and attending all the engagements and events that were the purpose of this trip meant there was hardly time for enough sleep, let alone the chance to stretch my legs. God, I’m so exhausted—both physically and mentally. I just want to be me again and not the prince of Terengia.

Then, I get an idea. After the rain a few hours ago, the air is now wonderfully fresh, and my hotel is right next to a park. Without answering Max, I quickly text Guillaume: Do you feel like taking a walk?

Almost immediately, Guillaume’s response appears on my screen: If you don’t mind walking at a snail’s pace. But after all this standing around, I could do with some exercise.

Reading his reply, I am once again torn as to whether it was a good idea to invite a person who obviously has problems with his leg to go on a walk. On the other hand, he seems to like the idea. So, I type: Would you like to meet me at my hotel?

Guillaume: Sure. Which one?

I ask Max for the address, and he gives it to me immediately without the slightest sign of surprise in his voice.

Guillaume: Shall we meet at the entrance of the park in 20 minutes?

I reply with an emoji thumbs-up and press my phone back to my chest as I look out onto the dark streets of a city that suddenly seems full of possibilities.