Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance) by Abigail Graham Page B

take me into his lap. I am overwhelmed by his presence anyway. He's so big.
    He pulls my book into his lap and spreads it open.
    "You said you're behind. The marker?"
    I nod and he opens the book.
    "Read aloud."
    I freeze. "I can't."
    "Would it help if we close the door?"
    My eyes narrow. "Why?"
    He puts up his hand. "I swear I won't touch you unless you invite me to. You have my sworn oath. I swear on my love of Rice Krispies Treats."
    "You're joking," I snap. "I'm done."
    "I mean it, Ana. I want to help."
    I sit back a tiny bit, and look at him. Hard. "Why?"
    "I saw a damsel in distress. I'm a Knight. It's what I do."
    "I am not a damsel."
    "You're pretty much the definition."
    I groan in annoyance. Then I stand up and swing the door shut, closing out not just my bodyguards, but the rest of the world too.
    Hesitantly, I sit down next to him. When I breathe in, his scent fills my nostrils. I can feel the heat of his body pulling me in, like the heat of a fire on a freezing day.
    Quietly, I start to read aloud, then with more confidence. When I stumble over a sentence, he breaks it down for me, reading it aloud. I am a fluent speaker, so it goes that much easier for me. When I have questions he always knows the answer. What should be a reading of about forty pages, perhaps an hour, turns into three.
    By the end of it, my head is resting on his shoulder. He takes what should be boring, dusty, old American history that even Americans don't care about and brings it alive. He does voices, he gestures, he sweeps me up in stories of battles and triumphs and defeats, of life and loss.
    I enjoy listening to him talk. He becomes so animated, so engrossed in the telling of it that he doesn't notice that I'm pressed against him, or that my hand rests on his arm.
    Finally he realizes what's happening and sits back.
    "I think that about covers it. You should have an easier time with the next assignment. Bring me your review questions before you turn them in and I'll help you proof them. Grandolf docks points for grammar."
    "She would," I huff.
    He starts to pack up.
    "I need help with something else," I say quickly.
    "I have practice in the morning. It's seven o'clock already."
    "Please?"
    He sighs, and the look in his eyes begins to melt something inside me. I can feel the heat of it spreading through my chest.
    "Well, since you asked like that. What is it?"
    I draw out The Great Gatsby and show it to him, holding it in both hands.
    "Sit down," he sighs.
    I join him by his side again. He opens to the first page.
    "What are you doing?"
    "Ana, if you have that much trouble with a history book, you're not ready to read this. There's nothing wrong with that, but we need to accept it. You're going to have to take a hard exam on this book and you need to know it. We can help you with your reading another time. I'm going to read it to you. Just listen, then we'll talk about it. Okay?"
    He begins to read.
    I listen.
    I fall into the words as they leave his mouth. He reads neither slow, nor fast, but his voice breathes life into the words in a way I never could by reading them on my own. My eyes drift halfway closed, and I let his voice carry me off, lift me up and bear me into the world of the story. Again he never says a word as I lean on his shoulder, or slip my arms around his great, thick bicep. I don't even know why I do it, except that I enjoy the warmth of him, the way his body shifts when he takes massive breaths. After two hours we have only read the first two weeks' assignments, and he stops.
    We talk about the book. He asks me about the characters, but not what I expect—who they are, where they came from, facts. He asks how I feel about them, how I feel about Gatsby, whether I think he is good or bad or something in between. I have not made up my mind yet. I don't like Daisy. I think she is vapid and superficial, and I do not know what to make of Nick at all, except it seems pathetic to me that he clings to these people who clearly