Ledi wasn’t expecting that. Three words, imbued with confusion and fear and hope, all woven together like strands of DNA. She stared at him, waiting for the but, and got his consternated gaze instead.

“I’m rubbish at this.” He shook his head. “I’ve never had to divulge my feelings, or really had any to divulge for that matter. I’ve spent most of my life focused on preparing for the job that awaits me. Relationships were just an extracurricular.”

Ledi was a bit surprised at that—it didn’t sound very different from her own life.

Jamal’s fingers were trailing up her arm now, leaving gooseflesh in their wake even though the train car was a bit warm and stuffy. She leaned back into the door, farther away from him, as if trying to escape his gravitational pull. He wasn’t trying to resist hers though, not with those featherlight touches that made her want more. His gaze on her was so intense, like he was truly trying to see her and willing her to return the favor.

Ledi had never felt more exposed. She wanted to run screaming, but that feeling of recognition that had briefly grabbed her when she’d first met him returned even stronger than before.

Jamal smiled, though his gaze didn’t soften. “This, at least, is the truth. I like you, Naledi. I like who I am when I’m with you, the man you make me want to be. I want to get to know you, and I want you to know me—the real me.”

His mouth set into a firm line, the way it had been at the Institute the night she’d trained him. Like he was waiting for her to reprimand him. Ledi didn’t know what to say, and his fingertips moving on her arm were as distracting as his words had been. She didn’t know how to respond; her defenses should have kicked in, but this type of attack was unknown and crept around them.

His gaze suddenly became serious. “And that’s why you should know . . .”

It was silly, but she suddenly felt weightless—and that’s when she realized she was falling.

“Dyckman Street!” the train conductor called out. The doors had opened behind her with no warning, or no warning she’d been capable of hearing in her state, and she was about to assplant on the platform.

But then Jamal’s hands were on her shoulders, and he was stumbling forward into her ungainly descent and pulling her upright and close against him. The chime sounded the close of the doors, and they snapped shut with both of them safely upright. He didn’t let her go, though, and she was getting a refresher on just how warm and solid his body felt pressed against hers.

“That’s why you’re not supposed to lean against the door!” the conductor called out from her small window as the train pulled out of the station.

Jamal laughed and looked down at her. “Told you so. Score one for team lamb.”

The muscular length of him was pressed against her, holding her close, but his expression wasn’t seductive. He looked at her like a man who really liked her, and she was sure she was looking at him the same way. Because she did like him. Even though it was illogical. Even though she was defective Velcro, and Jamal would figure that out soon enough. In that moment, pressed up against him on a dirty subway platform, Ledi took a deep breath and decided maybe being out on a limb wasn’t the worst position in the world.

“I’m probably breaking some kind of shepherdess ethics law right now, but . . .”

She leaned up and kissed him. His soft lips molded to hers and his hands went to her hips and gripped hard. His tongue slipped into her mouth, searching, and he groaned when her tongue slicked against his.

For a blissful moment, her mind was blank—no worries about busted friendships or missing advisors or skipped shifts—just the scent and taste and feel of Jamal. Jamal who liked her.

Studying was overrated.

Chapter 15

Thabiso focused on the feeling of lightness that had buffeted his steps since Ledi had kissed him long and hard in the dirty, leaky, rat-infested bowels of New York City. His adrenaline had died down, but he still felt like lifting Ledi up and spinning her as the strings section of the National Orchestra of Thesolo played behind them. But that would have been over-the-top, even for a prince, and the only backing music they had was the reggaeton bumping from the cell phone of one of the men playing dominoes at the rickety table nearby.

Thabiso repressed the urge to act out cheesy romantic clichés—all save one. He lifted the hand he held in his own, the one that was softer than he’d imagined given how hard Ledi worked, and kissed the back of it.

She smiled, and then pushed her hair behind her ear with her other hand. She was obviously nervous; she’d turned into a neighborhood tour guide as soon as they left the station, giving him a detailed overview of the neighborhood and avoiding meeting his gaze.

They’d done a round of the park, Fort Tryon, an oasis of unexpected green that was still filled with all of the noise and liveliness of the city. She’d shown him the outside of the Cloisters, a French monastery transported to the city stone by stone because America had to import its antiquity. Ledi had filled him in on the history of the neighborhood, its role in the American Revolution, the vibrant Latino enclave that had sprung up in the area and the gentrification that threatened it. He noticed that she was quite talkative when she spoke of something other than herself. He doubted that was a coincidence.

They were nearing the top of a steep incline, but that didn’t stop her skillful avoidance technique.