JASMINE’S POV
“Do you want me to get you anything?” William asked.
I shook my head, afraid to speak. Then I cleared my throat. “No,” I managed to say.
“There is something in your hair.” He reached forward, plucking a dry leaf tangled in the strands. It must have gotten there in the wind earlier.
I felt my face heat up. God, I probably look exactly like the media describes me—messy, unstable, a fallen socialite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to—”
He didn’t let me finish. Instead, he offered a small smile. “You look perfect, Jasmine.”
The way he said my name—it was deep, smooth, like honey. Just like I remembered. My stomach twisted at the familiarity, at the memories of how much I once loved hearing him say it.
“How long has it been? Six, seven years?” he asked.
“Seven.”
He leaned
