The day's letters had just arrived.
Zara was sipping tea and reading in the tearoom when a knock pulled her from the ink on the pages.
"Come in," she called.
The doorknob turned, and a maid stepped inside.
"A letter for you, Ms. Zara," the young girl said, approaching the table and offering the envelope with both hands.
Zara's brows drew into a V. "A letter? For me? From whom?"
She hadn't reached for it yet, so the maid glanced down at the back of the envelope. "It's from Prince Ryan, milady."
Zara blinked, heat rushing to her ears. "Oh." She quickly took the letter, tearing open the seal with an eagerness she tried to mask.
Inside, his neat scrawl stretched across the page—perfect handwriting, befitting a perfect prince. But her eyes caught on the true purpose of the note:
I would love if you made time to accompany me to a fine restaurant this coming Saturday.
Zara froze. A date? Was he actually asking her on a date?
She read the words again. Then again.
