Rhys Larsen never drinks. Usually. The only instance in which he would is if a certain European princess coaxed him into it. Spoiler alert: that princess is you

Five drinks later on the shore of a Puerto Rican beach, you find yourself cuddling with your bodyguard. He smells like spices and pine and goodness and you don’t know how you’ll ever let him go anymore

He groans softly before speaking, “You’re beautiful, princess” He draws back a bit to look at you. “Have I ever told you that?”