Page 25 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

“Did you look into renting that studio space as well?” she asks, stirring the Bolognese. The delicious tomatoey scent rises again and fills my nostrils with a smell that I can only describe as home.

“I did. I called the guy who owns the building earlier. The rent for it is a little more than I would like, but if we get a mortgage and I keep working at the bar, everything should be fine. We can afford it.”

“And of course, once you start selling your art, we’ll be rolling in millions anyway.”

“Hey,” I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s expecting way too much from me.

But I’m glad that she has that kind of faith in my ability. I’m so grateful that I’ve always had someone to believe in me.

The moment is shattered by the sound my phone ringing. Fumbling for it, I groan. “Ugh, sorry. I’m going to get this. It’s probably the real estate agent.”

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready, love,” she smiles.

I head off to my bedroom and pick up my phone without looking at the number.

When I hear Paul’s voice, I almost drop it again. “Chloe? This is you, right?”

“Paul?” I splutter. “How…? What are you doing calling me? It’s been nearly seven weeks! I thought you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he says in a tone that suggests he actually wants something else but is trying to ease me into it.

“What do you really want?” I snap, in no mood for games. “And I’m fine, by the way. Me and my mom are moving out soon. We’ve got a new place.”

He doesn’t have to know that that’s not entirely true.

“Good,” he says, and I can almost see his stupid smile as he does. I close my eyes and try to black out that thought. “I’m happy for you.”

“I couldn’t have done any of this without you. So, what do you want?”

There’s a long silence, and for a minute I think he’s completely vanished.

“Paul?” I say uncertainly.

“I’m here,” he says, “I’m here. Okay, I’ll just come out with it. How would you like an all-expenses-paid trip to Bellamare?”

I nearly drop the phone again.

“You— What?”

“Look, I’m kind of in a bit of a situation here. And I’d love to see you again. Honestly. I’ve thought about you every single day, and I’ve wanted to talk to you since I left.”

I bite my tongue from sayingso why didn’t you call sooner?“What situation?” I ask instead.

“It’s a long story, but basically my parents are threatening to kick me out if I don’t bring home my new and lovely wife to meet them at once.”

“You told your parents about me?”

“Didn’t you tell your mom about me?”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “But that’s different. I didn’t tell my mother that I married you because you’re the love of my life. I told her the truth.”

I don’t really think I meant to say that, because using the wordsloveandyouin the same sentence feels dangerously like starting to catch feelings. And I had just about managed to suppress thoughts like that.

“Whatisthe truth?” Paul asks quietly.

I don’t give him an answer.

“Look,” he says, “I know it’s not ideal, but I really did mean it when I said I wanted to see you again. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. They just want to have dinner. I just need to prove that you exist, that’s all.”

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