Page 76 of How to Date a Prince

Otherwise, my ribs and wrist ache. Actually, everything aches.

“Did you know I have a tiny hairline fracture in a cervical vertebra?” I ask. “So technically, I did break my neck. It’s minor, as these things go, I’m told.”

“Fucking hell.” Thomas worriedly looks at me as he cautiously helps me put one arm in the hoodie, then the other, and slides it up around my shoulders. He zips it closed, then helps me replace the cervical collar. Then he sorts pillows out around me till I’m comfortable. “It’s not the sort of overachieving I can get behind, sorry.”

I attempt a smile, which comes out more like a grimace.

“This is the best service,” I tease softly, gazing up at him. “Thanks.”

He holds my gaze, adjusting another pillow. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I want to do, in fact.”

“Mm.” My eyes slide shut, heavy with fatigue.

“Rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Really not. I only sat in a car. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say anything, turning to arrange blankets around me. I feel him tug at the sheets, pull the duvet up.

I crack open an eye. “Thomas,” I murmur. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“It’s really, really not okay. But another time about that.”

“’Kay.” I make an effort to open both eyes. I try to focus on him. “Stay with me tonight? You’ll only hover anyway.”

He sighs with relief. “Okay. Yes.”

“Cancel the orgy.”

“Canceled.”

At about that time, words become too difficult, and I slip quickly into a deep sleep, comforted by his nearness and care. We can talk about our reality—manufactured or otherwise—another time.

* * *

I sleep like the dead. Except like a dead thing with nightmares.

The last few days, as I came more back into my usual awareness after the first day or two after the accident, my drifting semi-consciousness was soon replaced with nightmares. I can still hear us all yelling, the pounding of hooves as horses gallop neck and neck towards the looming hedgerow and fence. The way the fresh turf smelled and how the clumps of dirt flew as the horses reared up at the jump. The way every nerve and muscle burned with the inevitable crash.

Thomas is underfoot in all the chaos. And I’m falling too.

Which is when I wake with a gasp. My body is slick with sweat.

Everything still aches.

Slowly, I dare open my eyes. Instead of the steeplechase course, I’m in a modern bedroom in a pristine white bed. The roller blinds are mostly down, cutting the light. Through it, I see the shapes of London beyond. Half of the blackout blinds are drawn to block the sun hitting the side of the building.

I draw in a shaky breath.

Thomas’ flat. The drive from the hospital. Getting helped to bed.

It all comes back after a moment, in pieces.

I can smell coffee. Beside me, on the side table, is a small clock that reads 12:55 p.m. I’ve been out for nearly twelve hours. Thomas has left his dressing gown at the foot of the bed, soft grey terry cloth.

Carefully, I push back the duvet and ease out of bed, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. There are even slippers waiting beside the bed. I slide my feet in, pleased I can do that much at least. My neck and head ache, but it’s not as bad as last night. With a ginger breath, holding my ribs, I get up.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with the new perspective. After I manage basic morning washing in the en suite, I then walk to the partly open door to the bedroom and slip out into the main room of the flat. Thomas stands at a white marble kitchen island, with seamless dark wood cabinetry behind him. There’s a floor-to-ceiling view of London, and it’s spectacular, if bright. He glances up from where he’s chopping scallions, a collection of bowls and things out on the island. There’s a rainbow of produce before him.

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