Page 77 of How to Date a Prince

Thomas beams at me like he’s made the most amazing find. “How are you feeling? Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be brilliant.” I haven’t had tea in days. To be honest, I’m not sure how many days have passed since the accident. The idea of doing something familiar is terribly exciting. I smile. “What are you doing?”

“Making us some brunch. Are you up to eating?”

“I can try.”

He goes to fill the kettle. I watch him bring out a two-cup white porcelain teapot.

“Do you even know how to make tea?” My smile broadens.

“Very funny. Half English, remember?” He looks relieved at my joke. As jokes go, it’s not top-tier, but I suppose it shows humor wasn’t permanently knocked out of me.

“You don’t inherit tea-making abilities through bloodlines, Thomas. It’s not like being King, say.”

He snorts. “Just check this out.”

Under my watchful gaze, he pre-warms the teapot and brings out a selection of loose-leaf tea for me to choose from. I make my choice, a Breakfast Tea blend.

I watch him as I stand leaning slightly against the end of the island. He’s in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and a feast for the eyes, frankly. He returns to chopping veg for what looks to be an omelette, judging by the eggs out on the counter. His knife skills are ridiculously good.

“Watch this.” Thomas takes an egg, cracking it effortlessly with one hand.

“Show-off. Totally uncalled for.”

The first challenge onRenaissance Manfeels like several lifetimes ago.

His face lights up in a broad grin. “I told you I like cooking. But if there’s anything you want, I can get the hotel to bring up food or drink or whatever. Don’t be shy.”

“Thanks.” I continue to watch him, slowly taking in the sights of the kitchen. The gleam of the red kettle and the sleek modern furniture, the tall stools at the island. I don’t know that I’m quite up for climbing on a stool, and Thomas senses it and comes over, hovering. To be honest, the thought of food is dizzying at the best of times, but I ignore the feeling. I squint at him, everything suddenly too bright. Each reflection on a glossy surface cuts.

“I’m okay, honestly.”

“There’s a table you can sit at, over here.” He walks beside me to the dining table on the other side of the island by the windows. “How’s the light?” Once he’s satisfied I’m safely seated at the oak table, he touches a button on his phone, and the sheer blinds automatically lower, significantly reducing the brightness.

“Thanks for that.” I rub my eyes.

“You were squinting,” he says wryly. Then, he goes to make my tea and brings it over to me on a tray.

“Excellent service.”

“I expect a five-star review.”

I smile, starting slowly through the ritual of pouring tea after a couple of moments to steep. Blood rushes in my ears. And I shiver. Everything’s a bit off in a way that’s hard to describe. A little foggy, a little slow. My fingers are a little clumsy with the spoon. The doctors warned me I might feel strange for a while.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Before long, Thomas makes an impressive omelette to share, right down to the flip in the pan. It’s delicious, but I eat lightly, not wanting to risk it on my stomach. Then, fatigue hits me like a wall, and I reel.

“Back to bed for you, I think,” says Thomas, coming around to help me back to the bedroom. And I’m grateful for his strong arm, feeling unsteady and strange.

“Sorry… I’m rather shit company.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You’ve been through a lot. Head trauma is no joke. I’ve been through concussions with sports, though not like yours.”

“Overachieving,” I try to joke as I sink into the mattress on my side, with Thomas again shifting around pillows to help me get comfortable. He brings a heating pad to warm the back of my neck for a few minutes. With care, he holds the heating pad in place. He runs his fingers with the lightest touch over my hair. Comforted, I soon fall asleep, and it turns out I sleep like it’s an Olympic event.

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