Page 78 of How to Date a Prince

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Much of the week passes by while I sleep. I begin to truly understand the severity of my concussion, which is more of a problem than I thought. More so than cracked bones and bruises and scrapes. When I wake each day, Thomas brings me smoothies when I don’t feel up to getting out of bed. I try to drink them, but I don’t usually make it far, my stomach uncooperative. I take painkillers as needed. As promised, I send my father updates as we agreed, usually things like the thumbs-up emoji as proof of life or one-word messages like “gr8” or “super.” He tells me to stop being facetious and to listen to my doctor if I won’t come home yet. The doctor, for his part, comes by every couple of days to peer and prod me during his house call.

On Friday morning, I’m drowsy in bed when I hear voices. At first, I’m not sure if they are part of a lucid dream, or another one of the many nightmares I’ve had since my accident, or simply odd dreams altogether. I lie in bed with my eyes half-open, considering the ceiling as I drift towards wakefulness. I do my best to focus on the recessed lighting, which is mercifully off.

“—you should’ve told me you were coming. I mean, seriously—” Thomas says, his voice rising.

“—like I need an invitation to see you after what happened—” demands an unfamiliar male voice. “I’ve been worried sick—I’ve barely heard from you since your accident. This isn’t like you to act like this. I’m worried. So is your mother. And I needed to come to London again, so I moved my trip up.” The unfamiliar voice shifts from exasperated to cajoling. “Please, Thomas.”

“The actual truth, then,” Thomas scoffs. “Business.”

Real voices, then. And real Thomas talking to a real person.

I carefully ease out of bed and slide Thomas’ charcoal dressing gown over the navy pajamas he’s loaned me. I run a hand through my hair.

“Speaking of, how is work on your social media project going?” Asks the older man pointedly. His voice is lower, deeper than Thomas’.

Thomas groans. “Been kind of busy? You know, with the show? And getting thrown off a horse. And yes, I’ve been looking after my friend, like I said?—”

“Thomas, you’re hardly staff to some undeserving, useless princeling who’s never worked a day in his life, him or the leeches that are his family, for the love of?—”

“He’s not a leech.” Thomas raises his voice.

“My God, the royals have gotten to you?—”

“You make it sound like a plague?—”

“At least some kind of scourge,” responds the older man. “I can’t condone this.”

“The good news is I’m an adult, and I can condone my own business.”

The older man speaks again, more gently now. “Thom. I came to see you because I’ve been worried sick, your mother and me. We decided it was best if she went on to Dubai for the opening of the new hotel and I came to London to see you. And believe me, I hardly expected you to be looking after a prince like a lodger—in your own bed! Just wait till the press gets wind of that too. It’ll be terrible for my campaign. Did you think of that? He can’t stay.”

I open the door and step out into the living area in front of the expansive windows. My footsteps are silent.

Their argument stops at the sight of me.

My lips press together. Thomas stands with an older man, who wears a suit, beside the broad kitchen island.

I look from Thomas to the other man—who has a strong resemblance to Thomas—and back again, disoriented.

“Auggie. Shit. I’m so sorry,” begins Thomas, who goes red. “Auggie, this is my father, Daniel Golden. Who has come to London for a surprise—err—business trip?”

“To see you, son.” Daniel doesn’t look at him, though. His intense gaze is on me like a raptor who’s spotted prey after not having eaten in days.

I lick my lips. “Hello. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I realized I forgot my water glass somewhere out here.”

“We woke you.” Thomas frets. “I’m so sorry.”

Daniel’s gaze is piercing, with his steel eyes, a man who commands authority. But his gaze softens when he looks at Thomas.

As for Thomas, he keeps looking between us like it’s a tennis match, caught out in a collision of his worlds.

“It’s fine,” I say, spotting my glass on the low coffee table.

But my face is also flushed. And I feel about as useless as Daniel has said I am. It’s like I’m back onRenaissance Managain, facing Wilson and Travis and their barbs. Except this truly cuts under the skin.

And I have a flashback then of the race, the sound of everyone yelling, including Wilson beside me?—

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