Page 61 of The Thing About My Prince
But still, the whole picture of his tall frame and square shoulders in the deep blue jacket, crisp white shirt, and tie with flying haggises on it that he wore to make the kids laugh is not easy to look away from.
“So it is my great honor as patron of the Saint Philomena Hospice to declare this unit officially open.”
He steps over to the mini curtains and pulls a cord at the side. The fabric parts, gliding back to reveal a plaque that readsThe Prince Oliver Wing for Respite Carefollowed by today’s inauguration date.
Well, I wish someone had warned me it was being named after him, because my eyes involuntarily fill up and I’m in danger of having an embarrassing streak of mascara down both cheeks.
This is bad and wrong. Jesus, I’m a journalist. And I’m on an assignment. You can’t start getting emotional and feeling all squishy for your subject, or else objectivity goes out of the window.
Anyway, it’s not him I’m squishy for, it’s this whole situation. And who wouldn’t get emotional having spent the last couple of hours around sick children who are bright and happy and hopeful?
Not to mention the parents I met at the reception that followed the tour, who somehow find a way to soldier on andput a smile on their faces for the sake of their kids. And then there’s the tireless nursing staff who take care of everyone day after day after day.
You’d have to be a robot not to be moved by the occasion.
Oliver might worry about his existence being pointless, but right now it seems to me his work here is a gazillion times more significant than anything I’ve ever done. Real people’s lives are affected in a real way here, at a time when they’re in desperate need of help.
Phew.
I turn away and run my fingers under my eyes as I look out toward the sunny garden where a man is sitting on a bench. Alongside him in a wheelchair is a girl who looks about twelve or so. An oxygen tank is attached to the chair, and the girl has a red patterned scarf wrapped around her head, and a fluffy blanket with polar bears on it over her legs. The pair are leaning toward a large yellow flower and smiling. The girl points at it and giggles. Maybe there’s a bee or a ladybug or something crawling around in there.
This place, and Oliver’s contribution to it, spurs me on all the more to hope that when I get out in the field I can do something to raise awareness of kids in other parts of the world who’re suffering in war zones.
The applause dies down behind me, and Oliver’s voice stands out from the low chatter as he says thank you over and over again to people.
“Let’s go back to the car.” Cole appears by my side. “Dane will wait for the boss.”
I nod and follow him along a hallway and out of a back door where the black SUV is parked.
Right as I hop into the back, my phone pings.
BECCA
Soooo??? I can’t believe you didn’t text me yesterday. How did sharing the room go?
Oh, fuck. I got so wrapped up in the whole bog thing and all the fuss about it yesterday and then was busy this morning getting ready and traveling here, I totally forgot to update her. Which probably makes this the longest Becca and I have gone without texting since the day we bonded over the broken espresso machine at work and walked to the local coffee shop together.
ME
Fine. The first night he slept on the chaise.
But last night he…didn’t.
BECCA
Whaaat???
YOU SLEPT WITH HIM???
ME
Oh God, no. We accidentally shared the bed.
BECCA
Just trying to remember if I’ve ever accidentally shared a bed with a member of British royalty.
Hang on.
