Page 92 of The Thing About My Prince
I really fucking do.
But I really fucking can’t.
I blow out a long breath and look up from my laptop for the first time in who knows how long.
Wow—I hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten around me. I’ve been caught up in my own little world, lit by my screen and the green-shaded desk lamp, and hadn’t noticed the rest of the world moving into the evening.
God, it’s eight thirty.
I think I’ve at least come up with the basic structure of how this book will work best, the parts it needs to be divided into and the chapters that will likely make up those parts—essentially, the table of contents. I learned from my first book that figuring that out is what breaks the backs of these things.
The info in Oliver’s writing might be a bit all over the place, but it’s valuable material I can turn into something. And after even just the few talks we’ve had, I feel like I’ve dug down to the root of who he is and why he is that person, which all seems to go back to why his mother is who she is, and that adds important layers to the whole thing.
I push my chair away from the table and gaze out of the window as I stand up to stretch and roll my shoulders. The sky here is incredibly beautiful. The only light pollution is from the spotlights that shine on the outside of the castle. Other than that, there’s nothing for miles. And on this cloudless night, the blackness is spangled with stars, more appearing before my eyes the longer I gaze into it.
The buzz of my phone brings me back to reality.
JULIAN
Is it really pretend? How could you ever have thought that getting involved with this man was a good idea?
He’s linked a British newspaper article titled “Who Is The Prince’s Mystery Swamp Woman?” It’s topped by a picture of me covered in mud from the bog treasure hunt and starts with:
Four Things We Know About Lexi Lane
1. An American journalist for The Current magazine.
2. Thirty-three years old.
3. Lives in New York.
4. Graduated in international relations from the University of North Carolina, master’s in journalism from the University of Missouri.
Wow, they really did a deep dive into my one-paragraphbio on the Current website to dig up those startling insights. They were even too lazy to try to find a fifth thing to make it a more usual number of list items.
I close the page without reading the rest of the piece.
ME
It’s all working out, don’t worry. The book will be good and in on time. And no one will ever know I wrote it. Those are the only things that matter.
And are they true? I have no idea. I certainly hope so.
The bedroom door opens and Oliver appears around it, carrying a tray.
“God, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.” He kicks the door closed behind him. “You must be starving. Every time I tried to get away, my mother dragged me into another conversation about the bloody wedding.”
“It’s almost like she doesn’t want you to spend time with someone who she thinks is making you happy,” I say as he puts the tray of sandwiches, bite-sized chocolate chip cookies, and pot of tea with a matching cup and saucer, next to my laptop.
“Thought these might be more up your alley than digestives.” He points at the cookies.
And now I’ve gone all squishy inside again.
I sit back in the chair, and he strokes his hand over my hair from my crown to the nape of my neck and bends to drop a kiss on my forehead. “How’s it going?”
My arm twitches, almost reaching around his waist as he stands at my side. But I fight the urge. I can’t let myself settle into the touching and kissing and sleeping-together things being normal. There is absolutely nothingnormalabout this whole thing.
“Not bad, thanks. I think I’ve figured out a structure, at least. We still need to do quite a few more interviews for meto fill in some gaps. Also you need to think about where you see your life going in the future, because that’s the best type of final chapter.”
