Page 62 of The Thing About My Prince
Oh, no. I haven’t.
Because how the fuck does that happen?!
ME
I was interviewing him. And the room was cold. And I felt bad for him being on the chaise.
BECCA
And there she goes…straight down the slippery slope to Cocksville.
ME
Never going to happen.
BECCA
So you’re going to “just share a bed with him” every night now? And you’re suddenly so innocent that you really think Prince Stiffy won’t come a-knockin’?
ME
We’re not sharing a bed every night.
BECCA
Yes, you are. Now that you’ve done it once, how do you walk that back? How do you kick him back to the chaise?
Okay, that’s a fair point. That I hadn’t considered.
BECCA
Shit, gotta go. Julian’s texted asking why there’s nothing on socials yet about how Finnish people drink more coffee than any other nationality.
ME
Wow. Didn’t know he even knew how to find our socials.
BECCA
Someone from upstairs must have complained. Gotta run. DO NOT BANG THE PRINCE.
I won’t. I can’t. It would shred what little professional reputation I have to tatters.
But I wouldn’t do it anyway.
So everything’s fine.
I look out of the SUV at the hospice.
“No sign of Oliver?” I ask Cole.
“Dane says he got caught up talking.”
Given what Oliver said about hating small talk, I imagine that’s the last thing he’d want.
“I’ll go rescue him. Tell him he’s needed for something urgent.” I open the door and hop out, shutting it as Cole says something about it being better if I wait in the vehicle.
As I walk back up the path to the entrance, I catch the sound of laughter to the left. Laughter that sounds very much like Oliver’s.
