Page 91 of The Thing About My Prince
Which is clearly ridiculous because Dane or Cole or their ten-years-from-now equivalents would be just outside the frame of my imaginary scenario. And I don’t doubt there’d bea snarky phone call or two from Oliver’s mother about how pictures of him smiling and having fun with the woman of his dreams isn’t good for the family image.
Am I the woman of his dreams? God, Lexi, stop thinking such utter bullsh?—
“Been checking out the gardens?” Oliver strokes his hands up and down from my shoulders to my elbows.
His touch sparks a natural instinct to loop my arms around his neck, but I fight it and keep them where they are.
“Yeah. Needed to make a work call. And wanted to do it in”—I pause to look around before whispering—“private.”
“Ah.” He looks relieved, like he thought I’d vanished forever to sell the story of my night of passion with the Royal Rebel to the highest bidder.
He didn’t really think that, did he? Surely he knows me well enough by now to trust that I’m on his side with the book—and probably everything else, to be honest.
“Wise decision,” he adds. “Given the, um, circumstances.” He jerks his head toward the top of the stairs, presumably to indicate our bugged bedroom.
“Look.” He squeezes my arms, and a wicked flicker tightens my hips at the memory of how they felt in his grip last night. “If you have a minute, I think we should talk?—”
“Your mother asked me to let you know dinner will be served in ten minutes.” Giles has appeared in the hallway from the back of the building like a ghastly apparition.
He looks extra mysterious because he’s wearing an overcoat and tweed cap and is clearly on his way home at the end of another hard day propping up nonsensical royal red tape. Which also invites the question, where does Giles live? What does his home look like? And does he live with anyone else?
Also, how does dinnertime come around so quickly in this place? It feels like only a few hours since Oliver’s mother announced it yesterday.
But that’s probably because as soon as one dinner is over, I start dreading the next.
Which isn’t really fair, because of course Oliver is great and his sister has been nothing but kind to me. But I can’t bear the way his mother stares at my cutlery when I’m cutting and eating my food. All it does is make me exaggerate my eating inthe American wayall the more, purely to annoy her.
“Actually, I have a bit of a headache,” I say, “which is making me nauseous.”
“Oh, darling.” Oliver thankfully realizes my ploy and goes with it. “That’s not good.”
He places a hand on my forehead, and my eyes drift half closed in response to his strong, reassuring touch.
“You do feel a bit warm.” I’m lucky he can read me so well and is happy to play along.
“I think I might just get a snack and some water and take it upstairs and lie down.”
“Leave it to me.” He takes the opportunity to kiss my cheek again. And I’m definitely not complaining about it. “I’ll get the cook to put something nice and light together for you. Maybe some toast and digestive biscuits or something. And some tea.”
Is it only the royal family, or does every British person think tea and plain cookies are the cure for all ills?
“You’re so thoughtful.” It doesn’t take me any effort to say that sentence because I know it to be one hundred percent true. “That’s why I love you,” I add for authenticity, and pop onto my toes to plant a tiny kiss on his lips.
God, that feels good. And it felt less weird than I thought to tell someone I do not love that I love them.
“Love you too, my little Yankee Doodle,” Oliver says with a wink.
Over by the hallway, Giles releases an exasperated sigh, then straightens his cap, turns away, and heads toward theback of the house, presumably to where the staff park their cars behind the kitchen.
Oliver puts his arm around me, pulls me to his side, and buries his face in my hair right above my ear. “Well done on the escape plan. Wish I could come up there with you.”
That might be very nice, but the reality is that I not only need to escape the horror of the dinner experience, I also need some time alone to figure out how the hell I’m going to put this book together.
Oliver slides his hand down my spine and settles it on my ass. “Go on, make a run for it while you can. I’ll be up with some food in a bit. Something better than dry toast and digestives.”
Then he pats my backside, sending a rush of sparks and heat to my core, and it’s all I can do not to climb him like a tree right here in the foyer.
But I tear myself away from his side and head toward the stairs, Becca’s words ringing in my ears.You really fucking like him.
