Page 11 of The Thing About My Prince
“I can’t stay at apalace.”
“Don’t be silly. They don’t live in a palace.” He takes a sip of his tea and peers at me over the large red heart on the side of the mug. “It’s, um…it’s a castle.”
“This is ridiculous. Just go a week later. Then I can get a good solid week of interviews under my belt and have enough material to keep me going till you get back.”
“I’ve already told the charity I’ll be there for the event. And I’m not letting them down. Just come. No stress. It’ll be easy.”
“What? It’ll be no stress for me to stay with the family you moved to a whole different continent to escape? Seems unlikely.”
“It’ll be fine. That’s settled, then. Now, try your tea.”
Fuck me. So not only am I ghostwriting a memoir I don’t want to write, for a man who represents every institutional and societal issue I’ve despised my whole life, now I have to go and stay in a British royal castle with him?
I take a sip of tea. The instant the bitter, milky liquid hits my tongue, my facial muscles involuntarily contract into an expression that can’t possibly disguise I’m on the verge of gagging.
But I need to learn to go with the flow here. If this prince dumps me as his ghostwriter, my career takes about a five-year step backward.
This might be a nightmare of a project to work on, this guy might be the living embodiment of everything that’s wrong with society, and I might now be stuck on a trip to the UK with himandhave to stay with his goddamn parents, but I need to keep reminding myself it’s all short-term pain for long-term gain.
I cough to disguise the gagging. “It’s great. Delicious.”
CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVER
What the fucking hell is wrong with me?
She can’t come to Scotland.
What catastrophic lapse of judgment made me suggest that?
Actually, I know exactly what it was.
I got caught up in teasing her. It was fun to agitate her. It makes cute pink spots appear on her cheeks. And her eyes get kind of wild and fiery.
I might wish I didn’t have to tell her my life story and that she didn’t have to write the book I wanted to write myself, but giving her a hard time is surprisingly entertaining.
And distracting.
And I’m a knobhead for allowing myself to be distracted like that. I know better.
She can’t come. Absolutely not.
Not least because she looked like she was about to puke the second she tasted my perfectly made tea. What is it with Americans not understanding what makes a good cuppa?
“On second thought, that would never work.” Mug inhand, I stroll around to the other side of the island in the hope that more distance between us might lessen the distraction factor. “You can’t come home with me. That was a really bad idea.”
“But three seconds ago we clearly established that I have to.” She puts her tea down on the counter and folds her arms under her breasts. Not that I’m looking at them. I just happened to notice that’s where her arms are. And that they have kind of pushed her breasts up a bit. In a non-displeasing fashion.
“I hadn’t thought it through,” I say. “How would I explain you?”
I need more distance from the breasts, so I head back toward the living room.
“What do you mean,how would you explain me?” Her voice follows close behind.
“Well, I can’t tell them who you are, can I?”
“Why not?”
