Page 20 of The Thing About My Prince
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEXI
Great, my ride to the airport is parked right outside our East Village apartment.
I turn away from the window, yank up the handle of my carry-on, and grab the small duffel bag from my bed. It occurred to me that I probably don’t need to conform to usual airline allowances on a private plane only after I’d spent forever paring down what to pack.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and wheel the case out of my room.
“I’m leaving,” I call to Becca, who’s in her usual Sunday evening position on the couch, under a blanket, eating a bar of salted caramel chocolate and watching a movie.
“Have fun with the hot prince.” Her head, hair piled on top in a messy bun, pokes over the back of the couch.
“Stop calling him that.” My phone pings and I reach for it in my pocket.
“Just being factually correct,” she says.
The text is from Oliver.
My panicked eyes flit over the words again. Words thatmake my heart race like it’s had an electric shock and drained all the blood from my hands, making them icy cold.
“What’s wrong?” Becca sits up straight. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”
My mouth too dry, my throat too constricted, and my brain too mangled to form words, I drop my bag and move toward the sofa to hold the phone in front of her face.
OLIVER
Been thinking. My first instinct was correct. You pretending to be my girlfriend can only go horribly wrong. And worse for you than for me. I can’t put you through that. Sorry to mess you around, but let’s do the best we can with talking while I’m away, and I’ll see you when I get back.
Becca shrugs. “In all fairness, he’s not wrong.”
“I have to go. It’s the only way it works. I realized last night that this is a bonus, an advantage.” I trot back to my luggage. “It means I get to meet his family and the staff, experience how he was raised, get a real feel for that life. And get out into the village and see what locals think about him. It’ll give me more depth to write from. Make the book much better. Maybe even make it something I’m proud of. If I have to do this, I can at least do my best to make it good, and not just write up some stories he’s told me that might or might not be totally accurate.”
“Sooo, you’re going to the airport anyway?”
I open the front door. “Yup.”
“Without even replying to his text?”
“What text? I haven’t seen a text. Been way too busy packing.”
“And you’re going to force yourself onto a private jet after the solitary passenger, a British prince, has told you he doesn’t want you there?”
“Notforce.” I maneuver my case through the door, bashingthe duffel bag on the frame. “More likeconvincehim. Make him see sense. Use all the skills that make me a journalist who can persuade someone to talk to me even though they think they don’t want to.”
“It sounds like he was being nice and trying to protect you. Maybe you reallydon’tknow what you’re getting into.”
I look back at Becca over my shoulder. “I can take care of myself. And part of that is writing a good book, not a shitty one.”
“I’ll be here when you get back if he doesn’t let you on the plane,” she says.
“He’ll let me on.”
I close the door behind me and head down the hallway toward the elevator not even remotely sure that he will.
I spend almost the entire ride to Teterboro Airport researching how you get to a private plane, whether you have to go through security or passport control or if we can drive right up to the aircraft’s steps.
The last message Oliver sent me about this yesterday just said to meet him at the StellarVantage terminal, wherever the hell that is. The driver acted like it was familiar, so I’ll have to trust he takes me to the right place.
