Page 5 of The Thing About My Prince
“And paying those guys is one of the many reasons you need to get the book written even if it means you have to work with this journalist,” Chase says.
“I know. I know I have no choice but to put up with her. I just called to complain about it.”
Selling my private events company when I left the UK four years ago did net me a tidy sum, and the income I get from investing it is good. But it’s not enough to live off forever.
Getting rid of the business was a relief. All part of cutting my mental and physical ties with the UK and with the wasteful, extravagant clients who, like my family, are all image all the time.
Quitting my royal duties has also meant I no longer get any expenses paid for by the Firm, as we call the family. So, here I am, thirty-seven years old and having to make my own living for the first time with no skillset other than throwing lavish parties for the obnoxious egos at luxury brands, and my royal attributes of cutting ribbons, shaking hands, and making insufferable small talk with total strangers I’ll never see again.
“I can come over if you want.” Chase lives in Soho. “If you need some moral support around when this woman shows up.”
“That’s a fantastic offer, mate, but it might look a bit weird. Can you imagine her walking in to meet me and finding you here too? I don’t mean this to sound bad or ungrateful or anything, but I don’t want her first impression to be that I spend my whole time hobnobbing with the rich and famous. I’ve had quite enough shit from the British press about me being the lazy ungrateful layabout of the familywithout her jumping to the same conclusion two seconds after meeting me.”
“Okay, man, whatever you think best,” he says. “And of course I don’t think you’re ungrateful. You’re one of the kindest, biggest-hearted people I know. Call me if you need backup.”
“Amazing. Thanks. I’m going to put the kettle on for tea so I can be a polite British cliché the second she arrives.” My phone beeps. “Oh, hold on, Chase.”
“Sure.”
I flip to the other call. “Hey, Cole.”
“Miss Lane is here for you, sir,” he says.
“She’s early. I’ll be right there.”
I go back to Chase. “Hey. She’s here.”
“Okay, my friend. May the force be with you. Let me know how it goes. See ya.”
“I feel a bit sick. But yeah, see ya.”
I rise from the window seat and head toward the door, stopping in front of the huge, gold-framed entryway mirror to tidy my hair. I probably should also have put on a clean hoodie. This one has a stain from some strawberry jam that fell off my toast this morning.
Oh, well. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what the hell I look like in front of someone I don’t want here anyway.
And she’s not going to care. She’s going to just want to write the book so she can get her paycheck.
Christ, my parents and grandparents would be so fucking disappointed in me if they knew I was doing this. And that’s the main cause of the knot in my stomach as I reach for the door handle—all I’ve ever been to them is a letdown, and writing this book behind their backs will only compound that opinion.
I’ll have to tell them at some point, obviously. But I’m leaving it till the last moment before the publisher announcesit, so that even when the family puts the thumbscrews on me to not do it, it will be too late.
On a deep inhale, I pull the door open.
“Miss Lane, sir.” Cole gestures to the woman beside him.
She looks up from rummaging in an army-green crossbody bag, flicking her bobbed brunette hair off her face at the same time, and fixes me with a pair of ice-blue eyes.
They’re eyes that mean business. Combined with the slight furrow in her brow and the way her feet are planted solidly hip-width apart like they own the patch of floor they’re standing on, her entire demeanor screamsI don’t take any shit. AndI don’t want to be here either. Andwe don’t need to be friends, we just need to get this over with.
But those piercing cornflower eyes are like a shock to my system. Not like electric paddles that bring you back to life, more like a really fucking refreshing change.
While my gaze holds hers, my peripheral vision takes in a white T-shirt, loose light blue jeans that might be a couple sizes too big, trainers, and the way the bag strap cuts between her breasts, emphasizing their curves.
“Hi,” I say. It comes out all croaky and I have to clear my throat and try again.
“Hi,” she says at the same time as my second attempt.
I release a sort of weird giggle.
