Page 6 of The Thing About My Prince
She doesn’t smile at all. Just holds out her hand. “I’m Lexi Lane.”
“Sounds like the name of a superhero.”
“Never heard that before.” Her expression says she has, indeed, heard it many hundreds of times before.
Great first impression, Oliver. Well done.
“I’m Oliver.” I take her hand and shake it. Her grip is as firm, solid, and as sure of itself as her gaze. But her skin is soft and warm, and I hold on to her hand for a little too long. Or do we both hold on too long? Either way, my heart sure isdoing its blood-pumping job more enthusiastically than usual.
As our hands slide off each other, she nods at the apartment behind me. “Should I, um…”
“Yes. Sorry. Yes. Of course.” I step back, pulling the door wide open. “Come in.”
This is going to be even worse than I thought.
CHAPTER THREE
LEXI
What the hell in the name of hellishness was that?
That thing with his eyes.
What the fuck was it?
Is that what he does to everyone? Does he think it’s cute? Is that what his gushing fans find adorable about him? Like,oh, look at the cute British prince with his accent, artfully tousled hair, and dazzling bright eyes that instantly make you feel like you’re the most special person on earth. Isn’t he fun?
Well, that bullshit does not work with me.
One thing I’ve learned from interviewing famous and successful people is that they treat you like you’re the most important person in their world for the five minutes they’re talking to you. The second you’re gone, they move on to making the next person in line feel likethey’rethe most important person.
However, the fake charm thing has never given me a wobble like that before. Never made me unable to walk in a straight line the way I’m not walking in a straight line toward Prince Oliver’s gargantuan living room.
I need to get a grip.
“What should I call you?” I spent ages looking upwhat do you call a prince?,how do you address a member of the British royal family?,is a prince called Your Royal Highness?, and the like, and the answer always seemed to beIt’s complicated. So I might as well outright ask him.
It’s a conversation-starter at least. And helps me to stop thinking about his eyes. Which are kind of green-ish.
“As long as it’s none of the names the British tabloids have given me, I don’t care,” he says, following me.
Yeah, I found a whole host of their favorite monikers for him. The Party Prince. The Playboy Prince. His Royal HIGHness. That last one was alongside a long-distance, grainy picture of him holding something resembling a joint.
“You can call me Oliver.” He arrives beside me.
Taller than I expected, he towers over my five-foot-three frame. And he smiles that carefree smile I’ve seen in hundreds of news clips.
I’d thought it was an affectation for public consumption, but here, in private, it seems so effortlessly genuine that it brings an unexpected flutter to my chest. My hand flinches to move toward it, but I stop it in time and shove it into a pocket instead. Can’t have Oliver catching me trying to quell heart flutters.
Maybe all royals naturally radiate this attractive heart-tremor-y charisma. I’ve never been around one before.
Whatever it is, I’m not about to be taken in by it. I’m here to get this job done as swiftly and as well as possible, so I can get on with my life and never have to spend another second with this man again.
Two more steps, and the view from the living room of this Fifth Avenue penthouse snaps me out of whatever the hell that fluttering thing was. “Fuck me.”
I immediately slam my hand over my mouth. “Shit, sorry. I mean, sorry.”
My face heats so quickly it almost burns my fingers.
