Page 82 of The Thing About My Prince
“How does it feel?” Lexi asks as if she’s reading my mind. She hugs the blanket she carried from the car.
“Is that a ghostwriter question? Or a question from the woman who slept with me last night and would like to get to know me better?”
“Those two people are the same person.”
My brain stops for a second, like it can’t figure out how to process the factual accuracy of that sentence, even though I know all parts of it are true.
Yes, she is a reporter.
Yes, she’s the person the publisher insists on having write my story or else the book deal is off.
Yes, I want to chat with her, laugh with her, and be naked with her over and over and over again.
And yes, she’s planning to move thousands of miles away to report on some of the most dangerous regions in the world once my book is written and I might never see her again after that.
The ringing of my phone snaps me out of the conundrum of how to respond.
It’s Dane.
“Sir, are you okay?” he says when I pick up.
“Totally fine. I’ll be back in a while. No need to worry.”
He heaves a great sigh. “Sir, you employ us to be with you at all times.”
“It’s fine. I just need a break from being…well, I guess,mefor a minute.”
“Fromwhat, sir?”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You guys take a couple of hours off. Go into the village. Try the deep-fried battered Mars Bar at the fish and chip shop. Your arteries won’t thank you, but your taste buds will.”
I hang up, and Lexi puffs out her cheeks to make a gagging face.
“Local delicacy,” I say. “But Flora put some entirely non-fried goodies together for us.” I hold up the plastic box I’ve carried from the car. “If you put that blanket down, we can have awee picnic.” I do my Scottish accent for the last two words.
It makes her giggle the most delighted giggle, and, oh God, why does it have to be her who is the first woman I’ve felt like this about—the first who possesses the deadly combination of making my stomach flip, my dick spring to attention, and my heart know that I can trust her totally?
She’s entirely the right person for me at entirely the wrong time in her life.
And no matter how much she enjoyed last night, I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m entirely the wrong person for her.
I pull the food out of the box. Two plates of wrap-sealed sandwiches—prawns with salad, and thick-sliced cheese with Branston pickle.
“Oooh, if you’ve not had Branston yet, you need to start with one of these.”
“Branston?”
I peel the wrap off the plate and offer it to her. “The brown lumpy stuff in here. Spectacular British specialty. And I know for sure Flora will have used the extra-sharp cheddar I love. The kind that makes your gums hurt.”
Lexi peers at the sandwiches as if she’s examining a scientific experiment. “You’re not selling it well.”
“Give it a try. I spent ages trying to find somewhere that sold Branston in New York. Finally found a place that had it, but only in tiny jars for ludicrous prices. Remind me to pack some to take back.”
“Sure.” She picks one of the crusty white bread sandwiches off the plate and takes a bite.
Her face morphs fromdear God notooh, this is pretty goodin a matter of seconds.
“See,” I say. “We know how to do food here.”
