Page 90 of The Thing About My Prince
There’s movement by the greenhouses, and the door of the longest one opens. But instead of seeing one of the gardeners emerge, it’s Lexi. And she’s shoving her phone into her pocket.
She pulls her sweater tight around her and trots back toward the house.
My heart picks up the pace at the sight of her.
Not only because I’m more attracted to her than I’ve ever been to anyone in my life and because I can’t wait to make her laugh and hear her next smart quip.
But also because Chase’s initial fears make me wonder why she’d go to the greenhouse to make a call.
CHAPTER THIRTY
LEXI
I close the giant front door of the castle behind me.
Thecastle.
What the hell is this absurd situation I’ve gotten myself into?
As I step into that spectacular high-ceilinged foyer, Oliver comes skipping down the stairs, beaming from ear to ear.
And my heart does a dance.
Shit. I am in serious trouble here.
I cannot fall for him. I can’t. That would be the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever done in my life. Both for my career and my heart.
“Heeey.” His tone is warm and affectionate. Like the one a boyfriend would use to greet his girlfriend.
Is the flip it brings to my belly dread at what I might be opening myself up to? Or the thrilling excitement at what I might be opening myself up to?
“Hey.” I stop and wait for him.
But what do I do when he gets to the bottom? Do I kisshim? Even though there’s no one around to put on a show for?
After last night, are we now two people who kiss each other hello?
We didn’t kiss this morning or hold hands. But then that was different because he was either in the trunk of the car or on the back seat. And when we were walking to and from the waterfall, we had a bunch of stuff to carry, so there was no way we could have held hands if we’d even wanted to.
Would he have wanted to?
Did I want to?
Jesus, there is no space in my head or my life for this kind of mental spiraling.
I need every brain cell focused on getting this book written before Christmas, for fuck’s sake, not on whether or not to kiss a prince.
Even if he is a nice one. A nice one who has spectacular shoulders.
“How did the measuring of your Prince Charlie go?” I can’t help but giggle. And that probably sounds flirtatious.
When he bounces up to me, he rests his hand on my upper arm and leans in to my ear. “Turns out my Prince Charlie is already exactly the right size.”
His warm breath caresses my skin, sending a shiver all the way down my side to my toes.
Then he kisses my cheek, and I can’t help but lean into him and inhale the aroma of his skin that smells of the sunny outdoor morning we’d soaked up earlier.
My mind creates an image of the two of us lying on a beach under umbrellas ten years from now, our lives all settled and simple and nothing mattering other than us being together.
