Page 107 of The Thing About My Prince
But aside from that, getting to know him will likely turn out to be the most fun assignment I’ve ever had. And, while I’m not exactly writing a potential Pulitzer Prize winner here, the mission to get his authentic story across to his many critics is more personally and professionally fulfilling than I’d expected.
He’s certainly opened my eyes to his incredibly odd and unrelatable upbringing. And I’ve experienced firsthand that, behind closed royal doors, things are not as luxurious and harmonious as most people think.
As well as all that, of course there’s the amazing naked stuff. Well, not all of it is naked. The incident in the potting shed involved the removal of only the absolute bare essentials.
That’s definitely a memory that will live with me forever. The soil that got under my fingernails was so hard to get out it felt like it was going to live with me forever too.
And while I’m not really one for dressing up or beingfussed over, I have to confess it was an amazing experience getting ready this morning with a stylist throwing a dozen different dress and shoe combos at me, a hairstylist working magic with my lank bob, and a makeup artist making me look like I’ve never looked before in my life and likely never will again.
But all of this is frippery for me—the water I have to wade through to get to the career I want on the other side.
For Oliver, this water is where he lives, where he’s been adrift his whole life.
At least now he’s successfully building an island for himself in New York and only has to get his toes wet every now and again, and on his own terms.
And there he is, standing at the gateway to the church, smiling and shaking hands with passing guests.
Who knew a kilt could be this sexy?
And it’s not sexy only because I find him so goddamned attractive. Or because I’ve seen what’s under it so many times this week. It’s because I knowwhohe is. That despite all the advantages and privileges of his life, he’s just Oliver. A smart guy, trying to figure out his way in the world about a decade later than the rest of us. Someone generous enough to help others whenever he can. Someone with a big heart, a kind soul, and the ability to make me laugh more these last few days than I ever have. And also with the ability to give me the most spectacular, and likely unbeatable, orgasms of my existence.
A couple of times this week, I’ve lain next to him at night, wondering how things might be if we weren’t who we are and there’d been a possibility of us having a life together.
But since I went into this thing with my eyes wide open, fully aware there is no future in it, I gave myself a shake, reminded myself to be grateful to have the time with him I have, and resolved to not allow myself to think of anythingoutside this bubble we’ve created for ourselves until after the book is written and I have to face reality again.
Looking at him now though, beneath that arch of white flowers in his formal Scottish gear, spotting my car with the warm, affectionate smile he has every time he greets me—whether it’s first thing in the morning or when I return from merely crossing the room to grab a pen—a mixture of delight, excitement, and sadness swirl through me and settle heavily in my stomach.
I will never know what it’s like to be the bride arriving at our wedding to be greeted by his look of love. Never know what it’s like for us to promise we’ll spend the rest of our lives together. Never know if our kids would have his thick sandy hair or my dark locks.
“Ma’am.” The voice of the liveried man who’s opened the car door brings me back to reality.
Oliver comes over to offer me his hand, the heavy tartan of his kilt swinging around his bare knees.
“Thank you.” As I take hold and step out of the car, it feels like more than a hand to steady me as I teeter in heels. It’s a hand that could steady me through anything. A hand I could reach for no matter what the crisis—whether I’ve just burned the toast, or am hurt to my core by another horrible article about me, or have had a bad day at work and need a hug.
But this is a fantasy land I’m living in. I need only to look around me to know that.
No reality has me belonging among the elite of British society, who are all dressed up in their finery and milling around the historic buildings. It’s almost like a beautiful watercolor illustration of an imaginary, perfect church surrounded by a neatly tended graveyard, a stone wall, and this adorable, covered gate that looks like it’s been here centuries.
What wouldn’t be in the painting, however, is the dramatically high number of police officers that mark the presence ofthe king and queen—they are the bride’s grandparents, after all. The increased security means that Cole and Dane have the day off and have gone on a guided mountain bike tour.
“I have to tell you how stunning you look one more time.” Oliver brushes his lips over my cheek, and that fresh scent of his skin sends a quiver to my very core.
“You can tell me as often as you like,” I say.
A man in church-related formalwear opens the gate for us, and we pass under the fragrant flower arch.
“But how was the drive?” It can’t have gone well after the spat before we left.
“Oh, pretty silent,” Oliver says while waving at scattered clusters of guests on the lawns either side of the path we’re following toward the church.
“Apart from when Mum asked if I really am planning to stay in the US,” Oliver adds.
“She’s still asking after four years?”
“Yup.”
“So she doesn’t get it?”
