Page 13 of The Thing About My Prince
She sits three cushions away from me on the sofa, placing herself neatly as if she doesn’t want to crease anything, her knees together, back straight, hands clasped in her lap. Kind of like the way a cat sits neatly, then wraps its tail around its front paws.
“You have a miraculous solution that will suddenly fix the fucked-up way the British press works?” I ask before taking a sip of tea.
“If meeting up with me in secret would cause a scandal because they’d think I was your secret girlfriend, then let’s be open about it.”
“Open about what?”
“Me being your girlfriend.”
“You being mywhat?” It’s impossible to disguise my astonishment. “But you’re not. And I get the distinct impression that it’s the last thing on earth you would ever wish to be.”
“Of course I don’t want to be youractualgirlfriend.”
“Gee, thanks. This relationship is getting better by the second.”
“You say it like you would want to date me.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. You’re a fucking reporter. Reporters have ruined my life. They are one of the reasons I left everything behind and moved here.”
“Great. Then we’re totally clear that neither of us would ever want to date the other. That would make pretending we’re together even easier.”
“I’m sorry, tell me again why we would do that.”
“So that I can come with you, stay in the palace?—”
“Castle.”
“Palace, castle, whatever the hell.” She waves her hand to dismiss all forms of royal residence as utter nonsense. “We’d get to spend time alone together for me to interview you without anyone questioning it. It’s a win-win. I get the info from you to give me a vague shot at getting this damn thingwritten by the deadline, and you get to be at your sister’s wedding and your charity thing.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why? It would work for us both.”
“It totally wouldn’t work for you.”
“Yes, it would. Like I say, it means I can be around you for the interv?—”
“I’m saying the press will eat you alive and you’ll loathe it.”
“Iamthe press, remember?”
For a second there, perhaps I did forget. Forget that she’s the enemy. The enemy who’s stepped temporarily over to my side for a paycheck.
I gaze down into my tea, the mug cooling in my hands. “You have no idea what it feels like to be on the receiving end of how much they’d hate you.”
“Gee, thanks for assuming they’ll hate me.”
“Of course they’ll hate you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re American.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“Pretty much. But not only that, you’d be Americanandmy girlfriend.” The last word tripped off my tongue way too easily and felt surprisingly good. “Well, not really my girlfriend. Obviously. But they’d think you were. And they hate me, so they’d hate you by association.”
“I can take care of myself.”
