Page 10 of The Thing About My Prince
“But do you have to be gone fortwo weeks? Can’t you just go a couple of days before and come back the next day?”
“No. I'm the patron of a children’s cancer charity, and they have an event the week before.” He pulls a spoon from a drawer, then stirs and mashes the tea bags. “Rather than video call into it, I’m going over early to be there in person. Even though the idea of small talk makes me want to go lie inthe middle of the West Side Highway, I like to do more than be a trophy name on their website that helps them attract donors. What’s the problem anyway?”
I dig my nails into my palms to keep from asking him if he hasn’t heard a word I said about the already crushing timeline for this book.
“The deadline is the problem. I need to interview you a lot.A lot. I need you to tell me all the things. I can’t write anything without that.”
He goes back and forth between the mugs, mashing and stirring. “There are these things called phones now. And even phones where you can see each other’s faces. It’s quite spectacular.”
“Yes. Thank you. But it’s not the same. Also, are you trying to beat those tea bags into submission? Also, teabags? If you’re a connoisseur, why are you using bags and not loose-leaf stuff in a china pot?”
“Who the hell makes tea in a pot anymore? Apart from maybe my grandmother.”
“By grandmother, do you mean the queen?”
“Yes. But to be fair, she doesn’t make it herself becausesheactually does have staff.”
He drags a tea bag up the side of its mug, squishing it with the back of the spoon the whole way, until it emerges almost dry. Then he takes hold of the very edge of it between the tips of his finger and thumb and flings it into the sink.
It lands with a wet thud, and he moves to the second mug to repeat the painstaking process.
“God forbid you shouldn’t get every last drop out of it,” I say.
“Vital part of the process. It boggles my mind when I see Americans scoop out a tea bag and toss it away dripping wet. Think of all that lost flavor.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Anyway. Interviews over thephone or video call aren’t the same. No one opens up as much that way. There’s too much of a barrier.”
After the second tea bag is in the sink, he moves farther down the kitchen and opens a cabinet door, which turns out to be the fridge.
“Two percent.” He holds up a carton of milk. “Vital ingredient.”
He pours some into each mug, stirring and adding more one micro drop at a time, apparently perfecting the exact shade of brownness.
It’s kind of mesmerizing. The way his fingers hold the spoon is?—
Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I need to figure out this ridiculous Scotland plan.
“Like I said, if you want this book to be the best it can be, I need you here.”
“Or”—he puts down the milk and hands me a mug—“you have to come with me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
I try to think of an answer as he returns the milk to the fridge, drops the spoon in the sink, picks up his own mug, and leans back against the counter.
“I can’t go to the UK with a prince. With you.” Good work, brain.
He laughs with a smile that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes do that sparkly thing they did when he opened the front door. “Of course you can.”
“I haven’t been given a budget. Or expenses. I can’t randomly fly three thousand miles and get a hotel room.”
“You’d fly with me. Leo has a private jet company. Leo Johanssen, one of the?—”
“Other owners of the Boston Commoners. Yes, I know who he is.”
“And you would stay at my parents’ house.”
