Page 8 of The Thing About My Prince
He’s observant.
I pull the strap of my bag over my head and loop it over my shoulder instead. “Let’s just say that writing a royal memoir wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.”
“But you’re still going to do a good job, right?” Now he sounds nervous. Always good to have the interviewee on the back foot. “Because I really need this book to be a success, and if your heart’s not in it, then maybe the publisher should look for someone else.”
“My heart doesn’t have to be in it for me to do a good job. I promise you that tween girl sugary pop music isn’t my thing either, but my Sabrina Summers book was a big hit. And it’s because of that that I’m here.”
“That’s why they picked you?” His brows knit. “The publisher thought that because you wrote about someone who dances around dressed in bubble gum-pink while clutching giant multicolored lollipops that you were the perfect person to help me set straight years of shit about me in the press and help me claw back something vaguely resembling a decent reputation so I can rebuild a whole new life in a whole new country?”
Wow. Isthatwhat this is about for him? When the editor briefed me yesterday, she gave the impression it was moreabout churning out something with cute stories and old photos and making a pile of cash—but maybe it is, for them.
“Don’t worry, I’m adaptable,” I tell him. “I can write anything.” Hopefully that sounds reassuring.
Maybe I’ve come across as a bit snippy about the whole situation. The last thing I need is for him to get me thrown off the job that my war correspondent position depends on. I should probably shut up, get on with it, and suck up having to write this thing for the sake of, well, the rest of my career.
“Let's get started then.” I open the flap of my bag and pull out my phone and a notebook with an old pen shoved into the spiral binding. “Where should I set up?”
“Set up?” he says. “I thought this was a little getting-to-know-each-other session.”
“Like I say, compressed timeline.” One that’s stressing me the hell out, but I can’t let him see that. Don’t want him to lose faith. “So we really should jump in and get started.”
“Well, I’m not the kind of guy who can go full life-story on a first date with a stranger. I need to warm up. Ease into it.” Is that smirk supposed to be flirtatious? “Guess I’m old-fashioned, and usually I need to at least have a cup of tea with someone first.”
Is this flirty charm how he gets all those women I’ve read about? Combine that with the whole accent and prince thing and, yeah, that would probably do it.
I pause for a second, making myself not sayDoes this usually work for you?
He walks away to the other side of the room while running his fingers through his hair—fingers that haven’t done a day’s hard work in their lives.
Instead I go with, “Any chance I could have coffee instead?”
“Can’t stand the stuff. Don’t keep it in.”
“Not even for guests?”
He disappears around the corner, presumably toward thekitchen. “Once they’ve tasted a cup of my perfectly made tea, they’re usually converted. I’ll make you one.”
I look around for an appropriate place to put my things. On top of the piano is probably not that. “Honestly, it’s fine. I really don’t li?—”
“Just try,” his disembodied voice says. “If you hate it, I’ll drink it.”
Ugh. “Okay.”
I drop my bag and notepad on the floor by the sofa, shove the phone into my pocket, and follow him around the corner. Maybe the tea thing can make a running joke through the book.
Man, this kitchen is enormous. But why am I surprised? This whole place is big enough to land a jumbo jet in. The kitchen’s long and wide with wood cabinets and a marble counter and backsplash. There’s a matching island in the center with what I suppose is the billionaire’s equivalent of a breakfast nook beyond with a white round table and six chairs.
“How does someone who’s spent their life surrounded by servants get to be good at making tea?”
Oliver fills a shiny silver kettle from the pot-filler faucet over the sleek commercial-sized stainless-steel range. “I think you might have misjudged what it’s like to be a member of the royal family.”
I spread my arms wide and look at our surroundings. “Pretty sure I haven’t.”
A couple of the born-into-wealth people I’ve interviewed did turn out to be okay. There was the granddaughter of a family that seems to own about half of South Carolina who used her powers for good and funded a life-saving treatment for a tick-borne disease in Africa. And an older guy who was super grumpy when I interviewed him about the demise of unions at the shipping company that had been in his family for generations, but when he died a couple of years later, heleft his entire fortune to children’s literacy charities and animal shelters. So I’m not averse to being surprised.
But I’d bet there are no surprises with this guy.
I guess I wasn’t expecting him to make tea, though.
