I roll over onto my back, holding the phone up so we can both watch.
The video is just grainy security footage, but it clearly shows the future king astride one of the Trafalgar Square lions at 2:54 AM. He’s singing what sounds like “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am,” wielding a kebab like a saber, and tossing chunks of meat at the security guard trying to bat him down with a traffic cone.
“Bloody hell,” Oliver says, squinting. “Is he naked?”
“No, I think he’s wearing underwear.” I narrow my eyes. “Or a diaper? Is that a diaper? God, why was he wearing a diaper?”
“No fucking clue. Christ.” Oliver runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up at even more ridiculous, adorable angles. “But I bet the Palace press office wishestheywere wearing nappies right about now. They’ll be shitting their collective pants. What happened? Is there any explanation in the articles?”
“I don’t know. Let me look.” We scroll through article after article, of which there aremany.
Every British news outlet has abandoned all other stories, and #LionKing is trending on social media worldwide. There are already memes, including one of Ronan’s face photoshopped onto Mufasa’s body, that makes me snort coffee through my nose once we’ve moved our research to the kitchen.
“Okay, finally a hint of a motive.” I tap my croissant to my screen as I read, “Palace sources suggest Prince Ronan was celebrating the English rugby win, when a night out with friends got ‘boyishly’ out of hand.”
Olly grunts. “Celebrating by riding a stone lion in a diaper?”
“Not the way I’d celebrate,” I agree. “But maybe?”
He grunts again, wagging his pastry back and forth in the air. “Nope. I’m not buying it. And what’s that ‘boyish’ bullshit? He’s nearly thirty. He hasn’t been a ‘boy’ in nearly a decade. I call foul. This reeks of a press office cover-up up and damn it, I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
My brows fly up my forehead. “Really? You do?”
Oliver grins as he slouches back in his chair, propping his slippered feet up in the seat beside mine. “Nah, not really. I mean, I hope the man’s all right, but he’s a second cousin, and we’ve never been close. I’m just glad to be out of the spotlight.”
“Same,” I say, even as a tinge of disappointment creeps into my chest.
I’m glad to be in the clear, I really am, but…
Well, without an excuse topretendto be an item, Olly and I will be left with no other option than to have The Talk, and talking feels way scarier in the cold light of day. Last night was intense, and I didn’t get nearly enough sleep, and I can’t afford to have a falling out with Olly right now.
And maybe we won’t fall out. Maybe we’ll manage The Talk beautifully, but with the Fletchers’ meeting bearing down on me in less than twenty-four hours, is it really worth the risk?
“So…” Oliver says, his smile fading as the vibes in the kitchen grow increasingly complicated. “I suppose we should?—”
“Still go sledding,” I cut in, heart racing as I force a cheery smile. “Don’t you think? I mean, it’s already booked, and the paparazzi have been stalking us like crazy. Someone at the sled rental could have tipped them off, and cameras could be trained on the hill right now, waiting for us to arrive.”
Oliver sits up, brightening. “You’re right. I mean, just because we’re off the radar for now, it doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. If we book sleds and don’t show up to use them, the paparazzi might start to wonder if there’s trouble in hot mess paradise.”
I grin. “Right. And there’s fresh snow. It would be a shame to waste it.”
“And I could use some exercise after all that pudding.”
“God, yes,” I agree, laying a hand on my stomach. “I think I gained ten pounds overnight.”
“Bollocks, you look fantastic, but sledding would still be good for our health. Cardiovascular fitness and all that.”
“So we’ll go,” I say with a breezy shrug. “Just in case. Just for fun.”
“Absolutely for fun.” His gaze locks on mine with an intensity that makes me tingly…and a tiny bit nervous. “Speaking of fun, I had a lot of fun with you last night, Darling.”
Shoulders tensing, I nod. “I had a lot of fun with you, too.”
“I’d be up for more fun in the shower before we get dressed,” he says, sending relief rushing through my chest.
Talking feels like too much right now, but sex?
Sex, I can absolutely handle.
