Page 35 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

T homas fusses over me like an overly protective mother cat with an injured kitten. Except substitute prince for kitten in this scenario.

At the hospital, I’m delivered under the cover of midnight darkness, courtesy of a wheelchair and Thomas’ arm, into a waiting sedan with the requisite tinted windows. He loads my suitcase and has a bag of meds and instructions for my care.

I closed my eyes most of the way to Thomas’ flat, the nighttime lights I ordinarily love so much turning my stomach at their obscene brightness, combined with the disconcerting motion of the car. The fact I was sick only once—into a waiting bag—is exceptional, I think.

At Thomas’, I wash my face and brush my teeth with a brand-new toothbrush set out for me, using one hand as best I can. It’s the first time I’ve properly seen myself in a mirror since the accident.

I blearily frown at my reflection, squinting under the bright bathroom lights. A week’s worth of dark blond stubble lines my jaw. My fingers touch my jawline, the ache of my bruised cheekbone and scratched nose.

With one hand against the marble counter, I lean forward slightly.

As for my hair, it’s a disheveled, wavy mess, not in a good way.

I haven’t had a proper shower since the accident.

I feel disgusting, though the nurses helped me wash in bed.

Maybe I’ll be able to have a shower tomorrow.

I’m wearing a button-down shirt and joggers, which is a curious fashion combination, along with the cervical collar I wear.

Lauren wouldn’t approve. I can’t say I approve either.

I put my other hand on the counter edge as the room sways ever so slightly. It’s not enough to be truly alarming, but it’s unnerving. Like this high-rise is swaying with the wind.

“Auggie?” There’s a soft rap at the bathroom door. Thomas remains hovering outside the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”

“I think so.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Give me a minute.”

After exactly a minute, Thomas opens the door. I haven’t made any progress in the moving department. I give him an apologetic smile in the mirror. “Sorry. I was taking in my new look.”

“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.” Thomas shakes his head. “C’mon, the bed’s all made up for you. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“You only have one bed?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “How many of me do you think there are needing beds?”

“On a regular day, I’d say just one. But today, at least double.”

He frowns.

“I’m joking. Sort of.”

Thomas carefully takes my arm. He leads me into the sleek modern bedroom with the incredible view. It’s too much for me right now. I falter.

“Don’t look outside,” Thomas instructs me. “Only at the bed.”

The headboard has a soft, backlit illumination, the only light in the room.

And the white bedsheets are turned down.

It’s like a cloud, all white and soft. There’re a delightful number of pillows.

With his help, I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry. I guess I didn’t realize how out of it I actually am.

When I agreed to stay, I didn’t think I’d turn you out of your bed. ”

“Nonsense. Besides, who says I’m being evicted. This is at least a king-sized bed,” he quips. “Enough for a party of four.”

“Who else are you inviting?” I peer at him. “King-plus is definitely prince-sized, then.”

“Ha. It’s a hypothetical orgy, by the way.”

“Good to know about your hypothetical orgies. I’m taking note.” I squeeze my eyes shut. My headache is ratcheting up again, and exhaustion comes over me in waves.

“Enough about orgies. Let me help you change your top, and you can sleep.”

I carefully take off the soft neck brace and slowly unbutton my shirt.

My fingers are clumsy, especially with the cast. It’s silly something so simple can feel so complicated.

Earlier, he helped me in and out of my shoes.

I feel entirely useless. Thomas rummages through his drawers for a zip-front hoodie.

“You know they call these Elizabethan collars? My ancestors might have an opinion,” I say.

He gives a wry smile at the neck brace beside me on the bed. “Top points for making a valiant effort to break your neck. Quite a way to ride to the top of the leaderboard.”

“Dramatic, right? I bet Gisele loved the footage.”

Thomas sways. Or I do. He kneels in front of me to help me finish unbuttoning my shirt. His cologne is soothing.

Otherwise, my ribs and wrist ache. Actually, everything aches.

“Did you know I have a tiny hairline fracture in a cervical vertebra?” I ask. “So technically, I did break my neck. It’s minor, as these things go, I’m told.”

“Fucking hell.” Thomas worriedly looks at me as he cautiously helps me put one arm in the hoodie, then the other, and slides it up around my shoulders.

He zips it closed, then helps me replace the cervical collar.

Then he sorts pillows out around me till I’m comfortable.

“It’s not the sort of overachieving I can get behind, sorry. ”

I attempt a smile, which comes out more like a grimace.

“This is the best service,” I tease softly, gazing up at him. “Thanks.”

He holds my gaze, adjusting another pillow. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I want to do, in fact.”

“Mm.” My eyes slide shut, heavy with fatigue.

“Rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Really not. I only sat in a car. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say anything, turning to arrange blankets around me. I feel him tug at the sheets, pull the duvet up.

I crack open an eye. “Thomas,” I murmur. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“It’s really, really not okay. But another time about that.”

“’Kay.” I make an effort to open both eyes. I try to focus on him. “Stay with me tonight? You’ll only hover anyway.”

He sighs with relief. “Okay. Yes.”

“Cancel the orgy.”

“Canceled.”

At about that time, words become too difficult, and I slip quickly into a deep sleep, comforted by his nearness and care. We can talk about our reality—manufactured or otherwise—another time.

* * *

I sleep like the dead. Except like a dead thing with nightmares.

The last few days, as I came more back into my usual awareness after the first day or two after the accident, my drifting semi-consciousness was soon replaced with nightmares.

I can still hear us all yelling, the pounding of hooves as horses gallop neck and neck towards the looming hedgerow and fence.

The way the fresh turf smelled and how the clumps of dirt flew as the horses reared up at the jump.

The way every nerve and muscle burned with the inevitable crash.

Thomas is underfoot in all the chaos. And I’m falling too.

Which is when I wake with a gasp. My body is slick with sweat.

Everything still aches.

Slowly, I dare open my eyes. Instead of the steeplechase course, I’m in a modern bedroom in a pristine white bed.

The roller blinds are mostly down, cutting the light.

Through it, I see the shapes of London beyond.

Half of the blackout blinds are drawn to block the sun hitting the side of the building.

I draw in a shaky breath.

Thomas’ flat. The drive from the hospital. Getting helped to bed.

It all comes back after a moment, in pieces.

I can smell coffee. Beside me, on the side table, is a small clock that reads 12:55 p.m. I’ve been out for nearly twelve hours. Thomas has left his dressing gown at the foot of the bed, soft grey terry cloth.

Carefully, I push back the duvet and ease out of bed, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress.

There are even slippers waiting beside the bed.

I slide my feet in, pleased I can do that much at least. My neck and head ache, but it’s not as bad as last night.

With a ginger breath, holding my ribs, I get up.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with the new perspective.

After I manage basic morning washing in the en suite, I then walk to the partly open door to the bedroom and slip out into the main room of the flat.

Thomas stands at a white marble kitchen island, with seamless dark wood cabinetry behind him.

There’s a floor-to-ceiling view of London, and it’s spectacular, if bright.

He glances up from where he’s chopping scallions, a collection of bowls and things out on the island.

There’s a rainbow of produce before him.

Thomas beams at me like he’s made the most amazing find. “How are you feeling? Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be brilliant.” I haven’t had tea in days. To be honest, I’m not sure how many days have passed since the accident. The idea of doing something familiar is terribly exciting. I smile. “What are you doing?”

“Making us some brunch. Are you up to eating?”

“I can try.”

He goes to fill the kettle. I watch him bring out a two-cup white porcelain teapot.

“Do you even know how to make tea?” My smile broadens.

“Very funny. Half English, remember?” He looks relieved at my joke. As jokes go, it’s not top-tier, but I suppose it shows humor wasn’t permanently knocked out of me.

“You don’t inherit tea-making abilities through bloodlines, Thomas. It’s not like being King, say.”

He snorts. “Just check this out.”

Under my watchful gaze, he pre-warms the teapot and brings out a selection of loose-leaf tea for me to choose from. I make my choice, a Breakfast Tea blend.

I watch him as I stand leaning slightly against the end of the island. He’s in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and a feast for the eyes, frankly. He returns to chopping veg for what looks to be an omelette, judging by the eggs out on the counter. His knife skills are ridiculously good.

“Watch this.” Thomas takes an egg, cracking it effortlessly with one hand.

“Show-off. Totally uncalled for.”

The first challenge on Renaissance Man feels like several lifetimes ago.

His face lights up in a broad grin. “I told you I like cooking. But if there’s anything you want, I can get the hotel to bring up food or drink or whatever. Don’t be shy.”

“Thanks.” I continue to watch him, slowly taking in the sights of the kitchen.

The gleam of the red kettle and the sleek modern furniture, the tall stools at the island.

I don’t know that I’m quite up for climbing on a stool, and Thomas senses it and comes over, hovering.

To be honest, the thought of food is dizzying at the best of times, but I ignore the feeling.

I squint at him, everything suddenly too bright.

Each reflection on a glossy surface cuts.

“I’m okay, honestly.”

“There’s a table you can sit at, over here.

” He walks beside me to the dining table on the other side of the island by the windows.

“How’s the light?” Once he’s satisfied I’m safely seated at the oak table, he touches a button on his phone, and the sheer blinds automatically lower, significantly reducing the brightness.

“Thanks for that.” I rub my eyes.

“You were squinting,” he says wryly. Then, he goes to make my tea and brings it over to me on a tray.

“Excellent service.”

“I expect a five-star review.”

I smile, starting slowly through the ritual of pouring tea after a couple of moments to steep.

Blood rushes in my ears. And I shiver. Everything’s a bit off in a way that’s hard to describe.

A little foggy, a little slow. My fingers are a little clumsy with the spoon.

The doctors warned me I might feel strange for a while.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Before long, Thomas makes an impressive omelette to share, right down to the flip in the pan. It’s delicious, but I eat lightly, not wanting to risk it on my stomach. Then, fatigue hits me like a wall, and I reel.

“Back to bed for you, I think,” says Thomas, coming around to help me back to the bedroom. And I’m grateful for his strong arm, feeling unsteady and strange.

“Sorry… I’m rather shit company.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You’ve been through a lot. Head trauma is no joke. I’ve been through concussions with sports, though not like yours.”

“Overachieving,” I try to joke as I sink into the mattress on my side, with Thomas again shifting around pillows to help me get comfortable.

He brings a heating pad to warm the back of my neck for a few minutes.

With care, he holds the heating pad in place.

He runs his fingers with the lightest touch over my hair.

Comforted, I soon fall asleep, and it turns out I sleep like it’s an Olympic event.