Page 102 of The Thing About My Prince

“Fuck, I am so, so sorry.” I can’t help but trace the outline of his abs as I talk.

“None of it is your fault.” He reaches up to stroke my arm. “Not one single jot of it. This is all because of me. I always knew something like this would happen. It’s exactly why I tried to stop you coming with me. Giving in was selfish, because I knew I’d like being around you for a couple of weeks. I should have been stronger and thrown you off that plane.”

Oh my God, the things this man has been through in his life and put up with and tolerated and soldiered on, and he thinks he’s weak?

“Don’t blame yourself. And you are strong. You just stood up to those two,” I say.

“Only because I was fighting for you.” He pulls me down onto his bare chest. “I wouldn’t have bothered if it had been only me. But I still didn’t win, did I? It was Sofia who swooped in and saved the day. If it had been left to my weak arse, you’d be halfway to the airport by now.”

“No, no, no. You paved the way. You’d already done the groundwork when Sofia showed up.” I draw a finger along his cheekbone. “And it was a quick-thinking move to lay the pretense on thick with theI love you.”

“What?” His brow pinches, like he can’t remember saying it.

Now I regret mentioning it, because it’ll be awkward and embarrassing if I have to remind him.

“Oh, right.” Realization crosses his face. “It just kind of came out. Naturally.” He swallows hard. “But yeah, that’s exactly what it was. The pretense.”

Then he pulls my face down to meet his.

And kisses me.

It’s tender and deep and real.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

OLIVER

The whole of Glenwither has been consumed by a whirlwind of wedding stuff for the last week.

Two marquees—one for the dinner reception and one for the party—have been erected on the grounds, and now that it’s the actual wedding day, it’s hard to leave my room without tripping over a flurry of chefs and serving staff, hair and makeup artists, and people arranging flowers on every available horizontal surface. Outside, supply vans and private cars with drivers are a constant stream, dropping off elaborately wrapped presents that are piling up in the formal living room at the front of the house. Or as my mother has dubbed it, the “gifting salon”—I think she means it ironically, but I’m not totally sure.

Sofia had done her best to try to contain the plans for the day and keep it more modest, but our parents somehow managed to take over—and byour parents, I meanour mother.

All I want right now is a quiet cup of tea, so I head for the kitchen. This merry dance involves skirting the string quartet setting up in the entrance foyer, dodging a guy carrying a case ofchampagne, and telling the woman who’s just slopped water out of a bucket of lilies that I’ll send someone to wipe it up before anyone slips and breaks their neck, or champagne bottles, on it.

Lexi is currently being styled, made-up, and coiffed. She was spirited away to a guest room earlier for the experts to, as my mother put it, “try their best to make her look like one of us.”

After seven days spent virtually glued to her side, it’s odd to be apart for even this couple of hours.

We’ve put in long days working on the book, wandering the grounds when it’s been warm enough, hunkering down in our room when it hasn’t. We went back to the waterfall one afternoon and returned to the children’s hospice another.

I’ve had one of the foundation’s executive assistants book everything for Kirsty and her dad’s polar bear-watching trip to Manitoba in Canada and send me the bill. When Lexi and I saw them during our visit, the father and daughter had received the tickets and couldn’t have been more excited.

Another gratifying thing about having concentrated togetherness time with Lexi is that she’s opened up to me more. While it’s literally her job to find out about my life experiences for book-writing reasons, she’s also been answering my questions about her life too.

Yesterday she told me that being here among my dysfunctional family has made her realize she should be grateful for hers and she’ll make more effort to keep in touch with them.

And we’ve also been getting closer in all the unclothed ways.

We clearly sense the limited timespan we have and want to cram in as much as possible, so to speak. So we’ve done it in the bed, of course, but also on the chaise, on the antique rug, in the shower, in the tub, and once in the potting shed when things got a bit heated on one of our garden walks.

The irony of giving whoever bugged us a real show fromthe shower wasn’t lost on either of us. And I almost choked on the running water when Lexi cried out, “Give me a right royal rogering.”

I catch sight of Flora dusting picture frames in the library as I pass the door. “I know you’re mega busy, but might you have a minute to mop up some water in the foyer before someone slips on it?”

“Of course, sir.” She stops what she’s doing for a second to look me up and down. “And look at ye, all handsome in yer Highland dress.”

I tug at the hem of the Prince Charlie and stand a little taller. “Thanks. It might be a bit breezy for a kilt today though.”