Page 117 of The Thing About My Prince

I have some info. Can you talk?

I immediately press the video call button.

“Hey.” She’s sitting on our sofa, the white stick of a Chupa Chups sticking out of her mouth. Without being able to see it, I know it’s the strawberries-and-cream flavor because there’s a huge box of them in the cabinet over the fridge.

She screws up her eyes and leans closer to the screen, yanking the lollipop out of her mouth with asmack. “Your mascara’s smudged. Are you crying? What’s wrong?”

I drop the underwear into the case and swipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just packing to come home. It’s fine. What’s the news?”

“You don’t look fine. But okay. I have a college friend who works at the rag that published those pictures of you. She told me they didn’t get them from your old toady boyfriend. They weren’t even trying to dig up any dirt on you. Someone just called them out of the blue and offered thephotos. Apparently it was an older British guy. That’s weird, right?”

“Hang on.” I rest the phone against my pen case on the desk and grab a tissue from the box to blow my nose. “I know who the guy was. The senior staffer here who’s trying to ruin me. Guess he went digging in my past, found Mr. Toady, offered him a nice tidy sum for the pictures, then shopped them around himself.”

Becca’s mouth hangs open like she’s lost the use of her jaw, showing off her strawberry-pink tongue, before she says, “You think the Palace was conspiring against you?”

“You make it sound like I’m living in a Regency romance novel. I promise you, it’s not even close to that glamorous. As far as I know, Buckingham Palace knows nothing. I think the guy here went rogue and acted on his own initiative because he loathes every pore of my being.”

“What an asshole,” she says. “By the way, sidebar, that is an incredibly cute dress. You look absolutely fucking gorgeous.”

“Oh God, the dress.” I look down, almost surprised by what I’m wearing. “I forgot I had it on. I sure as hell can’t leave in it. The Asshole-in-Chief would have me arrested at the airport for theft. And no doubt he’d have a photographer there to capture my full indignity to share with the media.”

I reach back, scrambling for the zipper.

“Is that why you’re coming home a couple of days early? Because they’re all assholes?”

“Kind of.” Fuck this zipper. And my inability to reach around my own back.

“Plenty of fodder for the book,” she says. “Snippets of stuff like that would be social media marketing gold for the release. You know, vindicating Oliver’s decision to move away.”

Finally the zipper budges. “Giles, the Chief Asshole, found out about the book. Someone went through my fuckingcomputer. And now he’s threatening to tell Oliver’s parents and the king and queen about it if Oliver doesn’t tell them himself immediately.”

“He didwhat?” Becca hisses. Then in a sudden change of tone adds, “Oooh, nice undies. You must have had those stashed for a while. Never seen them draped over the side of the tub drying.”

She’s right. Had I brought barely worn nice underwear with me because at the back of my mind I was hoping Oliver might see it?

I step out of the dress, then hang it up in the giant wooden wardrobe that looks like the portal to Narnia, grab a pair of jeans and a crewneck I’d already packed, and shove my body into them. “The whole thing is a fucking nightmare.”

“By which you mean you like the boy more than you wanted to like the boy.” She jabs her candy at me.

“Shut up.” Which obviously means yes.

I trot to the bathroom to grab my toiletries, Becca’s voice becoming too distant for me to hear.

The vase and silk flower on the windowsill catch my eye. Instantly, my anger, frustration, and the twist in my heart from getting too involved with Oliver drive me to snatch it up, turn on the tap, and fill it with water.

Fuck Giles.

If there’s someone monitoring that bug right now, I hope they wonder what the hell theglug glugnoise in their ears is.

It’s a destructive and pointless act, but it is also a little bit satisfying.

“Oh, there you are,” Becca says when I return to the room. “Running away is always a subtle way to avoid an issue.”

“I was getting my stuff from the bathroom.” I hold up my toiletries bag before tossing it into the duffel, then search for a pair of socks.

“Let me know what time you’ll be home. I’ll wait up with caramel brownie ice cream.”

Now my twisted heart swells with gratitude for the love of Becca. And, despite everything, I smile as I look at her face. “That would be amazing.”