Page 12 of The Thing About My Prince

I stop next to the piano, which I’ve tinkered with a couple of times, trying to dredge up memories from lessons that I quit in a tantrum when I was eight because I objected to the principle ofeveryone in this family learns piano.

Lexi carries on walking until she’s passed me, then turns to look back.

“Don’t get me wrong—I really don’t want to go,” she says. “But it seems to be the only solution. So why suddenly change your mind?”

“I momentarily forgot that they don’t know I’m writing a book. And they would be absolutely fucking furious and stop me if they did.”

“Why?”

“Because members of the royal family do not write memoirs.”

“Why?”

I rest my backside on the piano. “Christ, this is like talkingto an inquisitive kid who has the same one-word question for everything.”

“It’s literally my job.”

I let out a long sigh. “Because writing a book about your life that’s even remotely honest would be the least royal thing any member of the British royal family could do.”

She takes slow steps toward me. “You’re not going to like my question, but why?”

“Because we’re not supposed to pull back the curtain as to what it’s really like. We’re supposed to go along with the fantasy of a perfect family, always perfectly turned out and perfectly happy all of the perfect fucking time.”

“Oh.” She’s closer now, her forehead pinched in something that might resemble concern.

“We’re not supposed to ever go behind the back of the Royal Communications office, which controls all media messaging. They set up all interviews. They issue all press releases. If any book deal is to be had, they organize it. And it would only ever be for some light and fluffy thing for charity.”

“Okay.” She looks over my shoulder and out the window, her brain clearly searching for a solution. “How about I ask the publisher to get me a flight and a hotel nearby? No one would even know I was there. And we could meet up secretly for the interviews.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, you sweet, innocent summer child.” I push away from the piano.

She watches my every step in silence. It’s only when I flop down on the giant sofa that she speaks.

“Why is that naive? Do fill me in.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, cupping my tea in both hands. “Because the press would wonder where the hell I kept going. Eventually one of them would follow me and figure it out. And then it would be splashed over everything. ‘Wayward Prince in Secret Rendezvous withMystery Brunette’ or some such bullshit. Also, Glenwither Castle isn’t exactly anywhere near a Holiday Inn. It’s in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of a village.”

“And that’s where you were raised, right?”

Does she think that being there will give her a deeper insight into my upbringing and that’s why she’s suddenly more eager to come?

“Yup. It’s my actual home. My dad’s Scottish. And after the awful time my mum had, Granny and Grandpa thought it would be a good idea to get them away from it all. So they gave them Glenwither as a wedding gift.”

“Oh yeah. I read about your mom’s stuff. I have a lot of questions about that for another time. But how come you have zero trace of a Scottish accent?”

“Boarding school in England. But I can do a good Scottish accent for you, if you’d like.” I put my tea on the coffee table, clear my throat, and launch into my favorite profanity laden, heavily Edinburgh-accented speech fromTrainspotting.

The surprised smile that lights up Lexi’s face is a joy to behold. It encourages me to stand up to throw myself into the monologue with full gusto in the hope of seeing more of it. And yes, turns out that shocking Lexi into laughing hard enough that she has to hold her stomach is pretty thrilling.

“Okay, okay.” She holds up both palms. “Sounds very authentic to me. Can’t say I ever expected to hear a royal use the c-word. Or even be around a royal at all. So yeah, I think you just made this weird day even weirder.”

She’s suddenly more relaxed. I guess that was the icebreaker I didn’t know we needed.

“But it’s agoodweird, right?” I pick up my mug and sit back down.

She gives me a reluctant shrug that looks like a yes that she doesn’t want to admit to.

“Anyway.” She moves slowly but deliberately toward me. “Now, hear me out before you say anything.”