Page 22 of The Thing About My Prince

“This way, miss.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” I grab my wheelie case from the conveyor belt and balance the duffel on top. “Totally fine. I can manage.”

“I’m very happy to take the bags on board for you. I usually?—”

“Honestly, totally fine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “The prince is very private. He likes as few people on board as possible.”

“Head through that door at the end, then.” Larry looks a little hurt that I’ve spurned his services but still manages a professional smile. “Have a great flight. And enjoy Scotland.”

“Och aye!” I say for some inexplicable reason and add a cheery wave.

Heart in my throat, I stride toward the door and the plane with the orange and brown stripes down the side that holds the man standing between me and the rest of my career.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LEXI

Working with the driver’s wisdom of “act like you belong,” when I get to the top of the plane steps I thrust back my shoulders, flash the flight attendant standing by the door an I’m-totally-supposed-to-be-here smile, “Hi, I’m Lexi,” and stride on by.

“Um, can I help you?” she asks, following me down the—I was about to say aisle, but turns out private jets don’t have much of an aisle. There’s a long cream leather sofa down one side, facing a glossy wooden cabinet that houses a large TV.

Beyond them are four big, also cream, chairs that look like a cross between something from a supervillain’s executive office and a luxurious private movie theater.

Cole and another big guy in a dark suit, who I assume is Dane, rise from the two chairs on the left, buttoning their jackets as if it’s part of a perfectly choreographed dance routine.

Oliver’s messy hair sticks up above the back of one on the right.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell the woman and continue past thesofa toward Oliver, lifting my chin at Dane and Cole with the confidence of someone who flies private twice a week.

“Hey.” I plop down into the chair opposite Oliver, which accepts me with an expensive-soundingpoof. “Yikes, thought I was going to be late.”

Oliver looks up from his phone, his eyes instantly meeting mine the way they did when he opened the door of his apartment. And again it feels like someone’s pouring warm, glittering honey from my chest to my belly.

“Um.” His eyes flash up to the flight attendant who’s now standing next to me.

“Sir, should I?” She tips her head at Dane and Cole, which I assume is the international aviation sign for “get these guys to throw her off.”

“It’s okay, Melanie.” Sweet of him to know her name. “I’ll handle it.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” She throws me a look and walks back toward the front of the aircraft.

Oliver looks at Dane and Cole and gives them a tiny nod.

They unbutton their jackets and sit back down.

“Everything okay?” I lift my duffel bag from the top of my suitcase as if everything is perfectly normal and stand up to put it in the overhead storage bin, which is edged with the same shiny wood as the TV cabinet and has soft lights set seamlessly into it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Stowing my luggage. Or do you not need to do that on one of these little planes?”

“Yes, you do. But I mean, why are you here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

I plant my hands on my hips and look at him like he’s talking in riddles. “Of course I’m supposed to be here. You gave me instructions and everything.”

I collapse the handle of my wheelie case and lift it up next to the bag.

“But I texted you just a little while ago.”