Page 23 of The Thing About My Prince

“Text?” I unnecessarily rearrange my luggage in the capacious overhead bin to avoid making eye contact with him while I lie.

“Yes.” He’s standing next to me now. Perhaps to take my bags back out. “About the change of plan.”

“Change of plan?” I’m all out of pointless case-shuffling and have no alternative but to turn to face him.

His gaze immediately shoots up from my waist where my top has come untucked while I was stretching up.

He screws up his eyes like he’s in pain and rakes his fingers through his mop of hair. “I told you not to come.”

It’s impossible to deny that he has hands with a quiet sort of power. And those ribbons of veins across the back that theoretically shouldn’t be attractive, very much are.

“Not to come?”It’s easier than I expected to replicate the exact shock I felt when I read his text. That’s method acting, right? Reliving a known experience?

I pull my phone from my small crossbody purse and tap and scroll like I’m struggling to find it. “Oh, I see it now. I must have missed it in my race to pack and get here.”

Reading it again sends the same chill of panic through me as the first time. I have to stay on this plane and make this work.

I look back up at him. “You really don’t want me to come?”

He shifts his focus off to the side with an uncomfortable sigh. “Guess I got all caught up in it when we were chatting at my place. But in the cold light of day, I realized how the lies about us being an item could easily snowball and get out of hand, hard to keep up with, and, well,messy. Best I go alone, do my thing, and you can interview me over the phone while I’m gone. Then we can get stuck into it properly when I’m back.”

“But like I explained, the phone just isn’t the?—”

“Same.” He drops back into his seat. “I know. But I also know what it’s like over there. I know what my parents are like. I know what the press is like. It’s inevitable you’ll end up upset. And I can’t inflict that on you. I should have been firmer about it.”

I sit down opposite him. “Oliver, this is my job.”

Right now it feels like it would be the most natural thing in the world to reach across and take his hands while I look into his eyes and explain everything.

I literally sit on those instincts by shoving my fingers under my thighs. “I didn’t think it was a great idea at first either. But in order to do this job to the best of my ability—and it’s in both our interests that I do—I need to come with you. You do want this to be the best book it can be, don’t you?”

“Of course. But not at the expense of an innocent victim’s sanity and welfare.”

My laughter is totally genuine. “You think I might be an innocent victim?”

“No. In the couple of hours I’ve spent with you, I’m quite certain you’re very capable of looking after yourself in most situations.”

“Great. Then let’s stop talking about this and get our asses to Scotland.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at me from under a worried brow. “This would be like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. There are no situations like my family. There are no situations like the way the media treats me—and therefore the way they’ll treat you, if they think you’re my girlfriend.”

“Iamthe media, remember? So they can all go to hell.”

He gets to his feet and opens the overhead bin. “For nothing other than your own sake, I’m throwing you off the plane.”

I jump up beside him and thrust my hands into the lockerto hold my bags in place before he can pull them out. My left hand lands on top of his and we freeze. His skin is warm and kind of soft, with a light dusting of hair. And it somehow feels as powerful as it looks.

I shift my hand off his and onto the suitcase, pushing back against his effort to pull it out. I’m never going to win this. He’s almost a foot taller than me and obviously several times stronger. But I’m desperate here. I can’t afford to miss this deadline. Which means I can’t afford to lose these two weeks.

“Please.” At this point, perhaps begging is the only thing I have left. “Please don’t.”

He drops his arms and hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “Why are you so keen to come despite how bad I’ve told you it will be? Do you not believe me?”

“I totally believe you. But Ihaveto come.”

“You really don’t.”

Fuck. There’s only one last thing I can try. Good old-fashioned, cards-on-the-table honesty.