Page 43 of The Thing About My Prince

Do the real British people see it? Or do they believe all that shit in the gossip columns?

I mean, after missing out on a job early in my career because it went to someone who was related to the right people and seeing useless Lee Regus coasting on his family connections atThe Current, I’m the last person to be open-minded about finding a good person hiding below the surfaceof someone who could get any job they wanted simply because of who gave birth to them. But even I spotted that good person pretty quickly in Oliver.

Rinsing my face, I make a mental note to spend a day in the village, wandering around and acting like the ignorant American tourist that the locals will probably assume I am, asking what they think about the royal family—specifically the part of it that lives in the nearby castle. The opinions of the locals will be great background for the book.

When I return to the bedroom, I pull my pajamas from the case. Thank God I brought the ones that cover from neck to ankles. I did that in case I was going to have to walk down a hallway to go to the restroom in the middle of the night. But now they’re handy for not wandering around in front of Oliver in shorty-shorts with Breaking News banners on them.

They’re also useful for warmth and, boy, these sheets are chilly. This bed isn’t exactly the most comfortable I’ve ever lain in either. It’s somehow firm, yet also a bit lumpy. Feels like something Henry the Eighth might have slept on.

Oh, but the pillows are nice. All fluffy and, thankfully, from this century.

I lie back and take in the ridiculousness of my surroundings.

A royal castle in Scotland.

Where I’m sharing a room with an actual prince.

A prince who seems shockingly well-adjusted for someone raised in this circus. How did he and his sister turn out so well?

Nannies, probably.

Then boarding schools—which I would normally be massively un-in-favor of. But in these circumstances, anything that got the kids away from those parents is fine with me.

But it’s also a testament to the strength of both their characters, which makes them very impressive humans.

I reach back to the nightstand and turn off the lamp.

Yeah, Oliver seems like a decent guy. He has a quick brain and knows how to use it. He makes me laugh when I least expect it. And he’s self-deprecating.

He was such a good sport, playing along with my bathroom sex game.

The vision of his hip thrusts reappears in my mind.

It’s impossible to deny how attractive he is. But I knew that before I met him—the American media has been almost as fascinated with him as the British press since we were both teenagers.

I close my eyes and picture his face next to me as we sat on the bathroom floor after all the shenanigans.

My belly flutters as I recall the sensation of him drawing my hair off my face.

It somehow felt so utterly…romantic? Is that the right word? Intimate, maybe. Yes. Intimate. Like we had a shared secret. Our own in-joke despite having barely spent a total of twenty-four hours in each other’s company.

And when he leaned down toward me, regardless of it being the absolutely wrong thing to do, it felt kind of…right…to seal that with a ki?—

The door squeaks as it slowly eases open, and a shaft of light falls across the room.

My pulse jolts. Shit.

I roll over, turning my back to the side of the bed Oliver will have to walk past to get to the bathroom and pull the cover up high, to prevent him from catching even a glimpse of my face.

The door clicks shut. He’s in the room now. Blackness again.

My heart’s racing so hard that he must be able to see my profile rising and falling with my heavy breaths.

I don’t even hear him pass the bed until the bathroom door clicks shut and a little light leaks around the edges. Hemust have taken a lot of thoughtful care to be quiet enough to not wake me.

A second later the shower’s turned on.

While the pitter-patter continues in my chest, I can’t help but smile to myself as I curl tighter into the fetal position and drift off to the sound of the running water.