Page 44 of The Thing About My Prince

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LEXI

The clinking sound of something being put down on the nightstand wakes me from a deep, warm sleep.

Drawing my hand over my bleary eyes, I open them partway to find Oliver standing next to the bed, fully dressed and looking way perkier than, right now, I can ever imagine feeling again.

“Look at you, all sleepy and beautiful.” He makes a kissing sound.

Beautiful? My pulse quickens. He’s telling me I’mbeautiful?

He nods at the vase.

Oh, yeah. He doesn’t mean it. He’s saying that only to keep our fake relationship alive for the mystery audience that’s listening at all times.

“You were totally passed out when I came to bed last night,” he says. “Then this morning you just rolled over and grunted when I got up. So I thought I’d bring you some breakfast and coffee.”

He picks up a large china mug with Glenwither Gardenswritten on the side surrounded by tulips and daffodils and holds it toward me.

“I don’t grunt.” I push myself upright enough to take the drink that I need as much for its warm hydration as its caffeine—my mouth feels like someone spent the whole night tossing sand in it.

“Oh, I promise you, you do.” He winks. “Remember when we played our special version of ten little piggies and?—”

I hold up my hand, not wanting to learn what sex game he’s either invented on the spot or has previously played. He’s really getting into the part.

“Marjorie promised me she knew how to make a goodAmericancoffee.” He sits on the edge of the bed, making my drink slop dangerously close to the rim of the cup.

Not only do I not want to lose a single drop of the sacred liquid, this bedspread might have been hand-stitched by a group of diligent Victorian ladies. It’s certainly heavy—a weighted blanket from a time before anyone knew there was such a thing.

“But the toast was all me. I know how to do that.”

“Without setting off the fire alarm?” I ask.

“Cheeky.” He hands me a plate with three slices of whole wheat toast. One with strawberry jam on it, one with peanut butter, and one with what looks and smells like Nutella. “Wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, so I made a selection.”

I take it from him. “Seriously? You made this for me? Not the chef, or Marjorie, or whoever?”

“Yup.” He nods with satisfaction at my surprise.

Huh. Imagine that.

I take a slurp of coffee and put it back on the nightstand to give me a free hand to pick up a slice of toast. Who knew jet lag made you both parched and starving.

My teeth have barely sunk into the peanut buttery slice when there’s a knock on the door.

“Bet that’s Sofia,” Oliver says. “She asked me last night ifshe could take you into the village to show you around.” He turns his head toward the door and calls, “Come in.”

“Good morning, sir.” Fuck, it’s Giles. “And miss,” he adds reluctantly, as if he’s barely able to stop himself from sighing at discovering I haven’t magically disappeared overnight.

“Good job you’re wearing pj’s, darling,” Oliver says with a salacious eyebrow wiggle.

He crawls over me, shaking the old bed so much the jammy slice of toast almost jiggles off the plate and onto the cover I’m trying to protect. Then he sinks down next to me, looking as at home as if that’s where he’d spent the night.

He might have, for all I’d have noticed. I fell asleep before he finished his shower and was so totally out of it, I doubt I would have stirred if he’d crawled under the covers.

Does he sleep naked? Would that have made me notice him no matter how jet-lagged I was?

A sudden image of Oliver sleeping in the nude, curled up on his side, bare butt facing me, flashes across my mind. It is definitely not a bad picture.