Page 45 of The Thing About My Prince

“Miss Lane,” Giles says from near the bottom corner of the four-poster. “You are scheduled to be in the village at eleven a.m. for the peat bog treasure hunt.”

“Thewhat?” I splutter through the sticky peanut butter at the same time as Oliver says, “Oh no, she isn’t.”

I can’t be scheduled for anything. Neither can Oliver. We need every spare second to work on the damn book.

“The peat bog treasure hunt, miss,” Giles says, his eyes fixed directly ahead of him as if he should never commit the cardinal sin of looking at a fully dressed woman covered by blankets.

In fact, his manner would suggest that he thinks merely being in the same room as me is a cardinal sin all on its own.

“For fuck’s sake, Giles.” Oliver scrambles off his side of the bed and stands at the bottom next to the chaise that still bears his crumbled blankets and pillows.

Giles’s gaze comes to rest on them. “Trouble in paradise, sir?”

Christ, if this toast wasn’t so damned delicious and I wasn’t starving, his arrogance would make me want to slam the Nutella slice right in his face. Followed by the plate.

“What?” Oliver follows Giles’s gaze. “Oh. No. I, um…” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t sleep and Lexi was exhausted, so I thought it was only fair I didn’t toss and turn next to her all night.”

God, he’s a terrible liar.

Which is a good thing—it’s a good trait. Particularly for book reasons. It’s reassuring to know he won’t be able to spin me a bunch of bullshit without me being able to see right through it.

“I see. That’s good news.” Giles sounds about as delighted by it as someone who’s been told their eyeballs are about to be twisted in their sockets.

I’ve already finished the peanut butter toast and started on the strawberry one. This is the most delicious jam I’ve ever tasted. Is there such a thing as a royal jam maker?

“So what’s this bog thing?” I ask again, wiping my hands on the napkin Oliver had provided. “And why do we have to go?”

“Oh, it’s notwe, miss,” Giles says. “Only you. It’s the village’s most popular event of the year. So it would be good PR to get you involved. You know, introduce you to the public in a positive light. One where you’re seen to be full of community spirit anddown with the locals, as I believe they say.”

I’m not sure anyone has ever said that.

“You’re not wheeling out my girlfriend as a PR stunt,” Oliver says with all the conviction and passion of someone defending an actual girlfriend he has actual feelings about. “It’s not fair to subject her to that. There’s no need to wheelher out in public at all. No need for her to have photographers and reporters harassing her.”

“Is that because you’re afraid it won’t last, sir?”

Oliver’s fair complexion reddens as he sucks on his top row of teeth.

“Like all the others,” Giles adds.

The Nutella slice is now a large step closer to being flung across the room. What a vindictive prick.

Oliver takes a long breath to try to keep a lid on his anger. I might not have known him long, but his mannerisms are easy to pick up on. Or is it only me who’s recognized them so quickly?

“Lexi is not being used as part of some Palace game,” Oliver says.

“Oh, this is nothing to do with Buckingham Palace,” Giles replies. “I doubt your grandparents even know the young lady exists.”

It’s delightful when someone talks about you as if you’re not there.

“It was your parents who called the Royal Communications office and asked what they should do with her. This was the suggestion they chose.”

Of course they did. I imagine they think it’s the one with the most potential to make me look a fool.

Giles turns back in my direction but still doesn’t look at me. “So it’s all arranged. There’ll be a car out front at ten forty-five. That’s in…” He pulls his jacket back from his wristwatch. “One hour and thirteen minutes.”

Well, it looks like I’ll have to sacrifice a morning to whatever this bullshit is, purely to keep up the appearance of the devoted girlfriend who’ll do anything to be accepted into her boyfriend’s family.

“But what is it, exactly?” I’m now cradling the coffee for emotional support. “And what do I have to do?”