Page 69 of The Thing About My Prince

“Oliver!” Okay, that’s very close, like almost-in-the-room close.

I push myself up, legs accidentally straddling Lexi, and turn to look over my shoulder at the exact moment my mother appears in the doorway.

She takes in the sight before her for a second—me sitting on the sofa, Lexi on her knees in front of me, both of us disheveled and guilty.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” My mother lets out a long sigh and rolls her eyes to the approximately two-and-a-half-Olivers-high ceiling. “I came to get you because dinner’s ready. So please make yourselves decent.”

Then she spins around and strides off, her heels clacking on the wooden floor.

I turn back to Lexi—she’s burying her face in her hands and groaning.

This had better not put her off kissing me again, because now I know what it feels like, I want to do it over and over and over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LEXI

The second I step into the bedroom, I run to the four-poster and fling myself on the mattress. “Oh my God. That was absolutely excruciating.”

Oliver closes the door behind us, crosses the room in a more sedate manner, and sits on the edge of the bed beside me. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” I push myself up on my elbow. “You didn’t have to sit through dinner with my parents right after my mother walked in on you seemingly blowing me on the library sofa.”

I’m just absorbing how the pale blue of his Boston Commoners sweatshirt makes his fair skin and devilish smile seem even brighter, when he falls down on his back next to me.

Being on the bed together is suddenly different.

We might have slept here next to each other last night, but now, after that kiss—that amazing, incredible never-want-it-to-end kiss—even being fully clothed and on top of the covers has so much more weight to it, more meaning.

It also feels like him flopping down beside me is the most natural thing in the world.

And it would be silly for him to go back to sleeping on the chaise when we’ve already shared this bed. Especially now that we’ve kissed.

But how the hell do I stop myself from jumping on him now that I know what his hands and mouth feel like on me?

When he gripped my ass and I felt his hardness pressed against me… Jesus, I’m wet again now just thinking about it.

“I’m sure my mother didn’t think you were blowing me,” he says.

I bolt upright and tuck up my legs to kneel beside him. “Of course she thought that. And not unreasonably since, from her angle, that’s exactly what it must have looked like.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He pats the outside of my thigh with the back of his hand. Kind of like he wants to touch me but doesn’t want to make any assumptions that it’s okay for him to do it.

Theoretically, it’s very much not okay for him to do it.

If my boss knew I’ve kissed the man whose memoir I’m writing, his annoying little glasses would fly off his face in horror.

Not to mention, it’s a truly asking-for-trouble thing to do.

I might have come to realize that Oliver isn’t exactly what I’d assumed him to be—that he’s thoughtful and generous and that he has as much disdain for symbolic figureheads paid for by the state and for nepo babies who get their own way due to connections and cash rather than hard work and talent as I do. But he’s still a part of this family. Of this world-famous institution. Of this societal system that I fundamentally disagree with.

Oh, who am I kidding? Even if he were a super-smart-but-underpaid barista working every hour of the day to set up his own nonprofit saving abused puppies around the globe, this still can’t be anything.

I’m heading off to Eastern Europe as soon as this book is approved. I can’t have a man in my life, be he barista or prince.

And there I go again, jumping the gun. Maybe Oliver doesn’t even want that. Maybe all he wants is a fun roll in the hay while we’re working together. Or maybe, to him, that whole kiss thing was a big mistake that he has no intention of repeating.

But it was the third time he’s tried to kiss me, so?—