Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVER
What the fucking hell is wrong with me?
She can’t come to Scotland.
What catastrophic lapse of judgment made me suggest that?
Actually, I know exactly what it was.
I got caught up in teasing her. It was fun to agitate her. It makes cute pink spots appear on her cheeks. And her eyes get kind of wild and fiery.
I might wish I didn’t have to tell her my life story and that she didn’t have to write the book I wanted to write myself, but giving her a hard time is surprisingly entertaining.
And distracting.
And I’m a knobhead for allowing myself to be distracted like that. I know better.
She can’t come. Absolutely not.
Not least because she looked like she was about to puke the second she tasted my perfectly made tea. What is it with Americans not understanding what makes a good cuppa?
“On second thought, that would never work.” Mug in hand, I stroll around to the other side of the island in the hope that more distance between us might lessen the distraction factor. “You can’t come home with me. That was a really bad idea.”
“But three seconds ago we clearly established that I have to.” She puts her tea down on the counter and folds her arms under her breasts.
Not that I’m looking at them. I just happened to notice that’s where her arms are.
And that they have kind of pushed her breasts up a bit. In a non-displeasing fashion.
“I hadn’t thought it through,” I say. “How would I explain you?”
I need more distance from the breasts, so I head back toward the living room.
“What do you mean, how would you explain me?” Her voice follows close behind.
“Well, I can’t tell them who you are, can I?”
“Why not?”
I stop next to the piano, which I’ve tinkered with a couple of times, trying to dredge up memories from lessons that I quit in a tantrum when I was eight because I objected to the principle of everyone in this family learns piano.
Lexi carries on walking until she’s passed me, then turns to look back.
“Don’t get me wrong—I really don’t want to go,” she says. “But it seems to be the only solution. So why suddenly change your mind?”
“I momentarily forgot that they don’t know I’m writing a book. And they would be absolutely fucking furious and stop me if they did.”
“Why?”
“Because members of the royal family do not write memoirs.”
“Why?”
I rest my backside on the piano. “Christ, this is like talking to an inquisitive kid who has the same one-word question for everything.”
“It’s literally my job.”
I let out a long sigh. “Because writing a book about your life that’s even remotely honest would be the least royal thing any member of the British royal family could do.”
She takes slow steps toward me. “You’re not going to like my question, but why?”
“Because we’re not supposed to pull back the curtain as to what it’s really like. We’re supposed to go along with the fantasy of a perfect family, always perfectly turned out and perfectly happy all of the perfect fucking time.”
“Oh.” She’s closer now, her forehead pinched in something that might resemble concern.
“We’re not supposed to ever go behind the back of the Royal Communications office, which controls all media messaging. They set up all interviews. They issue all press releases. If any book deal is to be had, they organize it. And it would only ever be for some light and fluffy thing for charity.”
“Okay.” She looks over my shoulder and out the window, her brain clearly searching for a solution. “How about I ask the publisher to get me a flight and a hotel nearby? No one would even know I was there. And we could meet up secretly for the interviews.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, you sweet, innocent summer child.” I push away from the piano.
She watches my every step in silence. It’s only when I flop down on the giant sofa that she speaks.
“Why is that naive? Do fill me in.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, cupping my tea in both hands.
“Because the press would wonder where the hell I kept going. Eventually one of them would follow me and figure it out. And then it would be splashed over everything. ‘Wayward Prince in Secret Rendezvous with Mystery Brunette’ or some such bullshit. Also, Glenwither Castle isn’t exactly anywhere near a Holiday Inn.
It’s in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of a village. ”
“And that’s where you were raised, right?”
Does she think that being there will give her a deeper insight into my upbringing and that’s why she’s suddenly more eager to come?
“Yup. It’s my actual home. My dad’s Scottish. And after the awful time my mum had, Granny and Grandpa thought it would be a good idea to get them away from it all. So they gave them Glenwither as a wedding gift.”
“Oh yeah. I read about your mom’s stuff. I have a lot of questions about that for another time. But how come you have zero trace of a Scottish accent?”
“Boarding school in England. But I can do a good Scottish accent for you, if you’d like.” I put my tea on the coffee table, clear my throat, and launch into my favorite profanity laden, heavily Edinburgh-accented speech from Trainspotting.
The surprised smile that lights up Lexi’s face is a joy to behold. It encourages me to stand up to throw myself into the monologue with full gusto in the hope of seeing more of it. And yes, turns out that shocking Lexi into laughing hard enough that she has to hold her stomach is pretty thrilling.
“Okay, okay.” She holds up both palms. “Sounds very authentic to me. Can’t say I ever expected to hear a royal use the c-word. Or even be around a royal at all. So yeah, I think you just made this weird day even weirder.”
She’s suddenly more relaxed. I guess that was the icebreaker I didn’t know we needed.
“But it’s a good weird, right?” I pick up my mug and sit back down.
She gives me a reluctant shrug that looks like a yes that she doesn’t want to admit to.
“Anyway.” She moves slowly but deliberately toward me. “Now, hear me out before you say anything.”
She sits three cushions away from me on the sofa, placing herself neatly as if she doesn’t want to crease anything, her knees together, back straight, hands clasped in her lap. Kind of like the way a cat sits neatly, then wraps its tail around its front paws.
“You have a miraculous solution that will suddenly fix the fucked-up way the British press works?” I ask before taking a sip of tea.
“If meeting up with me in secret would cause a scandal because they’d think I was your secret girlfriend, then let’s be open about it.”
“Open about what?”
“Me being your girlfriend.”
“You being my what?” It’s impossible to disguise my astonishment. “But you’re not. And I get the distinct impression that it’s the last thing on earth you would ever wish to be.”
“Of course I don’t want to be your actual girlfriend.”
“Gee, thanks. This relationship is getting better by the second.”
“You say it like you would want to date me.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. You’re a fucking reporter. Reporters have ruined my life. They are one of the reasons I left everything behind and moved here.”
“Great. Then we’re totally clear that neither of us would ever want to date the other. That would make pretending we’re together even easier.”
“I’m sorry, tell me again why we would do that.”
“So that I can come with you, stay in the palace—”
“Castle.”
“Palace, castle, whatever the hell.” She waves her hand to dismiss all forms of royal residence as utter nonsense.
“We’d get to spend time alone together for me to interview you without anyone questioning it.
It’s a win-win. I get the info from you to give me a vague shot at getting this damn thing written by the deadline, and you get to be at your sister’s wedding and your charity thing. ”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why? It would work for us both.”
“It totally wouldn’t work for you.”
“Yes, it would. Like I say, it means I can be around you for the interv—”
“I’m saying the press will eat you alive and you’ll loathe it.”
“I am the press, remember?”
For a second there, perhaps I did forget. Forget that she’s the enemy. The enemy who’s stepped temporarily over to my side for a paycheck.
I gaze down into my tea, the mug cooling in my hands. “You have no idea what it feels like to be on the receiving end of how much they’d hate you.”
“Gee, thanks for assuming they’ll hate me.”
“Of course they’ll hate you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re American.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“Pretty much. But not only that, you’d be American and my girlfriend.” The last word tripped off my tongue way too easily and felt surprisingly good. “Well, not really my girlfriend. Obviously. But they’d think you were. And they hate me, so they’d hate you by association.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I can’t put you through it.”
She has no idea how bad it would be, and I have to protect her from it.
But since she doesn’t strike me as the type who would ever want to be protected, I need to use the thing that’s clearly most important to her.
“They could wreck your career. Who would touch you for a job after the tabloids have mauled you for sleeping with The Loser Prince?”
She’s quiet for a second. “I saw that headline. It was really shitty. And I get that how they constantly sniped at your old girlfriend for being a bartender must make you reluctant to bring anyone in again.”
“That was my final straw. How they treated her tipped me over the edge to leave.” Maybe that will make Lexi understand.
“But I don’t care what they say about me,” she says. “This is just work for me. And I already have my dream job lined up for after this. I’ve signed the paperwork and everything. Nothing can affect it, or me, at all.”
“What’s the dream job?”
“War correspondent.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the irony.
“What?” she asks. “You think a not-tall thirty-three-year-old woman can’t cover international conflicts?”
“Not at all.” I take in her proud and—shit, it has to be said—stunning face. “I’m thinking how appropriate a skill that is for coming to stay with my family.”
Ah, she smiles. “So we have a deal?”
I put down my mug, pull my phone from my pocket, and tap around on it.
“Are you calling the big dudes at the front door to throw me out?” she asks.
“No. I’m ordering you some coffee. Because clearly you fucking hate my tea.”