Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
LEXI
I close the giant front door of the castle behind me.
The castle.
What the hell is this absurd situation I’ve gotten myself into?
As I step into that spectacular high-ceilinged foyer, Oliver comes skipping down the stairs, beaming from ear to ear.
And my heart does a dance.
Shit. I am in serious trouble here.
I cannot fall for him. I can’t. That would be the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever done in my life. Both for my career and my heart.
“Heeey.” His tone is warm and affectionate. Like the one a boyfriend would use to greet his girlfriend.
Is the flip it brings to my belly dread at what I might be opening myself up to? Or the thrilling excitement at what I might be opening myself up to?
“Hey.” I stop and wait for him.
But what do I do when he gets to the bottom? Do I kiss him? Even though there’s no one around to put on a show for?
After last night, are we now two people who kiss each other hello?
We didn’t kiss this morning or hold hands. But then that was different because he was either in the trunk of the car or on the back seat. And when we were walking to and from the waterfall, we had a bunch of stuff to carry, so there was no way we could have held hands if we’d even wanted to.
Would he have wanted to?
Did I want to?
Jesus, there is no space in my head or my life for this kind of mental spiraling.
I need every brain cell focused on getting this book written before Christmas, for fuck’s sake, not on whether or not to kiss a prince.
Even if he is a nice one. A nice one who has spectacular shoulders.
“How did the measuring of your Prince Charlie go?” I can’t help but giggle. And that probably sounds flirtatious.
When he bounces up to me, he rests his hand on my upper arm and leans in to my ear. “Turns out my Prince Charlie is already exactly the right size.”
His warm breath caresses my skin, sending a shiver all the way down my side to my toes.
Then he kisses my cheek, and I can’t help but lean into him and inhale the aroma of his skin that smells of the sunny outdoor morning we’d soaked up earlier.
My mind creates an image of the two of us lying on a beach under umbrellas ten years from now, our lives all settled and simple and nothing mattering other than us being together.
Which is clearly ridiculous because Dane or Cole or their ten-years-from-now equivalents would be just outside the frame of my imaginary scenario.
And I don’t doubt there’d be a snarky phone call or two from Oliver’s mother about how pictures of him smiling and having fun with the woman of his dreams isn’t good for the family image.
Am I the woman of his dreams? God, Lexi, stop thinking such utter bullsh—
“Been checking out the gardens?” Oliver strokes his hands up and down from my shoulders to my elbows.
His touch sparks a natural instinct to loop my arms around his neck, but I fight it and keep them where they are.
“Yeah. Needed to make a work call. And wanted to do it in”—I pause to look around before whispering—“private.”
“Ah.” He looks relieved, like he thought I’d vanished forever to sell the story of my night of passion with the Royal Rebel to the highest bidder.
He didn’t really think that, did he? Surely he knows me well enough by now to trust that I’m on his side with the book—and probably everything else, to be honest.
“Wise decision,” he adds. “Given the, um, circumstances.” He jerks his head toward the top of the stairs, presumably to indicate our bugged bedroom.
“Look.” He squeezes my arms, and a wicked flicker tightens my hips at the memory of how they felt in his grip last night. “If you have a minute, I think we should talk—”
“Your mother asked me to let you know dinner will be served in ten minutes.” Giles has appeared in the hallway from the back of the building like a ghastly apparition.
He looks extra mysterious because he’s wearing an overcoat and tweed cap and is clearly on his way home at the end of another hard day propping up nonsensical royal red tape. Which also invites the question, where does Giles live? What does his home look like? And does he live with anyone else?
Also, how does dinnertime come around so quickly in this place? It feels like only a few hours since Oliver’s mother announced it yesterday.
But that’s probably because as soon as one dinner is over, I start dreading the next.
Which isn’t really fair, because of course Oliver is great and his sister has been nothing but kind to me. But I can’t bear the way his mother stares at my cutlery when I’m cutting and eating my food. All it does is make me exaggerate my eating in the American way all the more, purely to annoy her.
“Actually, I have a bit of a headache,” I say, “which is making me nauseous.”
“Oh, darling.” Oliver thankfully realizes my ploy and goes with it. “That’s not good.”
He places a hand on my forehead, and my eyes drift half closed in response to his strong, reassuring touch.
“You do feel a bit warm.” I’m lucky he can read me so well and is happy to play along.
“I think I might just get a snack and some water and take it upstairs and lie down.”
“Leave it to me.” He takes the opportunity to kiss my cheek again. And I’m definitely not complaining about it. “I’ll get the cook to put something nice and light together for you. Maybe some toast and digestive biscuits or something. And some tea.”
Is it only the royal family, or does every British person think tea and plain cookies are the cure for all ills?
“You’re so thoughtful.” It doesn’t take me any effort to say that sentence because I know it to be one hundred percent true. “That’s why I love you,” I add for authenticity, and pop onto my toes to plant a tiny kiss on his lips.
God, that feels good. And it felt less weird than I thought to tell someone I do not love that I love them.
“Love you too, my little Yankee Doodle,” Oliver says with a wink.
Over by the hallway, Giles releases an exasperated sigh, then straightens his cap, turns away, and heads toward the back of the house, presumably to where the staff park their cars behind the kitchen.
Oliver puts his arm around me, pulls me to his side, and buries his face in my hair right above my ear. “Well done on the escape plan. Wish I could come up there with you.”
That might be very nice, but the reality is that I not only need to escape the horror of the dinner experience, I also need some time alone to figure out how the hell I’m going to put this book together.
Oliver slides his hand down my spine and settles it on my ass. “Go on, make a run for it while you can. I’ll be up with some food in a bit. Something better than dry toast and digestives.”
Then he pats my backside, sending a rush of sparks and heat to my core, and it’s all I can do not to climb him like a tree right here in the foyer.
But I tear myself away from his side and head toward the stairs, Becca’s words ringing in my ears. You really fucking like him.
I really fucking do.
But I really fucking can’t.
I blow out a long breath and look up from my laptop for the first time in who knows how long.
Wow—I hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten around me. I’ve been caught up in my own little world, lit by my screen and the green-shaded desk lamp, and hadn’t noticed the rest of the world moving into the evening.
God, it’s eight thirty.
I think I’ve at least come up with the basic structure of how this book will work best, the parts it needs to be divided into and the chapters that will likely make up those parts—essentially, the table of contents.
I learned from my first book that figuring that out is what breaks the backs of these things.
The info in Oliver’s writing might be a bit all over the place, but it’s valuable material I can turn into something.
And after even just the few talks we’ve had, I feel like I’ve dug down to the root of who he is and why he is that person, which all seems to go back to why his mother is who she is, and that adds important layers to the whole thing.
I push my chair away from the table and gaze out of the window as I stand up to stretch and roll my shoulders.
The sky here is incredibly beautiful. The only light pollution is from the spotlights that shine on the outside of the castle.
Other than that, there’s nothing for miles.
And on this cloudless night, the blackness is spangled with stars, more appearing before my eyes the longer I gaze into it.
The buzz of my phone brings me back to reality.
JULIAN
Is it really pretend? How could you ever have thought that getting involved with this man was a good idea?
He’s linked a British newspaper article titled “Who Is The Prince’s Mystery Swamp Woman?” It’s topped by a picture of me covered in mud from the bog treasure hunt and starts with:
Four Things We Know About Lexi Lane
1. An American journalist for The Current magazine.
2. Thirty-three years old.
3. Lives in New York.
4. Graduated in international relations from the University of North Carolina, master’s in journalism from the University of Missouri.
Wow, they really did a deep dive into my one-paragraph bio on the Current website to dig up those startling insights. They were even too lazy to try to find a fifth thing to make it a more usual number of list items.
I close the page without reading the rest of the piece.
ME
It’s all working out, don’t worry. The book will be good and in on time. And no one will ever know I wrote it. Those are the only things that matter.
And are they true? I have no idea. I certainly hope so.
The bedroom door opens and Oliver appears around it, carrying a tray.
“God, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.” He kicks the door closed behind him. “You must be starving. Every time I tried to get away, my mother dragged me into another conversation about the bloody wedding.”
“It’s almost like she doesn’t want you to spend time with someone who she thinks is making you happy,” I say as he puts the tray of sandwiches, bite-sized chocolate chip cookies, and pot of tea with a matching cup and saucer, next to my laptop.
“Thought these might be more up your alley than digestives.” He points at the cookies.
And now I’ve gone all squishy inside again.
I sit back in the chair, and he strokes his hand over my hair from my crown to the nape of my neck and bends to drop a kiss on my forehead. “How’s it going?”
My arm twitches, almost reaching around his waist as he stands at my side. But I fight the urge. I can’t let myself settle into the touching and kissing and sleeping-together things being normal. There is absolutely nothing normal about this whole thing.
“Not bad, thanks. I think I’ve figured out a structure, at least. We still need to do quite a few more interviews for me to fill in some gaps. Also you need to think about where you see your life going in the future, because that’s the best type of final chapter.”
“Christ, I have zero idea what the future holds.”
I look up at him and into the face that smiles down at mine and tugs at my heart. If only it came in a non-royal package. And if only we’d met with completely different timing and under completely different circumstances.
“Then make something up that will sound good,” I tell him.
“Now you’re sounding more like the journalists I’m used to.”
He crouches beside me, resting a hand on my thigh that sends sparks skittering up my leg and settling in the danger zone.
“When I say I have no idea what the future holds,” he says, “I mean that I need to sort my life out. This book and the documentary series will buy me some time to figure that out. So not knowing yet doesn’t mean I’m an aimless loser who’s going to waste the rest of his life.
It simply means I need to find my thing. ”
I place my fingers back on the keyboard. “Oh, that was good. Let me get that down. Did you say ‘aimless loser’?”
“Lexi, stop.” He takes my hands off the computer and holds them in my lap. “That wasn’t for the book. That was for you.”
My heart cracks open and bursts like a dam at someone like him caring so much about what someone like me thinks of him. He doesn’t need to do that at all. He could do whatever the hell he wants.
All the feelings for Oliver I’ve stashed inside and tried to ignore pour out, rushing into my chest, flooding it with light and warmth like the sunshine we sat in by the waterfall.
But I can’t let this happen. I can’t get involved with someone right before I leave the country. And I can’t get involved with a British prince at any time.
“Oh, um—” I have no idea how to end that sentence. My hands shake in his. In fact, my whole body is trembling. Why does he have to be the person who makes me feel like this? And why does it have to be happening now? It’s all so goddamned inconvenient.
“I know what you’re going to say.” Oliver lifts my hand and uses it to tip my chin until I’m looking at him.
“You’re going to say that we were wrong to cross the line from business to, well, pleasure.
You’re going to say that you hate everything my family stands for and that makes me all wrong for you.
You’re going to say that once you’ve written this book you’ll be moving thousands of miles away to do a risky job that will consume your every waking moment, and that means you have no time for anyone in your life. ”
He pauses to kiss the back of my hand. “Those are all the things you’re going to say, right?”
Jesus, on top of everything else, this man gets me. He checks way too many boxes to be a real person who’s crouched in front of me holding my hands.
I bite my lip and nod.
“And you know what I say to all that?” His voice is soft, full of affection.
I have no freaking clue. But that’s another thing that’s great about him. I’d always thought I’d hate to be around someone this unpredictable. But it turns out that it’s pretty damn thrilling. He keeps me on my toes.
I shake my head.
“Fuck it,” he says.
A laugh flies out of me. Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that.
“That’s what I say. Fuck it. We have the here and now, right?” He squeezes my hands tight in my lap. “We know we have this time before your new job starts. So, how about we make the most of what we have?”
Is that the perfect solution? If you go into something knowing it’s temporary, you can’t get hurt at the end, right? Particularly if you’re fully, painfully aware the other person is all wrong for you—even if he is right for you in all ways other than the family he was born into.
“These cogs are turning, eh?” He draws slow circles on my temple and shifts from crouching to drop to his knees, rising until his face is level with mine. “Might this help them figure things out?”
Then he cups his warm, strong hands on my cheeks and lowers his lips to mine.