Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LEXI
My car turns into a quaint street lined with historic row houses, all decked out with colorful window boxes, some decorated with red, white and blue pennant flags.
But the greatest sight is up ahead, where Oliver is standing on the sidewalk in front of the most adorable little stone church I’ve ever seen.
My belly flips, knowing that he’s waiting for me. And the knee-jerk reaction I’d had to his mother the moment I met her—of thinking she was an inexcusable bitch—fades into sorrow for him that this is the hand life has dealt him.
She will clearly never change. And I don’t understand how she can treat me the way she does despite her son telling her repeatedly how important I am to him.
The first time Oliver said he loved me, to make a point in front of Giles, it threw me for a loop. It’s hard to imagine anyone ever saying that about me, so to hear it from a world-famous member of the British royal family was the most jarring thing imaginable.
But a minute ago, when he described me as the love of his life, I didn’t flinch one bit. While I know it’s all part of the roles we’re playing for our own ends, it felt almost…normal.
A natural, easy, of-course-that’s-how-it-is, kind of normal.
Perhaps that’s because we’ve become incredibly comfortable with each other this last week. Not comfortable in a boring old-slippers kind of way, but in all the exciting, meaningful ways that fulfill me mentally, emotionally, and physically.
From the moment we wake up in the morning to the moment we go to sleep at night, we’re talking and laughing. Well, apart from dinnertimes with his parents. Those rank high on my personal leaderboard of unfun times.
If they ask me one more time how we do or say such-and-such in America, as if it’s another planet where we do and say things in an otherworldly way than Earth humans, I’ll have to start stabbing my thigh with a fork to keep from saying something that would let down Oliver.
But aside from that, getting to know him will likely turn out to be the most fun assignment I’ve ever had.
And, while I’m not exactly writing a potential Pulitzer Prize winner here, the mission to get his authentic story across to his many critics is more personally and professionally fulfilling than I’d expected.
He’s certainly opened my eyes to his incredibly odd and unrelatable upbringing. And I’ve experienced firsthand that, behind closed royal doors, things are not as luxurious and harmonious as most people think.
As well as all that, of course there’s the amazing naked stuff. Well, not all of it is naked. The incident in the potting shed involved the removal of only the absolute bare essentials.
That’s definitely a memory that will live with me forever. The soil that got under my fingernails was so hard to get out it felt like it was going to live with me forever too.
And while I’m not really one for dressing up or being fussed over, I have to confess it was an amazing experience getting ready this morning with a stylist throwing a dozen different dress and shoe combos at me, a hairstylist working magic with my lank bob, and a makeup artist making me look like I’ve never looked before in my life and likely never will again.
But all of this is frippery for me—the water I have to wade through to get to the career I want on the other side.
For Oliver, this water is where he lives, where he’s been adrift his whole life.
At least now he’s successfully building an island for himself in New York and only has to get his toes wet every now and again, and on his own terms.
And there he is, standing at the gateway to the church, smiling and shaking hands with passing guests.
Who knew a kilt could be this sexy?
And it’s not sexy only because I find him so goddamned attractive.
Or because I’ve seen what’s under it so many times this week.
It’s because I know who he is. That despite all the advantages and privileges of his life, he’s just Oliver.
A smart guy, trying to figure out his way in the world about a decade later than the rest of us.
Someone generous enough to help others whenever he can.
Someone with a big heart, a kind soul, and the ability to make me laugh more these last few days than I ever have.
And also with the ability to give me the most spectacular, and likely unbeatable, orgasms of my existence.
A couple of times this week, I’ve lain next to him at night, wondering how things might be if we weren’t who we are and there’d been a possibility of us having a life together.
But since I went into this thing with my eyes wide open, fully aware there is no future in it, I gave myself a shake, reminded myself to be grateful to have the time with him I have, and resolved to not allow myself to think of anything outside this bubble we’ve created for ourselves until after the book is written and I have to face reality again.
Looking at him now though, beneath that arch of white flowers in his formal Scottish gear, spotting my car with the warm, affectionate smile he has every time he greets me—whether it’s first thing in the morning or when I return from merely crossing the room to grab a pen—a mixture of delight, excitement, and sadness swirl through me and settle heavily in my stomach.
I will never know what it’s like to be the bride arriving at our wedding to be greeted by his look of love. Never know what it’s like for us to promise we’ll spend the rest of our lives together. Never know if our kids would have his thick sandy hair or my dark locks.
“Ma’am.” The voice of the liveried man who’s opened the car door brings me back to reality.
Oliver comes over to offer me his hand, the heavy tartan of his kilt swinging around his bare knees.
“Thank you.” As I take hold and step out of the car, it feels like more than a hand to steady me as I teeter in heels.
It’s a hand that could steady me through anything.
A hand I could reach for no matter what the crisis—whether I’ve just burned the toast, or am hurt to my core by another horrible article about me, or have had a bad day at work and need a hug.
But this is a fantasy land I’m living in. I need only to look around me to know that.
No reality has me belonging among the elite of British society, who are all dressed up in their finery and milling around the historic buildings.
It’s almost like a beautiful watercolor illustration of an imaginary, perfect church surrounded by a neatly tended graveyard, a stone wall, and this adorable, covered gate that looks like it’s been here centuries.
What wouldn’t be in the painting, however, is the dramatically high number of police officers that mark the presence of the king and queen—they are the bride’s grandparents, after all. The increased security means that Cole and Dane have the day off and have gone on a guided mountain bike tour.
“I have to tell you how stunning you look one more time.” Oliver brushes his lips over my cheek, and that fresh scent of his skin sends a quiver to my very core.
“You can tell me as often as you like,” I say.
A man in church-related formalwear opens the gate for us, and we pass under the fragrant flower arch.
“But how was the drive?” It can’t have gone well after the spat before we left.
“Oh, pretty silent,” Oliver says while waving at scattered clusters of guests on the lawns either side of the path we’re following toward the church.
“Apart from when Mum asked if I really am planning to stay in the US,” Oliver adds.
“She’s still asking after four years?”
“Yup.”
“So she doesn’t get it?”
“Doesn’t want to get it, more like.”
A twenty-something man walks past us and pats Oliver on the shoulder. “Good to see you back, bro,” he says without breaking his stride.
“It seems like other people understand why you left. The younger ones, anyway. You’re not exactly a pariah here.”
“The only thing that counts is what my parents and grandparents think.”
“Yes,” I say. “We haven’t even talked about your relationship with the king and queen yet. I need to get some notes about that tomorrow.”
“Sure. You’d like them more than my parents.”
We stop at the back of a line leading to the vicar, who’s standing in the arched porch of the church and greeting everyone as they enter. He’s resplendent in a long white robe, with a gold-and-purple sash around his neck.
“But we decided today is a day off, remember?” Oliver nudges me and half-winks.
I nod.
We might not be actively working on the book, but my mind can’t take a rest. Every day until I turn in this book to meet the deadline is a workday for me.
Every day my mind is turning over, percolating on how I’ll write this and how I’ll phrase that.
My phone is littered with ideas I’ve jotted down when they come to me, because experience has taught me that when I think I’ll remember something, I never do.
Particularly those that come at three fifteen in the morning.
And ideas in the night have been even less likely to stay in my head since Oliver’s naked body has been beside me, pulling me temporarily back into this fantasy.
“Prince Oliver,” the vicar says when we reach him. “It’s been a while. How good to see you again.”
It’s hard to tell from his well-practiced smile whether the vicar is concerned about Oliver’s absence from a form of moral guidance or has genuinely missed him.
Once Oliver has said a polite hello and introduced me, we follow the slow-moving line inside the church.
The scent of the flowers hits me before we even step inside.
“Whoa.” I can’t help but give my outsider status away by being completely awed by how this small, beautiful, and freezing-cold church has been decorated.
“So this is why my mother hasn’t shut up about flowers for months,” Oliver says. “She must have been gathering every white bloom in the country.”
My gut reaction was good God, this is way over the top.
But after only a couple of seconds, I see past that and realize it’s incredibly beautiful.
Everything is green and white. There’s an arrangement sitting on the floor at the end of every pew, creating beautiful floral borders for the bride and groom to walk between.
Flowers, pine sprigs, and vines spill from the top of every pillar.
And two huge arrangements that look like the spray from a fountain sit on a table at the front on the…
whatever the raised area is called that’s like a stage. Churchy terms are not my strong point.
The combined perfume of flowers and pine fills the vaulted space, making this early fall day feel like a combination of spring and Christmas.
“So the bad news is”—Oliver stops when we reach the first pew at the rear of the church—“you’re right back here. There was no point even bothering to argue that you should be up at the front with me. Spouses only in the wedding party is a firm rule that I doubt will ever change.”
“Oh thank God.” I blow out a sigh of relief. “I was dreading having to try to fit in with all that.”
Oliver gives me a resigned, sad kind of smirk. “You think you’d never fit in, eh?”
“I’m just a girl from small-town Ohio who put herself through college, worked her ass off to get a job at her dream publication, then got this weird ghostwriting assignment that landed her at a castle in Scotland with a prince. Of course I’d never fit in.”
He picks something off my shoulder, then smooths down the fabric. “I don’t think it matters where you’re from. I was born to it, and I sure as hell don’t fit in.”
“Come along, Oliver.” His mother bustles past us. “The bride and her father are pulling up outside.”
He rolls his soulful moss-green eyes at me before following her up the aisle to the front of the church. Where he belongs and I don’t.
And no matter how much I know that shouldn’t bother me, or how much I know it’s unreasonable, or how much I know it makes me a ridiculously naive child who thinks fairy tales could be reality, it’s still like a fist clenching around my stomach.