Chapter 20
EDDIE
I woke up wrapped in Bash’s arms for the fourth morning in a row, and the novelty still hadn’t worn off.
If anything, it had become more precious with each passing day, this quiet intimacy that felt like the most natural thing in the world.
His breath was warm against my neck, one arm slung protectively across my waist, and was reluctant to move despite the fact that I’d been awake for several minutes.
Everything felt different now. Not just the physical aspects—though the lingering soreness from our first night together had served as a constant, not unpleasant reminder of what we’d shared—but something deeper.
I felt more settled in my own skin, more confident in who I was and what I wanted.
For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be truly intimate with another person, to trust someone completely with both my body and my secrets.
The journey from that shabby motel room to this narrow university bed had been a revelation in ways I was still processing.
Our last morning in North Carolina had been tender and domestic in a way I’d never experienced.
We’d showered together again, Bash’s hands gentle as he washed my hair, both of us moving with the easy comfort of lovers.
There had been soft kisses and quiet laughter, and when I’d caught sight of us in the bathroom mirror—hair damp, skin still flushed from the warm water, completely at ease with each other—I’d felt a giddy happiness mixed in with pride.
The final visit with his parents had been more challenging.
Not because they’d been anything less than welcoming, but because maintaining appropriate distance had become nearly impossible.
Every instinct I had was to stay close to Bash, to touch him casually, to respond to his presence the way I would have back in our apartment.
Instead, I’d had to maintain that careful distance while watching him interact warmly with his family, knowing that what we’d shared the night before had to remain invisible.
There had been a moment when his mother had been showing me her garden and Bash had appeared behind us, close enough that I could smell his aftershave, and I’d had to physically stop myself from leaning back against him.
The want had been so natural, so automatic, that its suppression felt like holding my breath underwater.
The private jet home had been our salvation.
Once we were alone in that luxurious cabin, the pretense had dropped away entirely.
We’d sat close together, Bash’s hand covering mine on the armrest, talking quietly about everything and nothing while the landscape passed below us.
It was during that flight, watching him look out the window with such contentment, that the word had crystallized in my mind with startling clarity.
Love.
I was in love with him.
The realization hadn’t come as a shock so much as a settling, like something I’d been circling around finally clicking into place.
Of course I loved him. How could I not? The way he took care of me, the gentle strength in his hands, the complete safety I felt in his presence—it all added up to something far deeper than attraction or friendship or even the intense connection we’d been building.
I hadn’t said it yet. The moment hadn’t felt right during the flight, both of us still processing the intimacy we’d shared and the complexity of returning to our campus life. But the knowledge sat warm in my chest, patient and certain, waiting for the right time to be spoken aloud.
These past few days back at Cascade Bay University had been an exercise in controlled bliss.
Outwardly, nothing had changed—we still attended classes together, studied with Jessica, Tom, and Kolby, maintained our public facade of polite friendship.
Bash still kept his head on a swivel, never losing that vigilance.
But privately, in our small apartment, we’d fallen into a different rhythm.
Bash no longer slept on the sofa but in my bed. Our bed. That also meant he no longer did his workouts in the morning, as he preferred to wake up with me. Instead, he went to the gym right before dinner, and I dutifully stayed inside the apartment.
We woke up together, had breakfast together, shared news and updates over coffee, exchanged words with the easy banter of people who loved each other’s company.
The physical intimacy continued as well with slower explorations, gentle touches, the kind of thorough mapping of each other’s bodies that came with time and growing confidence.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Bash murmured against my neck, his voice rough with sleep. “Everything alright?”
“Everything’s perfect. I’m just processing.”
“Good processing or worried processing?”
I turned in his arms to face him, taking in the soft contentment in his expression, the way his hair stuck up at odd angles, the small smile that curved his lips when he looked at me. “Definitely good.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Because we’ve got about thirty minutes before we need to get up, and I can think of better uses for that time than worrying.”
The thirty minutes passed far too quickly, filled with the kind of lazy intimacy that still felt like a miracle. Bash’s hands in my hair, soft kisses that tasted like sleep and possibility, the weight of his body against mine making everything feel right with the world.
I was spreading jam on toast when the moment was interrupted by my phone ringing, the distinctive tone I’d assigned to calls from the palace.
My stomach immediately clenched with anxiety as I recognized the number.
Marcus never called unless something required my immediate attention, and given the early hour, this was unlikely to be routine business.
“I should take this,” I said, noting the way Bash’s expression immediately shifted to professional alertness. He understood the significance of palace communications as well as I did.
“Prince Gregory,” Marcus’s crisp voice filled the small kitchen as I answered. “I trust you’re well?”
“Quite well, thank you, Marcus. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to inform you of travel arrangements that will need to be made for the Christmas holidays.
His Majesty has requested your presence for the traditional family gathering at Sandringham House, and your father has specifically asked that you return to London several days prior for meetings. ”
My heart sank. Christmas with the royal family was exactly what it sounded like—a formal, carefully orchestrated obligation where every moment was scheduled and every interaction observed.
It was the antithesis of the life I was building here, and the idea of leaving Bash, of returning to that suffocating world of protocol and expectation, made my chest tight with panic.
“I see,” I managed, forcing my voice to remain steady. “When would I be expected to arrive?”
“The nineteenth of December. Your father wishes to discuss your progress and future obligations before the family gathering. I’ve been instructed to coordinate with your security detail to ensure appropriate travel arrangements.”
That left me barely three weeks to maintain this fragile happiness I’d found before being dragged back into the reality of my actual life.
I caught Bash’s eye and saw my own concern reflected there as he was listening carefully, reading between the lines of Marcus’s formal language as effectively as I was.
Then the last bit registered. I had enough control to keep my voice completely neutral and maintain the expected formality. “I see. Will Special Agent Puller be traveling with me?”
“If he is available, that would be preferable, as it would draw the least attention. But if not, we will arrange for another security detail to accompany you.”
I swallowed thickly. “I will ask him.”
“Excellent. I shall send the preliminary schedule once arrangements are finalized. There are several social obligations planned, including dinner with the Pemberton family. Lady Margaret is particularly looking forward to seeing you again.”
Lady Margaret Pemberton. Twenty-three years old, impeccably educated, from one of England’s oldest families, and exactly the kind of woman Uncle Henry would consider a suitable match for a future duke.
The implication in Marcus’s words was clear enough.
This wasn’t merely a family holiday but an opportunity for me to fulfill the social obligations I’d been avoiding.
“How lovely.” The words were like ash in my mouth. “Give Lady Margaret my regards.”
“I shall. I shall be in touch soon with further details. Have a pleasant day, Your Highness.”
The line went dead, leaving me standing in our small kitchen with the weight of my real life crashing down around me. Bash was watching me carefully, reading the tension in my posture, the way my hands had clenched around the phone. “Bad news?”
I set the phone aside with careful precision, trying to organize my thoughts. “I’ve been summoned home for Christmas. Royal family obligations, meetings with my father, the usual holiday circus.”
“Ah.” Bash’s expression was carefully neutral, but I could see him processing the implications. “When?”
“December nineteenth. Would you… Would you be available and willing to accompany me?”
“Of course.”
His answer came so quickly that I blinked. “Are you certain? You may want to take into consideration that this will not be a fun experience, neither for you nor for me. It will be a full social schedule, filled to the brim with obligations.”
Bash was quiet for a long moment, and I watched him work through everything this meant—the class differences that would be on full display, the formal protocols he’d have to navigate, the absolute necessity of maintaining professional distance in an environment where every interaction would be observed and analyzed. “Why are they asking you to come home?”
I let out a long sigh. “They’re not asking.
I was summoned. Not quite the same. And I was not given a reason, but I suspect it’s to tighten the proverbial leash they have on me.
After what happened with Alexander, they’ll want to assure I won’t create a repeat of that scandal or, worse, surpass it. ”
“And Lady Margaret?” The question was carefully neutral, but I heard the tension underneath.
“Is exactly who and what you think she is, the kind of young woman my family considers appropriate wife material for a future duke.”
The silence that followed was heavy with everything we couldn’t say.
Here, in our small apartment, we could pretend that our different worlds didn’t matter, but Christmas at Sandringham would be a harsh reminder of the reality we’d been avoiding—that I was Prince Gregory Edward William Mountbatten-Windsor, fourth in line to the throne, and he was the man assigned to protect me.
“Well,” Bash said finally, his voice determinedly light, “I guess I’d better brush up on my royal protocol. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of actual royalty.”
The casual way he said it, as if embarrassment rather than heartbreak was our primary concern, made something ache in my chest. “You could never embarrass me. Never. That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“What are you worried about?”
The list was endless, and I wasn’t even sure where to start. But it all came down to the same thing. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose myself. Lose you.”
My voice broke a little and Bash instantly stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me. “You won’t. We’ll figure it out.”
I nodded against his neck, wanting desperately to believe him. But as I thought about the formal dinners and carefully orchestrated social events, about Lady Margaret’s expectant smile and my father’s watchful eyes, cold fingers of dread grabbed my stomach.
Three weeks. We had three weeks of this happiness left. Three weeks before reality would come crashing in… crushing everything in its wake.
Because as much as I wanted to believe there was a world in which Bash and I could be together a little while longer, my experiences had led me to accept the bitter truth. I would never be able to be myself, never be able to openly love another man, never be able to be free.
Not while I was Prince Gregory.