Fucking hell. My eyes blur, my chest too tight. Confirmation, then, of what is inevitable. And yet it had to be another text to turn me loose, which cuts. What is it about me that people can’t dump me to my face?
On my last break, I text James that I’m back a night early and to see if he’s around to drop off his SUV at the palace. He eventually confirms he’s home. When I reach St James’s Palace again, it feels like a very long time has passed. Like a week rather than a couple of days.
Once I’m let through the gate, I navigate back to the parking area, where James waits. I pull into the space and roll down my window.
“You want a lift home?” he asks, taking stock of me. James looking concerned is an unusual sight. “Or to come in?”
I shake my head and get out, retrieving my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I pass the keys over. “Thanks. Petrol’s full, as promised.”
“What happened?” James studies me, frowning, missing nothing. If only he had an off day here and there.
“Stef ended things. It couldn’t be helped, really.” I’m listless. I gesture at nothing in particular, in the vicinity of some pigeons pecking on the ground, though they at least have a mission. “Obviously.”
James’ frown deepens. He sighs. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to come in?”
“Thanks. To be honest, I just want to go home.” The reality of everything’s hitting hard. I want my own bed and sleep. I ache with fatigue from the drive and the weekend with Stef.
“I can at least drive you home.”
“I’ll walk. I need the air.” I give him a wry smile. “Thanks again. We’ll catch up soon.”
James nods, relenting. Mercifully, he doesn’t push me, about either Stef or the duke or any other schemes. “Another time, then.”
Feeling terrible, I head home through the wet London streets on Sunday evening, left too alone with my circling thoughts for company. None of them makes me feel the least bit better, more like a whole lot worse.
The next day, I’m early to work and set up on a corner of the workroom table with my laptop in front of one of the large windows. I go over designs for a project and continue to put together a mood board. Ethan’s in and out for a meeting, and he’s still out before lunchtime when the buzzer rings for the door. We don’t have any appointments scheduled in the studio today. I glance up and frown when I see the familiar figure standing there, looking around, holding an impressive arrangement of overflowing spring tulips As always, he’s well-groomed, with impeccable wardrobe choices. Too bad he has no capacity for self-reflection.
Motherfucker.
I slide off my stool, sorely tempted to ignore the buzzer when it goes off again. Grumbling, this doesn’t do anything to lift the dark mood over me today. I yank open the door.
“Who are you, the vulture of death? Go away—I’m not in the mood for whatever this is,” I say tersely, standing in the door. There’s Miles, not looking impressed, next to Aidan, who looks like he’s showing up already berated.
“He promised this would be brief.” Miles gives Aidan a warning look, his arms folded across his chest.
Aidan gives me his pleading face. “You won’t answer my texts. I had no choice but to come find you myself and call on your door.”
“Yeah, right. You’ve got plenty of choices, actually. What do you want? Are you looking for more content to sell?” My gaze is cutting.
He reddens. “No! I came to apologize. I thought maybe we could go for lunch at the pub to talk. Like old times. And I brought these for you.” He nods down at the three dozen tulips spilling over the edge of the glass vase in his arm.
“Nope. You can say whatever it is you want to say to me right here.”
“Please, Theo. Don’t be like this.” A heavy sigh escapes Aidan as he rakes a hand through his hair. Of all the things I can fault him for—which are many—personal style isn’t one of them. “I just want to apologize to you. That’s all.”
My frown deepens. If only I could do the one-eyebrow thing that Stef has got down. I shove the thought of him away. Not helpful at the minute.
Aidan stuffs his free hand into his lightweight black wool coat, left unbuttoned. It’s one of those cool April days when it doesn’t know if it wants to be spring or winter. He presses his lips into a line. “Everything got far more out of hand than I bargained on.”
“So you accidentally sold me out to the tabloids?” I glare. “And all those payouts just landed in your bank account for no reason?”
He reddens again. “I didn’t expect all the intense media coverage that followed…”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a prince, Aidan. Of course the tabloids are interested. Moth, flame, all that. Royalty stories are their catnip. Now, you’re interrupting billable time.”
“Theo, please,” he says softly. “I understand you’re angry, but I miss you?—”
“You also sent that text, if you’ve forgotten. Quite a way to end things with someone. Good luck with your groom or whatever.”
