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“Oh my God,” I groan. “You have no idea. In the US, getting things changed and moving forward in agriculture and food production is a nightmare. Throw the public school system in, and there are even more hoops to jump through and people who think they need to be involved. There is so much time wasted. And money. And there are all these people involved in decisions who don’t really know what they’re talking about.” I slump back against the pillows again. “Why can’t they just trust the experts to know that what we’re saying is the right thing?”
He's quiet for a long moment.
“You still there?” I ask.
Damn, maybe I finally scared him off.
I’ve never been able to talk to a guy I also wanted to kiss about all of this. I probably went overboard. That’s what happens when you bottle everything up and don’t really talk to anyone about anything you really care about for, oh about a decade.
He clears his throat. “I am. I just…I think you’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. You’re definitely the most amazing person I’ve ever kissed.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his voice gentler.
I know it’s dangerous to admit I can’t stop thinking about him either.
He’s the epitome of ‘give him an inch and he’ll take a mile’.
But I don’t think there’s a single other person on the planet who could have said all of those things about my work without prompting. Not my family, not my peers in school, not my professors, not even my bosses.
My professors and bosses, even some of my peers, would certainly understand all of it if they read it.
But no one has ever delved into my work like Torin has. Not on their own, without having to read it for grading purposes, or to offer me a job. And even then they only read pieces and parts.
Torin read it because…he’s interested. In me.
And because he’s the leader of a small country that he said could use my ideas to revolutionize agriculture, give them food security and independence, and completely overhaul their economy. Yes, I remember all of those words from the steps of my grandmother’s house a few days ago.
“Me too,” I finally admit out loud. “But…I can’t date a prince, Torin.”
“Why not? You and I could do amazing things, Abigail.”
My heart flips. He’s right. With his influence and resources and the way he seems to understand what I do, I could actually make my dream farms a reality.
“Maybe I should explain why your prince thing is a problem for me.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he says, “Okay, I’m listening.”
“When I was growing up, I was three years behind everyone in school.”
“I know you skipped grades.” His tone of voice sounds almost affectionate.
I swallow. I don’t know how he knows that, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out. “At first it was just one grade, but then they realized that wasn’t enough and they bumped me up two more grades the next year. That put me in class with kids who were twelve when I was only nine.” I take a breath. “You can imagine that I was…behind, socially. We didn’t have the same interests. I was behind them developmentally even though, academically, I could keep up.”
“That’s a big difference at that age,” he says.
“It was. So the kids in my classes had one of two reactions to me. They thought I was weird and immature and wanted nothing to do with me. Or they were intimidated. I was competition to some of them. The ones that were the best students, who liked being at the top of the class, the straight A students. So, I ended up either ignored and left out or…” I pause, then shrug. “Made fun of. Bullied.”
“Bullied?” His tone is sharp now.
It reminds me of how he reacted at the wedding when he found out that my cousins sometimes left me out of games. It feels protective and possessive. I like it, I have to admit.
“I was a threat to a few of them. So they took every opportunity to make sure I didn’t get too full of myself or ever forget that they were older and more important than I was. They couldn’t do much to me when I just stayed to myself, but if I ever tried to talk to them, or God forbid we had group projects—” I shudder thinking about those even now. “—or, worst of all, presenting up in front of the class, they made fun of me and made sure I knew they were judging every single thing from what I was wearing, to each word I chose, to my actual conclusions and results.”
Torin sounds angry when he asks, “How could they dare? You’re brilliant.”
I shake my head. “Academically, book-wise, sure. But I was a kid in a high school environment. I was socially awkward and naïve and immature.”
