“Fuck off, Mo!” I giggled. “I am not a creeper. He does it after he comes home from his job. And I'm making dinner right there near the damn pool. So, I'm often at the sink and I just happen to be there.”
“Yes, I am sure he's hideous.”
“The thing fogs up, I can't see much.”
“But he's fit?”
I bit my lip but didn't explain myself. I was glad we weren't on a video call. I was blushing. Yes, he had a swimmer's body. His shoulders alone could make me faint. He was very, very sexy. He was also grumpy and annoying.
All he did was whinge when we asked about the documentary. We had until year's end to get his agreement, and the crew grew more impatient by the day. My career remained on the line, too, as Jax continued to breathe down my neck. My bonus hinged on him saying yes. Duncan was oblivious that his immaturity could cost me everything. To him, money wasn'teven a thing. He never worried. For me, it was the difference between getting my own studio closer to work and staying forever in roommate hell in the spring.
“Fit isn't everything.”
“I think you protest too much.”
“I am a professional, Mo!”
“You wouldn't be the first person to fuck a sexy client. Besides, you're hot andyoung. If we can’t fuck around in our twenties, what can we do, ma cherie?”
I shook my head. “I am so close to promotion. I cannot do it. If I can get a raise and a bonus, I can move out. I want it so bad, Mo.”
“You will manage it. You're so wonderful at your job, darling! Okay, well, I hate to cut this short but Mama is insistent on dinner so I have to go back to the chalet.”
“Tell your parents hello. I miss you all.”
“I will. They miss you, too. Should we ring you on Christmas, since you're not going anywhere?”
My plan was to stay alone in Wales, read books, and cook myself a beautiful dinner in peace.
“Sure. I would love that if it's no trouble.”
“No, ma cherie. I love you. Talk soon.”
13
THE DINNER
DUNCAN
22 December
London Daily Times
It was only a matter of time before The Prince of Wales ended up back in hot water. This time, he vented his anger at a photographer. The Palace claims the photographer is a “known offender”—a bad egg who climbed over the fence near the back of the family's property in Wales to photograph the Prince on a walk around the property. He then confronted the photographer demanding that he was the “problem” and he was “a wanker” who “harassed Nessa”. The photo was soon posted on gossip sites. It was a bad look. We'll see what comes of it.
Just as I was doing all the right things, I tangled with a trespassing photographer. It was when I was out on a morning jog on a trail at the property’s edge. He climbed thefence and set up a shot, but I saw red. This was a guy I could spot from a mile away as the man who tortured Nessa in a past life. In my mind, it was this sort of constant harassment that led her to say no to marriage again and again. I wanted to lay hands on the prick, but responded only with righteous indignation. I was unaware that “wanker” would elicit such a reaction in the press, but for a prince on eggshells, every word was scrutinized.
While he had violatedmeandmyprivacy, I was the villain.
As soon as I weaseled my way partially back into my parents’ good graces, I lost it. To Miss Mills, I remained a pariah. Nothing I could do would make up for all I did wrong. So, I agreed to taking a pre-Christmas dinner with everyone in the mess.
“Your Royal Highness,” Miss Mills said. “This will be a good foot forward. We can spin you as a happy, protective sort of person. Your ex made her own statement in your defense.”
She had. I still didn't understand why.
“Can you be honest with me?” I asked.
Scenery passed by as we reached the bridge in the car.
