Page 39 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
“I’m glad. I was worried you’d wake up feeling worse.”
“Nah, you took good care of me, so thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“No,” Bash said seriously, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me properly. “Not anyone. Most people would’ve been annoyed about having their plans disrupted. You made it feel like it wasn’t even an inconvenience.”
The sincerity in his voice made something flutter in my stomach. This was exactly the kind of moment that was feeding into my growing feelings for him, the way he noticed and appreciated small kindnesses. “Well,” I said, trying to keep things light, “I suppose we should get up and start the day. Can’t lie around in bed forever, much as the idea appeals.”
Bash’s smile turned slightly wicked. “Is that an invitation?”
Heat crept up my neck as I realized how my words could be interpreted. “I meant lying in bed sleeping, not something else.”
“My back is feeling much better,” Bash said, his hand finding mine under the covers. “But you’re probably right. We should get some breakfast, start behaving like productive members of society.”
We eventually made it out of bed and into our morning routine, though sharing a bed, even platonically, had shifted something between us, added a layer of domestic closeness that made everything feel more significant.
Over breakfast—coffee and toast, nothing too ambitious—Bash mentioned something that caught me off guard.
“So I was thinking about Thanksgiving plans,” he said casually, buttering his toast. “It’s only about three weeks away.”
I paused with my coffee mug halfway to my lips. “Thanksgiving plans?”
“Yeah, you know. The holiday? Fourth Thursday in November? Turkey, stuffing, family gatherings, Americans acting grateful for things they complain about the rest of the year?”
“Right, of course. I suppose I hadn’t given it much thought. In Britain, we don’t celebrate it, obviously, so it wasn’t on my radar. I’m not even wholly sure what it involves other than turkey.”
Bash stared at me like I’d admitted to never having heard of Christmas. “It’s the most important family holiday in America. Well, maybe tied with Christmas. Everyone goes home, families get together, there’s football and way too much food and generally a lot of chaos.”
“Oh.” I processed this information, feeling like I’d missed something important. “So the university gives students time off?”
“We have Wednesday through Sunday off, actually.” Bash studied my face. “You didn’t know about this?”
“I knew it existed, obviously, but I didn’t realize the scope of it. I assumed we’d stay here, maybe catch up on reading or work ahead on assignments.”
“Stay here?” Bash looked genuinely disturbed by this prospect. “The campus will be basically empty. Dining halls closed, most services shut down. It would be like living in a ghost town.”
The picture he painted wasn’t particularly appealing, but it seemed like the logical option. “Well, what’s the alternative? I can’t exactly go home for a four-day holiday. The travel time alone would make it impractical.”
Bash was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you’re right.”
If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I might’ve missed the flash of disappointment that crossed his face, or maybe even pain. But why? Then it hit me. He wanted to go home. This holiday mattered to him, maybe even more because of his mom. “You can go home. I can stay by myself for a week.”
He firmly shook his head. “Absolutely not. Out of the question.”
“Look, we can get groceries ahead of time, so I wouldn’t even have to leave the apartment. I’d hunker down and take a few days off. Get some reading in, watch TV…”
“You’re not staying here by yourself. It’s a violation of my contract, first and foremost, but aside from that, I would never leave you. I wouldn’t have a second’s rest, knowing you were unprotected.”
He was saying that out of professional responsibility, surely, not because he had any feelings for me beyond friendship, but it still made me grateful. It also didn’t solve the problem because it still kept him here. “I wish you could go home. I know you want to see your mom.”
Bash was quiet for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was careful. “What would you say to experiencing a real American Thanksgiving? With an actual American family?”
“I’m sorry?”
“My parents always do the full traditional thing. Turkey, all the sides, football games on TV, the works. They’d probably love to meet…” He paused, and I could see him working through the logistics. “Well, they’d love to meet Prince Gregory. My protectee. And they’ll accept it if I say you want to experience a traditional Thanksgiving.”
Meet his parents. Go to North Carolina, to his childhood home, and pretend to be nothing more than his job in front of the people who’d raised him. It was simultaneously the most terrifying and most appealing prospect I could imagine. “You want me to meet your family?”
