Page 87 of King of the Crease

Nick joins me out here, both of us ignoring the cold temperature. He’s waiting for me to say something, waiting for any kind of reaction. But every time I look at him, my brain just resets to the same thought.

Nick from Baltimore is a prince. He’s royalty.

“Hank, I’m so sorry for lying to you,” he says, in his real accent, not one that only comes out when he’s drunk.

“So when you say prince,” I say slowly, “you mean like an actual prince? Not like the singer Prince, not like ‘my dad’s rich’ Kennedy-type prince. An actual prince?”

Nick nods. “Yes. I am in line for the crown.”

“Wow.” The only crowns I’m used to are in my teeth. “So the whole nine yards…castles, thrones…and when you say royal jewels, you’re not talking about your balls. You mean actual jewels?”

“That is correct,” he says patiently.

I should’ve known. Nick always sounded way too formal to be American. Now, hearing the full British accent—charming and unfairly adorable—it all makes horrible, perfect sense.

I look into his big eyes, wide and hopeful.

“So what are you doing here in Sourwood?” I ask. “Did your royal jet make a wrong turn? Do you have a royal jet?”

He bites his lip. “I do.”

“Holy crap. That was sarcasm!”

“I wanted to get away from the shackles of royal life,” he says. “I wanted to experience what it was like to be…”

“Normal,” I say. “You wanted to be a normie.”

“There is a great deal of pressure that comes with being a prince.”

It’s one thing to fudge the details of your background. I tell people I was born and raised in Sourwood, but my family didn’t move here until I was four.

I didn’t lie about owning a country. Do royal families own their country? I’m confused about how that works.

“So just to confirm 100 percent—you’re not from Baltimore?”

He shakes his head.

“Have you ever been to Baltimore?”

Another shake.

“From my research, it seems like a very lovely place.”

“Your research,” I repeat with stunned laughter. Trying to make sense of the fact that a prince is on my front porch.

“Why? I don’t get it.” I think about everything I would do if I were a prince. The life I could give Brody. “You’re a prince. You get to go anywhere and do anything. You never have to think about money. If that’s the shackles of royal life, I’ll take it.”

“I am incredibly fortunate. You’re right. I’ve volunteered at enough shelters and hospitals to know how fucking lucky I am, and I am grateful for what my family lineage has afforded me. But…I’ve lived my whole life never being able to be myself, Hank.”

His jaw tightens, pain lancing his words.

“I have to be perfect Prince Nicholas, representing the crown every second of the day. Because there’s always someone watching, and if I stop being the perfect prince for one moment, if I’m accidentally human and make any kind of mistake, it will be front page news. I can never be silly or awkward or upset or angry.” He leans over slightly, as if the weight of it all is almost too much to bear. “And I can never be gay. That isn’t allowed. The future king of Ardenia needs a queen and a picture-perfect family. I’ve spent my entire adult life dodging questions from reporters about my personal life, making sex workers sign ironclad NDAs so I could feel the touch of another man.”

I rub his back. It’s instinct. Wanting to care for him.

I think back to all the times he talked about not being able to do what he wants because of his dad. This is not the family business I expected, but I remember how tortured he seemed over it, how hard it must be to be boxed into certain expectations.

“I came to Sourwood for a few weeks so I could know what it felt like to be free. Then I met you. I wasn’t expecting that.”