Thorne Princess(63)

Fucked-up? I could get behind that description.

But she had undiagnosed learning disabilities, and she walked around thinking something was wrong with her.

That needed to be rectified.

I didn’t have long to babysit the girl, but before I left, I wanted her to know one thing.

She wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t her fault.

She just had a really shitty family.





An hour later, the Explorer pulled in front of a private clinic on the outskirts of Dallas. A red-bricked, simple building surrounded by decorative plants.

“They’ve agreed to assess you anonymously. That means we pay a fee, and they give you a diagnosis and we fill in the paperwork with your personal data afterwards,” Ransom said by way of explanation as he breezed past me, opening the door. I gingerly made my way inside, in bug sunglasses and an overkill hat.

He approached the woman behind the reception desk and talked to her quietly while I stood in the automatic doorway, looking around. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb, even though it was probable no one recognized me.

Why was it important for me to get diagnosed? It wasn’t like I was planning to go back to school. I would never put myself through the torture.

Ransom turned around and walked over to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. I did not, in fact, detonate. But I was close. I’d never before been attracted to someone so wildly, and it scared me. Up until now, it had been really easy to pass on opportunity.

“They’re going to run vision and hearing tests, and questionnaires on you. Then you’ll go through a psychological assessment and they’ll test your reading. You’re going to be here for a while.”

“What’s a while?” I swallowed.

“Four, five hours.”

“My parents are going to kill you if they find out.” Not that I was going to tell them.

“Your parents are lucky I don’t kill them.”

A sunny, middle-aged woman in a red suit and noisy jewelry picked me up from the reception and ushered me into the depths of the building.

The first two tests—vision and hearing—were easy-peasy. The reading test, however, was a dud. I was extra slow, extra nervous, and got most of the words mixed up. By the time the psychological assessment came around, I was already exhausted.

When Ransom came back to pick me up, he held a brown bag. He shoved it in my hands as soon as I made my way to him.

“Vegan tacos with spicy cauliflower and tofu. There’s some beer, too.”

“You’re giving a beer to an alcoholic?” I arched my eyebrows, feigning disbelief.

“We both know you’re simply a lightweight. Go eat outside. I’ll be there in a second.”

Guess this was his version of taking me out for a meal. I would have protested if I weren’t so exhausted from milking every ounce of my brain over the last four hours. I went outside, settling on a wooden bench overlooking a sad, mostly empty parking lot.

The tacos were delicious, and the beer went to my head fast.

Rather than freak out about what Ransom and the nice woman in red were currently discussing, I diverted my thoughts to exploring what I could do for a living.

Perhaps nail art. I adored nails, and it seemed like a lowkey thing to do, away from the limelight, which I started to realize I didn’t actually love. Or maybe I could be a dog walker. I loved animals. I would adopt an unholy amount of dogs and cats if I could. My mother forbade it. Something about not wanting a negative headline when I moved out of the mansion and the landlord discovered my pets had destroyed his place.

I was pondering the idea of becoming a circus clown when I felt a shadow looming over my figure from behind, blocking the sun. I whipped my head, a scowl ready on my face.

“Well?” I asked. “Is it official? Are the Guinness people coming? Am I the dumbest bitch on earth?”

He ignored my words. “Get in the car.”

But when we got in the car, he remained persistently silent, and I lost my nerve to ask him what the woman had told him. If he wanted to wait to talk about it privately, it couldn’t be good, right?

Listen, she said you have the intelligence of a dry erase marker, I imagined him saying in his signature, IDGAF tone.

When we got back into Dallas, I finally opened my mouth. I wanted to ask what the lady’d said, but what came out was, “I’m still hungry.”

Close enough.

“Where do vegetarians eat in Texas?” he asked blandly. “This is not your natural habitat.”

“There’s a joint down the street.” I pointed at a quaint café that looked like it had been ripped from Covent Garden, London. It had outdoor dining, bracketed by a beautiful green fence. With large display windows and dark green stucco that matched the color of Ransom’s eyes. A green, ivy-ridden fence served as a barrier between the diners and the street.

“Very exposed,” Ransom grumbled, dissatisfied. Still, he slipped into a parking space, unbuckling.

At the café, we were given a table right by the fence. Ransom picked up the menu and scowled. “Farm to table? Does that mean they have fried chicken?”

A teasing smile touched my lips. “No. It means they grow their vegetables and spices organically.”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m going to sue you for emotional and physical abuse after all of this is over.”