Royal Attraction

by Truitt, Tiffany

  I want to believe those words now almost as much as I did back then.

  I manage to pull myself up into a sitting position. I need to stare him down as I say this. Let him know it doesn’t bother me. “True.” It comes out as a whimper, and I know there’s no way I’m passing emotional muster.

  The color drains from Ollie’s face. His jaw clenches and he takes a deep breath. He jumps down from the case and walks over to me until his legs bump against my knees. He places an arm on either side of my body. He leans so close to me that I start to think of other moments from that night. Ones that didn’t involve so much talking.

  “I never would have lied about that, Alexandra Ryans. You were my first,” he whispers. He pulls back, sets the bottle down next to me, and stalks out of the room.

  “Dude,” I whisper as I watch him leave.

  Chapter Sixteen

  22 Years, 1 Month, and 1 Day

  “You’ve made me into the biggest fool. When they find out, they’ll think…”

  “If you’ll just let me explain,” Professor Barnes insists, reaching for me. I back away from him, holding my hands up. I can’t promise that I won’t punch him if he tries to touch me again. Which, considering we’re both standing in the dimly lit pit of a pretty dodgy bus station, probably wouldn’t be a good idea. A rat might take offense.

  “Alexandra, I swear I didn’t mean to lie to you,” he argues. Somehow, standing here, begging me to consider resuming our relationship, sweat covering his brow, he looks less like the overly confident, sweater-wearing, preppy man who seduced me with all his talk of traveling abroad and academia and more like a sad, pathetic sweater-wearing little man who is too chickenshit to take responsibility for his actions.

  “I may have failed out of college, Professor Barnes, but I’ve seen enough Lifetime movies to know that’s what cheaters always say. As if you didn’t control the words that came out of your mouth. Like you didn’t make every decision that led both of us here.”

  I heave my duffel bag over my shoulder.

  “Where will you go, Alexandra?” he asks. He actually manages to sound like he cares. He’s good at this. I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s played this game.

  “I have a friend who lives outside D.C. I’ll go stay with her for a bit until I can figure out what’s next,” I reply quietly. Lie. I’ll scrounge up some money and rent a shitty apartment until I can figure out how to fix my messed-up life. Far, far from this campus.

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have to stop from crying, or screaming, or pounding on the professor’s chest. Not because I lost some great love. It isn’t anything like that. But because I trusted him. And it is hard for me to trust anyone. I am still linked to the Dudley family even if I no longer live with them. That means my actions still have consequences that literally reach across an ocean.

  Our relationship had mostly been about the sex. An attempt to fill the void that Ollie left. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. We never made any proclamations of love. It was purely out of need. But his lies had made it about deceit and shame. I had become an unwilling participant in his transgressions, and that made me feel used.

  “I really wish you would reconsider,” he replies, taking a step toward me.

  “I really wish you would reconsider coming any closer to me,” I warn.

  The professor holds up his hands. “What I mean is that I think you have a chance of getting back into school, Alexandra. I believe you might suffer from dyslexia. There are some tests that we could get done.”

  “Dyslexia?” Could he be right? I don’t know much about it, but I remember something about it having to do with getting letters all messed up. I take a step toward him, tightening my grip on my bag—torn between wanting to run, and run fast, and wanting to know more.

  “Yes, dyslexia. Here’s what we can do,” he says, reaching for my bag and pulling it from my shoulder to his. “I’ll secure you an apartment. I’ll tell my wife I had to go on a lecture tour or something. I’ll stay with you until we can get you all set up, and then I can use my resources to get you some tests.”

  He’ll set me up in an apartment? Stay with me? Had he made up the whole dyslexia thing to lure me back in? Oh, heck no. I pull my fist back and let it land right in Professor Turd Bucket’s breadbasket. He doubles over coughing, dropping my duffel bag to the floor. I snatch it up and glare down at him. “Sod off!”

  “Wow, you really gave it to Professor Barnes back there.”

  Five minutes. That’s how long my eyes have been closed, shutting the moment the bus started moving. They fly open at the sound of a man’s voice. Sitting next to me is a boy who looks vaguely familiar. Before I can make it through my mind’s Instagram of acquaintances, the boy holds out his hand for me to shake. “Not sure if you remember me. I’m Wyatt Jones. I work on the Madison Tribune.”

  For the love of Adele.

  That’s how I know the kid. He tracked me down for an interview during my first year at the university. Wanted to do a whole cover story on me for the school newspaper. I had, of course, denied him the pleasure of wading through my memories of living with royalty.

  I sit straight up, ignoring his hand. “What the hell are you doing here? Were you following me?”

  Wyatt rubs his hand over his pathetic excuse at an attempt to grow a beard. “Not quite sure how to answer that one. Tell the truth and you’re likely to punch me. Lie and, well, it’s just not ethical. And I want us to be nothing but honest with each other.”

  An honest reporter?

  Yeah. Right.

  “What do you want?” I growl.

  Wyatt slides his wannabe hipster glasses down the bridge of his nose. “Just to ask you a few questions. That’s it. Oh, and for you to not punch me. Just those two little things,” he replies.

  Fuck. I am so screwed. There is no way Wyatt would be following me for a simple human-interest story. He has to know about the professor. And breaking this story before the mainstream media gets it? Well, that will make his career.

  I press my lips together, mostly to keep from throwing up, and shake my head.

  Wyatt sighs. “It’s going to come out eventually. Wouldn’t it be better if you got to control the story? Tell it from your point of view before they try to tell it for you.”

  A short, bitter laughs issues from my mouth. “You say ‘they’ like you aren’t one of them.”

  Wyatt shrugs. “I’m not entirely evil yet. I still believe in integrity and all that crap. Which makes me the perfect person to help you tell this story.”

  This story. God, I was going to be defined forever by this story.

  A wild, low sob claws its way out of my throat. The tears come fast. It doesn’t matter that there’s a reporter sitting next to me. I’m already screwed, so why not cry and cry and cry?

  Wyatt shifts away, looking at me like he isn’t sure whether to pat my hand or take out his phone and Snapchat my downfall. Instead, he bolts up from his seat, hitting his head on the low ceiling.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m going to sit in the front. I’ll pretend like I didn’t see you. I’ll get off at the next stop, and then I’ll down a bottle of whiskey to chase away these damn feeling things that keep me from doing my job,” he says.

  “You mean…”

  His shoulders slump. “I’m not going to print it.”

  “Why?” I hiccup.

  “Because I’m an idiot,” he says, shaking his head. “You should know the rumors are already flying, and maybe it won’t get to the mainstream press and maybe it will. All I can say for sure is the clock is ticking. You should know you have a lot more power than you think you do, and it’s about time you start to realize that. Stop letting other people define what your story gets to be.”

  The clock is ticking.

  Of course it is. It always is.

  Chapter Seventeen

  22 Years, 9 Months, and 31 Days

  “I hope everyone is ple
ased with themselves.”

  “There are a list of adjectives I could use to describe how I feel, Mrs. Wright, but pleased is not one of them,” Ollie mumbles, putting on his sunglasses.

  “Please, make her stop, Aly,” Freddie whispers.

  “I’m currently using all my willpower to stop the room from spinning,” I whisper back. “Afraid I can’t be of any help here.”

  The grandfather clock dongs four times. The sound of nails being driven into my coffin.

  “Mrs. Wright, if you would give us a chance to explain,” Aiden attempts, his voice clearer, stronger than any of us have been able to manage.

  Mrs. Wright stops pacing and focuses her glare at Aiden.

  The Return of Governess Wright = Worst. Sequel. Ever.

  “Aiden, don’t,” Freddie begs.

  Ollie simply shakes his head before letting it slam back against the couch. Aiden swallows hard as he stands up. He’s going to go toe to toe with Mrs. Wright.

  “You…you out of all of them have disappointed me the most,” Mrs. Wright begins to rail. “I expect this kind of rubbish from Oliver, and Freddie always does whatever he says, but you, you should have known better.”

  “It was a stag party, Mrs. Wright. We’re supposed to have a good time,” Aiden argues.

  “There’s a difference between having a good time and acting like a buffoon. You have not only disappointed me with your behavior today but have disgraced the crowns that sit atop your heads,” she snarls, her face erupting in blotches of fiery red. Aiden rubs a hand across his face before taking a deep breath. “I don’t even know which part was the worst. When Oliver accidently groped the Prime Minister’s wife because he couldn’t walk straight? When Alexandra burped throughout the national anthem? Or maybe it was when Freddie puked in your grandmother’s petunias?”

  “Mrs. Wright, if you’ll just listen—”

  “I will not! No, the worst part was the press was there to catch every moment!” Mrs. Wright’s shrill voice makes my ears hurt. Freddie groans, placing his head into his hands. Ollie mutters something that sounds dangerously like a cuss word.

  It wasn’t right that Aiden was taking the brunt of Mrs. Wright’s wrath, but the rest of us didn’t have the strength to fight with him on the battlefield. Besides, it wasn’t our fault that in all her infinite wisdom, Mrs. Wright thought it would be good idea to schedule a tea party the morning after Freddie’s stag party.

  It had been a disaster. It was already all over the internet and was being carried on all the major news networks. And Sophie? Poor girl. She sat back wringing her hands, trying desperately to hold on to her smile the whole time. We definitely all owed her an apology.

  If there was any silver lining, it was that the Queen Mother seemed unfazed, choosing to shrug off our indiscretions. To be fair, she had ruled during multiple wars and national crises, so this was nothing.

  “Screw the press,” Ollie mutters.

  “Excuse me, Oliver?” Mrs. Wright asks, turning her icy stare toward him.

  Ollie slowly sits up and pulls off his sunglasses. “I said screw the press,” he repeats, his voice matching Mrs. Wright’s glare. His eyes dart over to mine, and I squirm under their accusation. We haven’t had a chance to talk since he stormed out of the exhibit. Clearly he’s still a bit miffed that I chose to read and believe those tabloids.

  I don’t blame him. I feel like a giant ass.

  Mrs. Wright crosses her arms, taking a few steps forward until she is towering over Ollie. “So now you hate the press? Not when they’re naming you the Sexiest Man Alive or shooting you invites to hang with this celebrity or that celebrity in hopes of getting a quote from The Oliver Dudley?”

  “Leave him alone, Mrs. Wright,” Aiden says quietly.

  I reach forward and place my hand on Aiden’s back.

  Something was alive in the air, something new. Even though I was about two seconds from joining Freddie on the puking team, if Aiden or Ollie needed me, I’d have their back. “He’s right,” Aiden says. “Screw the press. So they’re a little hungover. We were celebrating a pretty important thing. Our brother is getting married—”

  “I understand that—”

  “No, Mrs. Wright, you don’t. I get this is our life. Trust me, I understand it better than most. I could fill volumes with what I have given up in the name of the Crown, but, my God, that doesn’t mean we have to give up everything.”

  Never in all my years of knowing Aiden have I ever heard his voice so sure. He looks back at me and nods before taking his hand in mine. I pull myself up off the couch and stand by his side. I squeeze his hand, letting him know I’m with him.

  “Tell the press whatever you want, but I won’t apologize for any of it anymore,” he continues. “I’ve lived my whole life as first in line for the Throne of England. I know more than most that what I say and do matters. That it has an impact that is bigger than me as an individual, but that doesn’t mean I get nothing. Yes, we’re part of the royal family, but we get to be humans, too. Trust me when I say this, when we pretend to be otherwise, that’s when we do the most damage.”

  Aiden looks to Ollie and then back to me, furrowing his brow. “I won’t make those kinds of mistakes again.”

  A heavy silence descends on all of us. Mrs. Wright grits her teeth but, for once, appears to be left speechless.

  Ollie stands up and moves so he’s next to me. I drop Aiden’s hand. “I think everyone needs to relax,” Ollie says. “I’ll go in front of the press. Tell them I got my pragmatic future king of England older brother drunk for the first time in his life. I’ll play the fool. Hell, it’s what they believe anyway. I’ll use Aiden’s bit about deserving to be human—”

  “It wasn’t a bit,” Aiden growls.

  Ollie takes a deep breath. “I’ll use Aiden’s bit. The press will eat it up. They love to be reminded we’re human. That we’re just like them. For a while at least. I’ll be sure to make myself a joke that they’ll enjoy laughing at. It’s about the only thing I’m good for in this family.”

  “Ollie,” I say, grabbing onto his hand, “don’t.”

  He pulls his hand from mine. “Don’t worry, Ryans. It’s fine.”

  Liar.

  Ollie was right. The press loved every second of the playboy routine. Once again, he was the wild royal. The one who made headlines and sold newspapers. They would forgive this small indiscretion…

  Only if he sold a bit of his soul in the process.

  Chapter Eighteen

  17 Years, 1 Month, and 2 Days

  I take a deep breath before knocking on Aiden’s door. I won’t let the fact that he hasn’t come to see me, despite being home for hours, deter me. It’s been months since he went off to university, and I can’t wait any longer.

  I pull down on my dress. It isn’t like anything I usually wear, but I guess that’s the point. Aiden had been pretty quiet since leaving for school, and I worried that the allure of college girls kept him away. Ever since my birthday, things between us were different. Nothing had happened, at least nothing in an end-of-a-romantic-comedy type of way. There had been a ton of small moments, though. The occasional handholding. Stolen glances. Whispering over his drawings in the darkest corners of the palace. The way I would catch him staring at my lips.

  The door opens and I’m nearly knocked on my ass. Gone are the shaggy hair and artist’s clothes, replaced with a new Aiden, all clean cut and preppy. Something about it makes me feel a bit sad, but here I am rocking a tight pale-blue dress with cleavage that would make Queen Victoria blush, so who am I to judge? I picked the blue because it was the same shade I wore that day back on the moor. The boob show was a new addition. Thank you, puberty.

  “Aly?” Aiden asks, like he’s surprised to see me.

  Why would he be? Of course I would come and see him. “Th-the one and only,” I manage to say with a smile, despite a growing sense of unease.

  Aiden’s eyes run up and down my body, and I lick my lips. Those lips he lov
es looking at. “Whatever does Mrs. Wright have you wearing?”

  My breath gets trapped in my throat, and I wish I would just suffocate and die of shame as quickly as possible. I smooth down my hair. “You know how she can be,” I say quietly.

  “Come in.” He opens the door wider. I nod, feeling a little bit numb and a whole lot stupid. I turn to close the door, but Aiden’s voice halts me. “You can leave it open.”

  “Oh. Um. Right. Yeah.” I shrug. What is going on? Did I misread the entire past year? All those little moments that felt so important? Had they really meant nothing? I clear my throat. “How are you liking university? Are you still finding time to draw? I’d love to see what you’ve been working on.”

  Aiden swallows and looks away. “No, I’ve given that up.”

  “Given it up?” I ask, my voice breaking.

  He nods, refusing to look at me. He moves to his dresser and starts to riffle through it. “Yeah, there comes a point where we all have to put childish things away, Aly.” He turns around to face me holding a red sweater. “Here, put this on,” he says, throwing it at me. I catch it, feeling tears prick at my eyes. “You look…” His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see him, the boy who almost kissed me on that moor. “Put it on,” he whispers.

  I look at the sweater in my hands, unable to move.

  “All hail the scholar,” booms Ollie’s voice from the doorway, causing me to jump. I scramble to put on the sweater before he can see me in this ridiculous dress. “Please tell me he’s not boring you already with countless recaps of his favorite lectures?” he asks, knocking his shoulder into mine as he makes his way into the room.

  I swallow, pulling down on the sweater. “No, not yet.”

  Ollie casually throws his arm around my shoulders. “Well, looks like I rescued you at just the right time, Ryans.” All I can do is nod. “So, how is collegiate life, brother?”

  “Did I hear someone mention collegiate life?” I look over my shoulder to find Henry leaning against the doorframe. Great. Here I was thinking this day couldn’t get any worse. “More importantly, did I hear someone mention college women?”