I sit up a little straighter and remind myself that I sit at the most desirable table in the cafeteria at school. There’s no reason to feel intimidated.
With the queen lying face up on the table, Grant stands, a bottle of amber liquid materializing somehow from nowhere. “Drink up, lads,” he says as he pours a healthy shot into all the open glasses, skipping Christian’s, which is guarded by the five of diamonds. The knights and squires raise their glasses, yell out a hearty, “Cheers, Your Majesty!” and knock back the shots.
Sage makes an awful face and sticks out her tongue. “Ugh. Why did we agree on whiskey?”
“Because Grant can’t handle rum. Remember last time?” Christian says. I notice his beautiful eyes are sparkling with humor. “We can’t have him waking up in the stables again.”
Grant mumbles something darkly and gives Christian a good shove, which, thankfully, makes Christian move even closer to me.
“Yeah, well . . .” Sage tosses her hand on the table and looks around at each of the men. “At this rate I’ll be puking my guts out on the field tomorrow. Want to take over for me, Ro?”
I’m equally startled and flattered by the invite, and I look at Christian when I answer. “I don’t know how to play.”
“That’s the best kind of player,” Christian says. His voice is low. A little dangerous. I think once again about how this place favors the bold, and I can only hope I’m ready for what’s in store.
“Christian will help,” Grant says. I study him. He’s nowhere near as good-looking as Christian, though he’s not ugly. He has a meathead kind of look to him, as if he were a wrestler in high school and helps himself to a few protein shakes a day. His neck is thick and his ears stick out a little, but he’s got a great smile and deep brown eyes that shine with warmth in the golden firelight.
“I’m a really good teacher,” Christian says, and I turn my gaze back to him. His pretty eyes are staring into mine, his thigh is still flush against me, and I’m definitely feeling fire inside me, though I’m not sure if it’s the fault of the mead.
I nod and take up Sage’s hand, and Grant passes her shot glass over to me. It’s Grant’s turn and he throws down a jack, then a squire throws an ace, and before I know it, we’re taking two shots in a row.
I’m not exactly a stranger to shots. After prom we broke into Kyle’s mother’s stash of cherry schnapps and had a fun night playing Never Have I Ever. But this is the first time I’ve ever had whiskey. It burns—my tongue, the back of my throat, my esophagus, my chest. Worse yet, stinging fumes come back at me after I’ve swallowed it down, as if the burning wasn’t evil enough, and it makes my eyes water and makes me want to sneeze. I cough, sputtering, and Christian puts his hand on my back.
“It’s a bit stronger than mead,” he chides me. I nod to him, his face all hazy from the tears in my eyes, and blink them away the best I can. “Your turn. What’ve you got?”
I show him my hand and he points to a queen. We share a conspiring wink, even though I have no idea why throwing the queen warrants one.
When she lands face up on the pile of discards, the knights and squires groan, and Grant gets up to refill our glasses. I turn to Christian, eyes wide. “I have to drink again?”
“Isn’t that the point?” he says, trying an innocent act, but the humor and mischief in his eyes gives him away.
I bump my knee into his and do my best to glare. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Sir Christian?”
“Now, why would you think that?” he says, biting his bottom lip. It should be off-putting, but all it succeeds in doing is reminding me how much I want to feel his lips against mine. “I’m insulted.”
“Just trying to protect my honor,” I say to him. I’m a little surprised at myself. I know I’m not good at flirting, partially because I’ve never been a forward kind of girl. But tonight I’m keeping up a conversation with the hottest boy I’ve ever seen, an electrically charged conversation at that, and right now I’m leaning so close to him that I’m practically in his lap.
“Your honor’s no good around Christian,” Grant says, and I blink, surprised there are still people around us and that they’ve heard this conversation clearly.
Christian only laughs. He makes no attempt to deny Grant’s words; instead, he turns to me with my glass in one hand and his in the other and says, “Cheers, Your Majesty.”
We drink.
Then Christian leans close, his mouth only centimeters from my own, and whispers, “Grant’s right. You shouldn’t trust me. I’m a rogue, a miscreant. You’re a nice girl. You don’t want anything to do with me.”
“Oh, really?” I ask in a whisper, moving closer. I can practically taste his mouth, the air he’s breathing, tinged with whiskey; I can smell a hint of campfire and aftershave, woodsy and clean. It’s ten times as intoxicating as the alcohol. “I think you’ve misjudged me. I’m the best wench here, besides Suze.”
One of Christian’s dark brows raises to a high arch. “I’m not sure I believe that. You seem much more the innocent, schoolgirl type.”
“Not. Innocent.” I meet his eyes with the most flirtatious look I can muster, and his burn into me, straight down to my toes. “Maybe I’m looking for a rogue.”
“That’s good, because I’m not the kind of guy you want to bring home to your mother.”
I almost laugh at his choice of words. “Not looking for that. Just want to have fun,” I claim, and it’s not untrue. I have no interest in a boyfriend again. Not right now. Boyfriends are a lot of work, and for what? All they do is end up kissing freshmen girls behind your back.
Christian says nothing to me in return, but his eyes have changed. Instead of the twinkle of mischief in them, they’re now intent. Serious. Purposeful. He looks away, takes a card out of his hand, and throws it down. It’s an ace. With a flick of his fingers, the five of diamonds on top of his shot glass goes flying, and Grant fills his glass to the brim. Christian downs this shot without grimace or complaint, then nods at his fellow knights.
“Well played,” he says and stands. The rest of the knights throw down their hands. I’m not sure if Christian ended the game with that ace, or if it’s ending simply because he’s done playing. He smiles down at me and offers his hand, which I take. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you losers in the morning.”
There’s a round of groans, name-calling, and catcalling. Christian waves them away and swipes the bottle of whiskey from Grant’s hands. We move away from the group, farther from the light of the fire, so that it’s just a soft, flickering glow at our backs. I’m warm, despite the coolness of the evening. There’s a pleasant humming in my head, too, that’s not caused by the low murmur of the bonfire or the sweet, high melodies of the flutes. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a glass of mead and a lot of whiskey in a short amount of time, but I have a sneaking suspicion it has more to do with the strong hand wrapped around mine. When Christian pulls me back, though, causing me to stumble, I have to admit that maybe it’s more the whiskey’s fault than I thought.
He laughs as I smack into his chest, very undignified, and pulls me close to him.
It’s just as I imagined days ago, when I first came across him in his armor. His chest is broad and strong, and I press my face into him, partially because I’m having trouble regaining my balance, partially because it’s all I want to do in the world right now. He’s wearing a thin T-shirt, and I can feel his heart thumping against my cheek. I can feel the pleasant softness of skin over the hard stretch of muscle—such a wonderful contrast.
Christian pulls back, using his hand in mine to keep me steady. With his other, he takes a deep swallow from the whiskey and then holds the bottle out to me.
I drink, despite the fact that I’m having trouble controlling my limbs already. He looks at me with something resembling pride. “Impressive. Not many people can keep up with us knights.”
I smile at him. I feel like I’m half asleep, then my vision goes all slanted and I sway dangerously, fall
ing into his chest again. The rumble of his low laughter fills my ears, muffled by the muscles in his pecs.
“Wow, I’m sorry. I think the whiskey hit me all at once.”
I look up at him. He’s got that intent look in his eyes again, and the earnestness of it takes my breath away. I can’t remember Kyle ever looking at me that intensely, even before our first kiss. It’s flattering, and it sends a shockwave of heat throughout my body. That look, this look that says that beyond a doubt, Christian wants me, is all mine.
Then Christian leans down, his lips hovering a whisper away. I can smell his clean scent again; I can see each eyelash resting on his cheek; I can almost taste the whiskey wetting his lips, and it hits me: Sir Christian, Prince Charming of King Geoffrey’s Realm, is going to kiss me.
I close my eyes and prepare myself. There’s a loud ringing in my ears, as if we’re causing a six-alarm fire.
“Hello?”
I open my eyes. Christian has pulled out a cell phone—hence the fire alarm—and is a couple of paces away from me, talking into it with one finger in his other ear. I’m still standing there like an idiot, leaning into the air where he once stood, waiting for a kiss. He shoots me an apologetic look and so I stare down at my rainbow toes, embarrassed.
“Ro,” Christian whispers, and I muster enough bruised pride to look at him again. His face is soft, disappointed, and I can tell he didn’t want to take the call. I can only hope it’s because he’d rather be kissing me, not because he doesn’t like the caller.
He rolls his eyes and points to the phone, so maybe it’s a combination of both. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. Can you find your way back to the fire?”
I swivel my head in the direction of the light. The golden glow isn’t that far away, but it looks like a major obstacle course of tree roots and shrubbery to get there, and I’m more than slightly impeded by three shots and a glass of mead. But what other choice do I have? I can’t stay out here and listen to Christian’s phone conversation and wait for a kiss. That would be pathetic. And needy.
So I nod. “See you back at the fire,” I whisper back.
It takes me twice the amount of time to get back to the fire as it did to leave it, and I trip on a fallen tree branch once, falling headfirst into a pile of leaves. I’m picking twigs and other miscellaneous forest items from my hair as I step into the clearing.
Suze is right by the fire, cuddled up to the knight I recognize as Grant. When she sees me, she untangles herself from his arms and comes over.
“Get lost?” she asks, smirking.
“Yeah, a handsome knight led me into the woods and then abandoned me for a phone call.”
“A knight, huh? Who? Richard?”
“Christian,” I say, and Suze’s eyes widen.
“Seriously? You hooked up with Christian?”
“Almost hooked up with,” I clarify. “I think.”
“Girl,” Suze says, impressed. “Girl. I bow to you. Your first night here and already hooking up with Christian. He’s a Grade A, certified USDA hottie.”
I look over at Grant, who is watching us with irritation. I guess this little girl talk has put a cramp in his evening. I can’t help but notice again that, although he’s not unattractive, he’s not the best-looking boy here by far. In fact, Will (who is currently watching one of his friends try to light his farts on fire with a lighter) might be better looking.
The whole thing makes me curious. “Why didn’t you go for Christian, if you think he’s so incredible?” I ask bluntly.
Suze doesn’t seem to be bothered by my rudeness. She shrugs, looking at Grant warmly across the way. “Christian’s out of my league.”
I look at Suze, with her generous figure and bright eyes, and I’m flattered down to my bones that the boy she thinks is out of her league was close to kissing me tonight.
I laugh it off. “Hardly. Grant seems like a nice guy. I played a drinking game with him earlier.”
“Oh, he’s nice,” Suze says. She wiggles her eyebrows, her voice dropping down, low and naughty. “And talented in more than just jousting, if you catch my drift.”
Drift thoroughly caught, I nod with her. Someone stumbles by us, a fellow I noticed in the kitchen earlier today whose name escapes me, and he hands off a mug of mead to each of us.
Suze, who doesn’t know I’ve already had three shots, taps her mug against mine. “To Ro, my best wench-in-training!”
I drink to that, even though I’m her only wench-in-training. I take the mead in big gulps, hoping to just get it over with. Bad idea. It wants to come back up immediately.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and Suze recognizes my distress right away, probably from dealing with drunken pub patrons most of her life. She grabs my hand and pulls me back into the dark forest, and is quick to gather my hair behind my head as I lean over and let nature take its course.
I was not impressed with the turkey legs earlier today. They were gross-looking, tasted strangely like ham, and made me seriously consider vegetarianism. I am even less impressed with the turkey leg in this second round, and the whiskey burns worse on its way back up.
Suze holds my hair and rubs my back, cooing words meant to comfort me as my body exorcises everything it finds offensive.
When it’s over, Suze looks at me with a mixture of amusement and pity. “I puked at my first bonfire, too.”
“I guess maybe I won’t mix whiskey and mead anymore. Lesson learned.”
“A drink of mead and none of rum or something wicked this way comes,” Suze says, singsong, and even though my stomach hurts, my throat is burning, and I think I’m already hung over, I laugh. If I had to puke my guts out in the woods, at least it’s with someone like Suze. And thankfully, Christian is nowhere in sight and didn’t witness my spectacular vomiting.
Suze hugs me, and I lean into her drunkenly, grateful that she somehow ended up as my roommate. Then we both jump as someone crashes through the woods and runs by us.
“Davis!” Suze calls out to the retreating back. “Can you bring us some water?”
“NO TIME GOTTA PEE!” the boy named Davis answers, and keeps going at a dead sprint. I recognize him as the boy who was hanging out with Will, lighting his farts on fire and doing impressions of Jeff.
Suze turns to me, face full of apology. “Well, welcome to your summer home, Ro. In one day you’ve puked at a bonfire and almost kissed Christian. I’d say you broke even.”
Somewhere in the distance, we hear Davis let out a satisfied groan and the unmistakeable sounds of him relieving himself on a tree, and over that, I tell Suze, “I think I’m going to like it here.”
8
WEEK 1—WEDNESDAY
I wake up alone, with the hammering in my head like the blacksmith in Craftsman’s Row. Suze’s bed looks slept in, so she must have come home with me instead of Grant, as I imagined she would, probably to make sure I didn’t puke my guts out again.
With a groan, I force myself to stand and put on the russet dress Lindy hemmed for me. My head feels like it wants to roll right off my shoulders, it’s so heavy and throbbing. I need coffee. And toast. And a bottle of aspirin.
The tents at King Geoffrey’s Faire are far away from the tourist routes so unwitting patrons don’t stumble upon the staff and ruin the illusion that we’re all from five hundred years ago. The paths to the tents make three loops like a large clover in the forest, and mine happens to be in the first loop, which is closest to the faire itself but farthest from the showers and the eating area. Although I can see the picnic area from my tent, it looks (and feels) miles away this morning. With another groan, I tie back my crazy hair and get moving.
The picnic area has a shelter house with a few long tables. At one of them, Ramón is stationed with giant cauldron-looking pots and deep pans of sausage and bacon.
Ramón, God bless him, seems to read my mind. He hands me a plate of toast and bacon and a whole thermos of coffee, and I mumble incoherent praises to him before turning to find somew
here to sit.
Suze is here, though she’s hardly noticed my arrival. She’s busy feeding Grant a strip of bacon, and the way they’re cuddled together on one side of a table tells me they’re not open to another breakfast partner. Christian isn’t here, which is disappointing, but at the same time I’m thankful he can’t see me in this hungover state. I know some other people there but only by name, and I’m not keen on trying to sit with them and make conversation, not with this pounding in my brain. My only option is Will’s table, where Ramón has parked himself after feeding me, and so has Davis and a few more familiar faces. Will’s wearing glasses, which is new. I have to assume he’s probably too tired this morning to bother with contacts, though I’m not sure about the look. The dark frames kind of overshadow his face, although he gets points for looking more hipster than nerd.
I drop down next to Will and flash what I hope is a bright smile at everyone.
Davis turns to me, mouth full of bacon and egg, and shouts, “HEY, HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”
As I clutch at my head in pain, the table roars with laughter. Will puts a hand on my back, one solid whack and then an apologetic, soft circle.
“I’m so sorry. I have no excuses for Davis.” Will resumes eating his breakfast. “But I did warn you about the mead.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to play Cheers, Your Majesty. That was the bigger problem,” I say to him, still wincing. I lift a piece of toast and inspect it. Ramón frowns at me from across the table, so I take a bite and chew, giving him the thumbs-up.
“Oy, that game got me last year. Remember, Patsy?” a man on the other side of Will says. I vaguely remember meeting him and Patsy last night. They have some sort of comedic mud-wrestling act on one of the side stages. I thought his name was funny: Quagmire. I’m pretty sure it’s only a stage name, but no one, including him, has bothered to tell me his real one. I’m also pretty sure they’re married, though no one has bothered to tell me that either. But they sure do fight like it.
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