Almost My Prince

by Miranda King

“Oh, I eat,” I assured her, not certain how she could have any other impression. “Here.” Compelled to prove her wrong, I grabbed a red-wrapped candy. “I’ll save it for later.” The bell rang. I dropped it into my bag and swooshed up a pile of kids’ papers to take back to my classroom.

  But Gossip Gwen was in trick-or-treat mode. “You need more than one piece.” Her voice matched the hard sweetness of the candy she cupped with a fist.

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, waving her off. So as not to offend her, I offered, “Burned my tongue on something hot with Prince Michael yesterday.” And I was out the door.

  By lunchtime, there was a buzz in the air. Some flurry of excitement. The hallways had an extra dose of chatter. A few times I saw random kids poke their heads into my room and then whisper to each other. Strange. I had no idea why.

  Until Smart Sally walked through the door.

  “Is it true?” Smart Sally practically bounced in front of my desk.

  “Is what true?”

  Without answering, Smart Sally tossed down her books and came around to the side of the desk. “Get up.” She motioned and inspected my outfit. “You need to wear more low-cut tops,” she said, almost as if to herself.

  “My top is fine,” I said. “What’s gotten into you, and what’s going on?”

  “Ms. Wellborn”—she grinned, ignoring my questions—“when you’ve got it, flaunt it, especially when you’ve got someone to flaunt it for!”

  “Sally, you’re making no sense to me right now.” I inspected her face for signs of a fever or teenage delirium. “What’s going on?”

  “Something I saw coming for months,” she said, very proud of herself. “And it’s about time, too.”

  “What’s about time?”

  “That Prince Michael gave you some hot tongue action.”

  “Hot tongue action?” I squeaked out. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. My head felt fuzzy. “Where did you hear that from?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yeah, it’s all over the school how you guys went on a date to get coffee last night, and then it turned into some hot tongue action.”

  I pressed the back of my hand over my forehead. If that was a move I’d learned from Mom, I wouldn’t own up to it. I closed my eyes. “Please, please stop saying that thing about the tongue.”

  “Hot tongue action?”

  “Yes, that.” My head started to pound.

  “Oh, I get it,” she said. “You and Prince Michael are trying to keep it on the down-low.”

  I opened my eyes and stared at her. “He and I have nothing on the down-low!” That foreign squeak had returned to my voice.

  “Don’t stress, Ms. Wellborn.” Smart Sally picked up her books. “And don’t worry, like I know you do.” She scampered towards the door. “The team and I are excited! We’ve already started to plan your royal wedding for you.” She announced that over her shoulder with a huge smile and disappeared into a sea of kids—all gossiping about Michael and me... and planning our wedding?!

  This was too much! How did all this happen? I plopped back into my chair and toyed at my desk with the piece of red candy I’d brought back from the library.

  Instantly I knew—Gossip Gwen!

  I told her how I’d “burned my tongue on something hot with Prince Michael yesterday.” And that had twisted into “hot tongue action”?

  If they only knew I desired Christian, not Michael. Now his kisses qualified as “hot tongue action”—and I wanted more.

  Had he even read my note, yet?

  Fate—or Karma—was about to give me an answer when I ran into him alone in the teachers’ lounge.

  The campus was as empty as a church on Friday night—everyone would come back eventually. But right now they were preparing for tomorrow’s various masquerade parties, with the royal one, known as Saints and Sinners, being the most sought-after invitation.

  Yet I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to spend time with Christian—I hadn’t seen him all day, and I missed him.

  But he didn’t even look at me or acknowledge my hello. He stood with his back to me, coffee in hand, looking at the announcements on the wall by the coffee pot as if I weren’t even in the room. And I couldn’t keep standing there, staring at my empty mailbox.

  “Would you mind pouring me a cup of coffee, too?” I asked him, and I didn’t even drink coffee.

  I stepped closer to him, but he didn’t say anything—nothing. Merely mechanically handed me a cup of just-poured coffee.

  “Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around the cup. “It feels nice and warm.”

  Something indiscernible passed through his eyes. “Not hot, Ms. Wellborn?” He seemed to require an answer right away.

  I took a tiny sip. Yep, still didn’t like coffee.

  “Warm or hot?” he demanded. His eyes intent on me. Okay, the man took the temperature of coffee very seriously.

  My nerves prickled like they do when I don’t know the right answer on an important test. But here was my chance finally to get it right with Christian, to let him know how he made me feel.

  “Nice and warm… Christian,” I said his name almost the same as I had done yesterday when his lips trailed down my neck.

  “That’s all you want to say?” His tone was one of complete frustration. He’d totally missed how I’d just called him Christian. And he was totally out of control over the temperature of coffee.

  “Should I have said something else?” I bit down on my bottom lip.

  “Here’s a hint when you answer next time. A man likes a woman to say hot,” he said. “Not warm, and certainly not nice and warm.”

  “I don’t even like coffee, Christian, so what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  “I got your note.” His dismissive tone threw me off for a second—certainly not the reaction I had daydreamed about this morning.

  “So you got my note?” I said trying to cling on to something hopeful. “I meant it. I liked the way you kept me”—I paused, dare I say—“warm.”

  Wrong word here. Definitely. Christian’s eyes flashed something akin to fire.

  “That’s what I got from your note. Warm.” He shook his head. “But...” He stopped and raked a hand through his dark hair. He let out a long breath and strode towards the door.

  “But what?” I said, very confused how my “warm” note may have upset him like this.

  “But not hot.” He settled a hand on the doorknob to leave.

  What the hell was going on? He was going to leave like this? All because I’d said “warm” instead of “hot”?

  “Warm, hot... whatever word you want,” I placated. “It’s not a big deal to me.”

  “Good to know, Ms. Wellborn.” His voice curt. “But giving notes to one man and hot tongue action to another is a big deal to me.” His hand jerked open the door.

  No, No, No, No!!

  “Wait, please!” I pleaded.

  He paused and looked at me expectantly.

  Dear Lord, I had no idea how to explain this hot mess. “That’s just a rumor going around school.”

  “So then you weren’t out with Michael last night?”

  “Well, actually,” I heaved out, “I was.”

  “I see.” His eyes closed, and he drew in a ragged breath before opening his eyes again.

  “But—”

  “You owe me no explanation.” His voice matched his eyes… cold.

  “But—”

  But the door had snapped closed, and he was gone.

  I couldn’t move. Normally, my sassy self would follow him and explain. Gossip Gwen may have twisted my words—but, in a way, they were wrapped in truth. I couldn’t explain that I wasn’t out with Michael because I was, even when I instinctively knew Christian wouldn’t have liked it.

  On top of that, I’d requested to meet with Michael “in private,” and just by showing up, I’d probably given Michael hope that he and I had a chance.

  And Micha
el wasn’t going to give up easily, especially now that I’d stirred up some sort of rivalry between these two men.

  Michael was hard enough to handle, but what exactly was I getting into?

  Out of the flame and into the fire.

  I was playing with fire between these two men. But, Heaven, help me, I burned for Christian.

  Saturday night I’d have to prove it to him.

  “Prince Michael and Sass to Spend the Night Together on the Royal Cruise Ship”

  -Gossip Weekly

  “Prince Michael Confirms Sass Is His Guest at the Masquerade”

  -Royal Rumor Report

  Divina didn’t “do” the WD, the Worker District, where Bella, I, and now Granny lived. So the night before the Saints and Sinners Masquerade, we had a girls’ sleepover at her villa.

  By late afternoon the next day, we did the final fitting of the outfits she’d had made for us. She based them on Integrity’s Fashion Royalty doll fashions, yet we all still fit in with the official black and white color theme of the masquerade.

  That is, except for Bella, who’d chosen to wear my pink and black Modern Comeback Veronique bustier.

  Divina pouted her lips because she’d had a version of Soir De Paris, a black satin, spaghetti-strapped dress made for her. But no one could deny that Bella’s legs dazzled in Modern Comeback.

  “Your legs are a knockout, too,” Divina told me. “You look positively scrumptious.”

  We were in her fifty shades of “pink” dressing room, instead of her sitting room. Thankfully, no Nathan this time. Although he was right outside the door.

  She had me standing on a dais surrounded on three sides by mirrors. Sunlight flooded the room with warm accents and dappled across her Country French Decor of smooth wood and textured walls.

  Of course, instead of loose wildflowers typically seen with this decor, buckets of fresh roses were distributed among her gilded vases everywhere and precisely arranged—after all, this was Divina.

  “Any progress with your Mr. Princeton?” She walked a semi-circle around me, assessing my outfit, with a finger resting on her cheek.

  “Not really.” That was an understatement. I sighed.

  She arched an eyebrow, perhaps the way Ms. Modesto had done with Christian, and I spilled all, from SLT to “hot tongue action.”

  Well, not all… I left out Christian’s proposition.

  Granny didn’t need to get her hopes up that I might ever get past second base with a man. Perhaps I didn’t vocalize it because I was afraid of that, too, especially given how Christian and I left each other yesterday.

  I talked and tugged the darn black thigh-high hose up as far as I could past my black knee-high boots. No matter how hard I tried, I displayed most of my thighs because these black satin hot pants I wore where short.

  Did I say short? I meant teensy-tiny… and then call these hot pants even shorter than that. When the world sees the bottom curve of your butt greet your thighs—yep, the word “short” just didn’t cover it, much like these hot pants didn’t cover for my butt.

  “Stop that!” Granny tugged my hose back down my thigh. “There,” she said. “Now this makes your legs look a mile high.”

  I’m short, so trust me, she was exaggerating.

  “Darling,” Divina said to me. “So help me, if you tug those up at the masquerade, I’ll go over in front of everyone and push them back down.” And she would, too.

  “Don’t you want to get his attention?” Granny asked.

  “Yes… no.” I sighed again. Dear Lord, I’d never sighed so much until I’d met Christian. “I don’t want to chase him.” I sighed. “I want him to come to me.” Another sigh. “And not because of what I’m wearing.” I angled my head to look at my butt in the mirror. “Or not wearing.”

  “Darling, you’re not wearing this outfit to chase him,” Divina said. “You of all people, a clothes designer—

  “For dolls,” I corrected. And only part-time at that.

  “Whatever, it’s still pretty much the same.” She did that pish-posh wave with her hand. “The point is, you should know that clothes are about expressing how you feel on the inside.”

  “And what does this outfit express?” I asked.

  “It says exactly what Integrity named it.”

  “That I’m a walking Sensuous Affair?” I inhaled a deep breath and stared at the mirror. It was a gorgeous outfit, and at least I had a black satin, long-sleeved jacket that covered me up top.

  But my nerves were getting the best of me because I was putting myself out there for Christian… giving him all the power to walk away from me.

  My head pounded over my heart:

  He’ll hurt you and walk away…

  My heart beat over my head:

  He’s not like my father.

  My nerves gripped both my head and heart:

  He may not even want me to begin with…

  His cold stare from yesterday suggested I didn’t have a chance in hell, and I quivered. I wasn’t a walking Sensuous Affair. I was whatever the opposite was because he didn’t want me, did he?

  A tightness seized my lungs.

  Breathe in. He does want you…

  Breathe out. No, he doesn’t…

  “I feel more like Granny’s white suit. Is there something like hers I can wear?” I offered a hopeful smile to them.

  Granny had on a modest, white skirt suit that resembled Breathless Veronique. There was a cut-out that exposed the upper back, but nothing that even remotely displayed half the butt like my outfit.

  “For the love of dolls,” Granny said. “If I could get my butt into those hot pants, I’d trade with you in a second.” She grinned. “And then I’d give you a run for your money with your Mr. Princeton.”

  “Granny!” the rest of us said.

  “I’m just saying.” Granny shook her head. “Sass, someday when you’re as old as I am, you’re going to wish you’d worn that outfit when you could’ve.” Then she gave me a tap on the bottom of my exposed butt. “And if your Mr. SOS”—Sex on a Stick—“invites you back to his room, I don’t need details,” she said. “Just give him a slap on the butt for me.”

  “Granny!” we chimed in again.

  “I’m just saying.” She gestured her hands up in mock surrender.

  Oh, Dear Lord, why couldn’t I have gotten a granny who tried to push knitting or quilting on me, instead of a bold one encouraging me to have—

  “Grandkids.” I voiced aloud my thoughts to her. “Or, I guess, great-grandkids,” I said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but marriage first.” She pointed her finger at me.

  “Not exactly in the cards for our family, Granny.” I was referring to the Contessa “curse.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Because your grandpa and I did get married.”

  “What?” That was the sound of three shocked voices in the room.

  “Not legally, of course,” she said. “But remember when the doctors asked you to leave the room at the end?”

  I nodded. Memory lane was pitted with potholes… a hard road to go down.

  “Grandpa held on long enough for hospital priest to marry us in a quick ceremony.” Granny had a faraway look in her eyes.

  Bella reached for some tissues for Granny and herself—not for me. My damn defective emerald eyes never needed them.

  “Your grandpa was able to get the words out, but too weak to sign the paper that might’ve counted,” she said. “But in God’s eyes, we were.” She looked at me. “I only regret that it wasn’t legal, so I could’ve raised you with the money your grandpa intended for us.” She referred to the fact that, due to a legal detail, Grandpa’s ex-wife inherited his million-dollar estate.

  “Oh, Granny.” I rushed over to hug her. “I wouldn’t have changed one minute of my childhood with you.”

  Bella hugged Granny from the other side. “I wish Sass and I could’ve grown up together with you, Granny.” Bella got a huge squeez
e back from Granny.

  I smiled at Bella. “Me, too, Bella. Me, too.”

  Not her fault. Not my fault. Hell, not even Granny’s fault.

  Now Bella’s mom… well, that was another story.

  “We have each other now, Sass.” Bella reached over to clasp my hand and that simple touch was like we’d never been separated most of our lives.

  “Oh, my beautiful girls,” Granny said. “You make me so proud.” She held both our hands. “With my last dying breath, I will see the both of you and Lexi”—my cousin finishing up Stanvard Law—“happily married.”

  “Can you do that for me, too, Granny?” Divina squeezed in and hugged Granny at an angle from behind.

  “Of course, sweet, sweet Divina.” Granny leaned her head against Divina’s shoulder.

  “Darling, Granny,” she said. “No one ever calls me sweet, but thank you.”

  “You are,” she said. “And you should hear it often… perhaps from Nathan?”

  “Ooohh… yes!” Bella and I beamed.

  “Nathan?” Divina arched her brows. “He’s not royal. He doesn’t even have a title.”

  I rolled my eyes. Divina and her titles.

  “We don’t have titles,” I said.

  “Darling, why do you think I’m doing everything I can to get you to marry my brother?” She winked at me. The same way her brother recently did again to the press.

  “Why did Michael say I was ‘his guest’ to the press?” I asked her. “I was pretty clear at the coffee house that we weren’t going together, and then he did that.”

  “Technically, you are his guest, since the party’s on one of our royal cruise ships.” She shrugged. “That… and I believe he still thinks he has a chance with you.”

  She looked over at Bella, who seemed bothered by our conversation and started fussing with her outfit at the mirrored dais.

  “Although”—Divina titled her head and rested a finger along the curve of her cheek—“I think it’s about time for him to move on to someone equally as worthy to be my sister-in-law.”

  I agreed. I watched Bella make minor adjustments in the mirror to my Modern Comeback bustier, the same outfit that I’d worn when I’d slapped Michael and had not only gotten his attention, but started the media frenzy.