His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  I bit down on a smile trying to creep up.

  “He wants nothing to do with the Knightley Company, though he’s happy to cash in on my grandfather’s hard work. He and my new stepmom”—he shuddered when he said the word—“live in the Bahamas. I haven’t seen him in a few years. The last time we spoke, he told me he was taking a spiritual journey to cut ties with earthly constructs and distance himself from harmful energy.”

  “That’s…” I failed to come up with the right thing to say. Then it hit me. I cracked a smile. “Silly.”

  He smiled then, a full, megawatt, steal-your-heart-and-keep-it-forever smile.

  I had to look away.

  “My parents don’t live here either,” I volunteered. “They moved away right when I started school.”

  “That must have been difficult. A lot of change all at once.”

  I nodded, wondering if he remembered how quiet I had been the first time we met. With Carrie by my side, I didn’t feel so alone anymore, but I still found it hard to come out of my shell at times.

  “They’re in New York City.”

  “For work?”

  “For my sister, Avery.” I was playing with my nail, picking at invisible polish to avoid meeting his eyes. “It’s not the first time they’ve moved for her.”

  “When was the first time?”

  I couldn’t believe he cared, couldn’t believe he wanted to know more about me. In the minutes that followed inside that coffee shop, I shared with Derek the defining pieces of my childhood. Avery’s illness. The way my parents uprooted us and dashed off to Georgia for her. The unintentional imbalance of our family dynamic. My role as her donor. I even told him about the few times I’d wanted to be the sick child instead of the healthy one, the raw shame that went along with that. Then, finally, I capped it off with the phone call I’d gotten right before meeting with him, the news that none of them were coming down for Thanksgiving, though compared to everything that came before it, that issue seemed miniscule.

  I don’t remember exactly how Derek responded, if he was taken aback or not by the amount of personal information I’d dumped onto his lap, but I do remember his attention never wavered as I spoke. Once, he glanced over my shoulder—presumably at Heather—and held up a finger. A signal that he and I weren’t quite done. I know I threw his entire schedule off that day. We talked for two hours. Or rather, I did.

  I don’t know why I felt comfortable enough with Derek to open up to him about my most private demons when I hadn’t even discussed them with Carrie yet. Maybe it’s because he was my mentor, someone I already looked to as an adviser and confidant. Or maybe it’s because even then, my heart loved him in ways my head hadn’t caught on to.

  * * *

  A week later, the head of the intern program sent me an email informing me that I’d been granted time off for the week of Thanksgiving. I hadn’t requested it, but I knew who had, and the gesture, though small in his eyes, meant everything to me.

  I carried my feelings for Derek with me all the way to New York City, spending the week with my family, thinking mostly of him. I told Avery about my crush, though I kept the details of his identity a secret. She assumed it was another boy in my intern class, and I didn’t feel the need to correct her. She encouraged me to take a chance.

  “That whole ‘love is patient’ nonsense? It’s bullshit! There is no room for patience when it comes to love! If you want this guy, you need to tell him!”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “I. Like. You.” She ticked off the words on her fingers. “Explain to me why that’s difficult.”

  “The circumstances—”

  “Circumstances? Oh my god. You’re eighteen! Circumstances shouldn’t matter!” Avery was always like this. Growing up, the future was never definite for her. In her opinion, we were all taking advantage of tomorrow. You get today, that’s it, she’d tell me, her pale green eyes flaying me open.

  We were back at the apartment she shared with my parents, a shoebox disguised as an efficiency. My mom and sister slept on the bed. My dad slept on the couch. While I was in town, I took the floor. My parents were out picking up groceries for Thanksgiving dinner, and I sat on the bed watching Avery. I couldn’t help it. When we were together, our old roles always fell into place. She would always be the star.

  She sat on the windowsill, one leg bent against her chest. Her head leaned against the glass pane. The city sat at her fingertips. Warm light flooded past her blonde curls.

  “Is he married?” she asked, her gaze on the street below.

  “No.”

  “A criminal?”

  “No.”

  “Then kid”—we’re only a year apart—“you gotta go for it.”

  Before I could come up with a solid rebuttal, she’d hopped down from the windowsill like a graceful cat and snatched my laptop from where it lay on top of my duffle bag.

  “What’s your password?”

  “Avery!”

  She was already typing in her first guess. “Huh. AverySucks seemed like a sure thing.”

  I tried in vain to snatch the computer away from her, but she spun away and ran for the restroom, squealing with terror as I chased her. The door slammed. I slapped my hand against it, shouting.

  “Avery. This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right. It’s very un-funny how you’re willing to let life just slip right by you. I’m trying to help you. Now tell me, what’s your password?”

  I let my forehead smack against the door. “Avery…”

  “ILoveAvery didn’t work either. This would be a lot easier if we worked together. If you swear you won’t steal the laptop back, I’ll come out there and we can sit on the bed and behave like adults.”

  I seized the opportunity. “Fine! Okay.”

  The door cracked an inch. One of her eyes scanned the perimeter. “Show me your hands.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have a weapon if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  When she didn’t make a move to open the door any wider, I backed up so she’d see I was empty-handed then turned and splayed my body out on the bed. She came to sit beside me and asked me again for my password. I stared at the peeling popcorn ceiling, my heart a thundering racehorse in my chest.

  “Derek.”

  “His name is your password?! Oh wow.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed in embarrassment. It’d been an impulse thing. My computer required I have a password for log-in. I wanted it to be easy, something that was always at the forefront of my thoughts.

  I listened to her clicking and scrolling.

  “You guys email a lot.”

  I kept my eyes closed.

  “Oh…what an interesting development. Little miss perfect has a crush on an older man. Her mentor, in fact. This just got so much juicier.”

  I rolled over and stuffed my face into a pillow.

  She must have sensed I’d hit my breaking point. She put the laptop down and threw herself over me like a steamroller. Her weight crushed me against the bed. Her hand tugged my hair away from my face and she leaned down, her lips in my hair, right by my ear.

  “Do you want me to drop it?”

  I thought for a long second, debating. Then I shook my head no.

  It felt good to share my crush with someone else. I’d been wanting to tell Carrie for weeks, but I was too scared of her reaction. She and I were too similar—cautious, smart. Avery was the person I needed now—someone who’d give me a little nudge in the wrong direction.

  “Let’s just send him an email. Since that’s your preferred form of communication, it won’t seem weird.”

  I rolled her off me and sat up. Eyes blinking. Contemplating her idea.

  “What would it say?”

  Her lips turned into a devious smirk. “Dear Derek, I want to suck your dick.”

  I tried to smack her with a pillow but she dodged it, laughing diabolically. “I’m kidding! Relax! We can write the email together.”

&nbs
p; It took forty minutes to pen and was an endeavor akin to pulling teeth. Avery would suggest a word, I’d shoot it down and spend five minutes trying to come up with something better. In the end, it read like this:

  Dear Derek,

  Thank you for giving me time off this week. I didn’t realize how badly I needed it. New York City has been a blast, but I’m anxious to be home. This is my favorite time of year at Fairytale Kingdom—there’s nothing like seeing the castle decorated for the holidays.

  I know we don’t have another meeting set until next month, but I was hoping you’d join me for dinner on Saturday night, after I get back in town? Maybe we could even drop the mentor/mentee labels just for one night.

  Until then,

  Whitney

  XO

  * * *

  Avery talked me into the “XO” and the sentence about dropping labels, because in her opinion, without them, I wasn’t making my feelings known.

  “It’s still subtle. Don’t worry.”

  I did worry. I worried through the remainder of that day and the next.

  I worried myself out of enjoying Thanksgiving dinner and the rest of my time in New York. I flew home to Georgia in a cold sweat, wondering what fate would greet me once I touched the ground. I should have immediately followed the first email with a second.

  Ha! Oh my god. Sorry. My account got hacked.

  Maybe I would have had I not received an auto-response from him right away.

  * * *

  I’m out of the office for the Thanksgiving holiday and won’t have regular access to email.

  I’ll try to respond in as timely a manner as possible.

  If it’s something urgent, please email HeatherLewis@Knightley.com.

  Sincerely,

  Derek Knightley

  * * *

  I couldn’t bear the idea of emailing him a second time. I wanted the first one to disappear, but it sat in my sent folder, festering.

  The Sunday before classes started back up, an email finally hit my inbox.

  * * *

  From: Info@Knightley.com

  To: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

  Subject: Mentor Program

  This email is to inform you that your mentor is no longer a participant in our program. This will not jeopardize your credit hour. All previous meetings will be counted toward your requirement.

  You’ve been placed with a new mentor: Charles Knightley, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of the Knightley Company.

  His assistant will contact you within the next week to establish a time frame for your first meeting. As a reminder, each mentee is required to meet with their mentor at least four times per semester.

  Do not respond to this email. Please direct questions to Help@Knightley.com

  * * *

  I kept it together as I snatched my phone off my bed and headed for the door. Carrie asked me where I was going, but I shook my head and scurried out into the hall, trying desperately to make it outside before losing it. Avery was the only person I wanted to talk to, and she answered on the second ring, listening as I told her what had happened.

  It made no sense. Had I offended him so badly he didn’t even want to be my mentor anymore? Had I crossed a line in a way we couldn’t come back from?

  Avery was enraged on my behalf, calling Derek every name under the sun and spouting off a sharp, confident “You can do better” pep talk that only made me feel worse.

  For the next few days, I was a mess. I typed out five different emails to Derek and deleted every single one. I entered his work number into my phone—the one at the bottom of his email signature—and then wavered, ultimately chickening out every time.

  Carrie knew something was wrong with me, so I lied and said I had the flu. It bought me freedom to wallow.

  I’d waver between despair over the fact that I’d ruined a good thing and hope that maybe Derek had asked to be removed as my official mentor because of his complicated feelings for me. That hope only spawned in the dead of night, when my brain was too sleepy to notice the obvious naivety of it.

  A week after I was informed of my new mentor assignment, I came back from class and found a bold unread email at the top of my inbox. Derek’s name shocked my heart back to life. I leapt for my chair and quadruple-clicked. It sprang up across the screen, but when I read his words the first time, they seemed nonsensical.

  * * *

  Whitney,

  Work has taken me to London.

  Don’t worry, I haven’t dropped the ball as your mentor. My grandfather will advise you much better than I ever could. Take advantage of everything he’s willing to teach you.

  Best,

  Derek

  * * *

  I read it again, eyes focused on the first sentence.

  Derek was going to London. London, England? For how long? He didn’t say.

  He hadn’t addressed my proposal of dinner. No raincheck or promises to make it up to me when he returned. Worse, he hadn’t even suggested we stay in communication while he was gone. No mention of a continued friendship. No clues hinting that he might have felt the same way I did.

  I hadn’t even known London was on the horizon for him. That was the first blow. I hadn’t known because he never told me. It was an irrefutable sign that I’d spun our encounters into something more meaningful than they had been. He hadn’t even thought to say goodbye to me in person.

  I felt…crushed.

  My feelings for Derek were not platonic. They never had been. I had souvenirs of him littered across my life. His name was my computer password. His lent paperbacks were stacked up beside my bed. His emails were carefully categorized in their own folder in my inbox. If they’d been letters, the sheets of paper would have been threadbare and disintegrating.

  Looking back, I wonder if Derek ever realized how much his friendship meant to me that fall. How long it took me to get over him. How much I beat myself up over my feelings for a man I never should have fallen for in the first place. I don’t know how a soul finds its mate, why it seemed like mine had latched onto someone who was the least logical choice. All I know is it’s been eight years and I’m still not over my silly crush on Derek Knightley.

  But hopefully, I will be soon.

  Chapter Four

  Whitney

  It’s the morning after my dinner with Cal—the morning after I spotted Derek getting off the elevator—and curiosity has me rereading my old emails to him. It’s worse than I remember. My eagerness bleeds off the screen. So! Many! Exclamation! Marks! There are too many exaggerated attempts at sounding more intelligent than I was. I must have consulted a thesaurus each time I typed up a reply. Words like laborious and esoteric were stuffed into sentences with a heavy hand. The result is a sad, obvious attempt at looking wise beyond my years. There’s no way he thought of me as anything more than a silly teenage girl.

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  Carrie’s voice startles me and I glance up to see the reflection of my friend in the wall-to-wall mirror in front of my makeup chair. She’s at the door, holding up Princess Elena’s dress, a sweet gesture she didn’t have to make. Normally, a runner brings it over from the Costuming Department—their warehouse is a few minutes away by golf cart, longer by foot—but she brought it herself, and I have a feeling I know why.

  “Nothing happened,” I say, locking my phone and tossing it down into my purse. Looking at those emails was a bad idea.

  “Your face was telling a different story.”

  I hum and lean forward, returning to the task at hand. My shift will start soon, which means I need to finish getting ready. During training, a professional taught me how to glam myself up to mimic our characters to a T. Some of the other In Character employees in the park have makeup much more difficult to apply than mine. I know a girl who plays a pink-skinned fairy. Before every shift, she has to cover her face and arms in paint. I don’t envy her.

  As the original princess in the Knightley storybook, Elena is simp
ler and more understated. Bronzer and blush enhance my features, mascara and warm eyeshadow ensuring I look more done up than on a normal day. My lips are coated in a dark coral pink shade, just a hairsbreadth away from nude.

  My hair is curled and long, half of it wrapped up behind my head with a twinkling diamond and emerald tiara.

  “Sure nothing is bothering you? Is it your parents?”

  “Parents? What are those?”

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  I reassure her. “No, really. Everything is good. Promise.”

  Carrie steps forward and unzips the garment bag.

  The pale green costume is an updated version of the timeless dress half the little girls in the country own, and as a Senior Designer, Carrie had a hand in its creation. The bodice is so delicately embroidered, it looks like the material might split with the slightest tug. A built-in bra ensures no straps interrupt the deep, square neckline. The long, sheer sleeves fit my arms tightly and end with a V at my wrists. The waist is cinched tight and the tulle skirt billows down to the floor. The material itself is contemporary and light, but the cut and style is an amalgamation of renaissance and medieval costuming. In short, it’s the best, most beautiful item of clothing I’ve ever worn.