by Grey, R. S.
“Wait, you’re Derek Knightley? No shit? That’s awesome! Can we get a picture?”
Oh dear god.
This is where the phrase surviving not thriving originated, surely. As they usher the first round of children into the room and their laughter echoes off the stone walls, I take my place with Ryan at my left and Derek on my right. He stands a few feet behind me—more in the shadows than Ryan—so it’s impossible to see him without turning around. I swear I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze hot on my back. I imagine him following the delicate fabric of my bodice down my spine. My body reacts like he’s touching me—goose bumps bloom down my arms—and on a whim, just before the first child runs toward me for a hug, I chance a shy glance over my shoulder.
Sure enough, his brown eyes lock with mine. My hands fist at my sides.
His smile is gone and his dark brows are furrowed in thought.
Ryan’s hand hits the base of my spine and Derek’s eyes follow it, narrowing.
“You’re up, princess,” Ryan says, his words a whisper against my ear.
I shiver and Derek sees. He thinks I’m reacting to Ryan.
I should be reacting to Ryan. He’s the one I wanted up until a few days ago. Him and Fudge Guy and Mr. Paycheck Man. They were all names scribbled on an imaginary list of potential love interests, men I thought I could eventually fall for…given enough time. Yet now it feels like Derek is coming in à la Miley and taking a wrecking ball to all those preconceived feelings. Every single conversation I’ve had with Ryan pales in comparison to this short-lived, no-words-needed standoff with Derek. I know I’ll go to sleep tonight thinking of him. I know I’ll dread making it through another shift with him standing behind me. I haven’t even made it through the first one.
Mostly, it sucks knowing that in eight years, I’ve never succeeded in stealing my heart back from Derek.
Maybe it’s time I try a little harder.
Chapter Seven
Derek
“Mommy, why is that man scowling?” the little girl asks, pointing straight at me.
“He’s in character, sweetie. He must be a villain in the story. Don’t be frightened.”
Whitney’s sputtering-laugh-turned-cough draws my attention to the back of her head. I want her to turn around, but she won’t. She hasn’t since her shift started. I think she’s too chicken. Or maybe she’s just too busy working.
Wish I could say the same. I’m bored shitless, and apparently, I’m doing a poor job of schooling my features through my first shift. There’s nothing that can be done. Lurking behind the happy couple, half cast in shadow, I probably do look creepy as hell. A smile would help, but unfortunately, my bad mood feels insurmountable.
Standing behind Whitney and Ryan while guests fawn all over them isn’t exactly my ideal way to spend a morning. Their shifts will stretch on into the afternoon, but as soon as that clock up on the wall strikes 10 AM, my training will be done for the day.
No one is forcing me to be here. Cal knows better than to try. However, part of accepting my position as His Royal Highness is suffering through the training. It’s good for me to get an inside scoop on what it feels like to be one of our employees. So far, I think they all deserve a raise. Except Ryan.
I don’t need to be trained. I helped develop the training programs, yet here I stand, staring at the back of Whitney’s head and scaring small children.
I know what my tasks will include. I know on top of being In Character, I’ll need to provide a safety net for Whitney. As our most popular character, she draws a lot of attention, both good and bad. Plopping down a gruff, tattooed security guard behind her wouldn’t quite fit with the fairytale vibe, so Cal has come up with this method of protection. I wonder how well Ryan has managed thus far.
While Whitney is taking photos and signing autographs with a large family, Ryan wanders over to me, looking to chat. He laughs under his breath recounting an incident last week where he had to crawl under Whitney’s dress to catch a toddler who’d run underneath it. I don’t act the least bit interested in his story, so he shifts gears, trying to give me more information about the job.
“Yeah, so it’ll depend on the season. Like right now, I only do meet-and-greets, but the holiday parades will start up soon and I’ll have to rehearse for that I guess. Wait…will you be taking my spot?”
Good question.
I haven’t decided.
There’s a short intermission in the middle of Whitney’s shift. It allows the restaurant time to bus and clean tables and gives our actors the chance to drop character, use the restroom, and relax for 15 minutes. It’s also my cue to leave.
As soon as the room empties, Whitney makes a mad dash for the stairs that lead down to her dressing room. I’m not usually one for the cat and mouse game, but then again, Whitney’s not your average mouse. Unfortunately, we’ll have to play another time. I have a meeting with Cal.
Heather meets me in the Underground with my clothes so I can change out of my costume. Dressed in slacks, a white button-down, and brown boots, I strap my leather watch onto my wrist as she updates me about my itinerary for the rest of the day. Heather didn’t move to London with me. She has a husband and three kids now, maybe even another one on the way if I’m not mistaken, but I know better than to ask. After I moved, she transferred to another department and split her time assisting two executives. When I emailed her last week, requesting she come back and work for me, I also included a substantial increase in her employee benefit package.
Seems we’re both happy to be working together again.
“Do you think it’s crazy that I’m going through with this?” I ask as we walk together toward Cal’s penthouse.
She frowns and straightens her glasses. “Going through with what exactly?”
“The role as His Royal Highness. Working In Character. All of it.”
“I think it shows your willingness to go the extra mile for this company. I’ve already heard murmurs about it from staff. The tone seems to be admiring. Most people in your position wouldn’t deign to humble themselves. You’re the heir to the Knightley Company, and we all know you’ll run this place one day. You don’t have to do this, and yet you are. It might not be your main reason for going down this road, but you’ll end up gaining the respect of your employees regardless. Showing them you care enough to see what their working conditions are like, to get down on their level—it does you credit.”
I nod. “I’ll admit, I have other intentions as well.”
She chuckles. “I find it interesting that Cal placed you with Whitney. There are other open positions in the park.”
I peer over at her, realizing for the first time that Heather knew Whitney way back then too. “What do you make of her transformation?”
She shrugs. “She was beautiful even when she was a teenager, though it was subtler. You had to pay attention to notice. Now, anyone with a pair of eyes is half in love with her.”
I frown. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
Heather looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “I have no idea. She and I don’t see each other all that often.” Then she pauses, considering something. “Do you want me to find out?”
To say this is outside the bounds of our normal work-related conversations is an understatement.
“No.”
I can do my own dirty work.
* * *
Cal is waiting for me inside his office back at the penthouse. It’s my favorite gem in the entire park. A messy artist’s studio. A villain’s lair. A hobbit hole. The walls are painted a rich dark blue and covered with memorabilia—sketches, signed photographs, newspaper clippings. Heavy drapes frame the windows. A row of bookshelves stretches from floor to ceiling, complete with a library ladder. As a kid, I fell off that thing more times than I can count. I might still have a scar or two to prove it. Books fill every available spot on those shelves and spill out onto the floor too, stacked
like skyscrapers.
Cal’s sitting behind his desk in a purple vest layered over a blue shirt. A silk tie is knotted at his neck. His leather watch—a match for mine—reflects the sunlight as he reaches up and tugs off his glasses.
“My boy.”
He stands and circles the desk, grasping my face so he can kiss my cheek. This is the greeting I expected from him the other night, but he was upset I was late for dinner. Now, he looks proud of me, no doubt because I’m going through with his plan.
“Did you have training this morning?” he asks, patting my back before pointing to the worn leather chair across from his.
“If you want to call it that.”
I take a seat and breathe it in: fifty years’ worth of life lived. Worn leather, old books, the dredges of his morning coffee. The scents settle somewhere deep.
“And was it informative?”
A part of me wants to tell him no, but that’s a lie.
“I’ve already started compiling a list of changes I’d like to implement, new hires. I think there should be a photographer’s assistant, to cut down on delays. Small tweaks in the flow of the meet-and-greet itself.”
He grins. Apple, tree. He and I are cut from the same cloth.
Work discussion bleeds into other topics. He asks if I miss London.
“Some. Not the weather. It’s already cold and rainy there.”
“And your townhouse?”
“I decided not to sell it. The rental market near Hyde Park is doing well. I’ll lease it for the time being.”
“I supposed there’s no sense in discussing Laurie?”
Though it should, the name doesn’t move me.
“Not really, though I think she’s doing well.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear you’re getting settled in. I’m considering having a dinner party on Friday to celebrate your return. Nothing big. There’s a new chef at Étoile. I thought we could have him come here and do a tasting menu.”
I know “nothing big” means at least twenty people, and not just park executives. Cal surrounds himself with other creatives. Art inspires art, and Cal believes that more than anyone.
“Fine, but I’d like you to invite Whitney.”
Chapter Eight
Whitney
“How do you feel about Derek being back?” Carrie asks me at lunch.
“Must we?”
“Fine. Bury your feelings. That’s served you well for eight years.”
“Oh?” I lean forward and continue in an angry whisper. “And how’s Thomas? Confessed your undying love for him yet?”
A French fry smacks against my open eye. Salt burns my retina.
“Hey!”
“Could you keep it down? Someone might hear you!”
God forbid.
Carrie is the pot calling the kettle black. She’s had a crush on Thomas—a manager in the Entertainment Department—for years and has never done a damn thing about it. Together, we suffer, though now I wonder if it’s been unhealthy. Without me, Carrie might have acted on her feelings ages ago.
“I’ll have you know we rode an elevator together just last week.”
My brows arch. “Oh? Did you speak to him?”
“No. There were several people between us and I don’t think he knew I was in there.”
“Wow. I expect a proposal will come any day now.”
A second fry hits my face, and now she’s just wasting perfectly good food.
“How about you just keep your dirty little secret and I’ll keep mine?” she suggests.
I smile. “Is it a secret if we both know the truth?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know the truth about me, but I have no idea what’s going on in that brain of yours. Are you freaking out that Derek is back? And what about Ryan? And that guy who gives you the free fudge?”
“It’s difficult, let me tell you—basking in all these potential lovers. How can I possibly choose?”
My blasé attitude doesn’t fool her. “You might have thought you were interested in other guys over the years, but we both know who you’re really in love with.”
“Love?!”
The word doesn’t belong in this conversation. It needs to be snatched up and punted clear across the cafeteria.
My apathy has been replaced by wide-eyed panic.
“Love is the last thing on my mind.”
“Oh? Because there he is, the man you love.”
I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, across the cafeteria, Derek stands with a coffee cup in hand, talking to the Head of Maintenance. He’s no longer in costume, but he’s no less handsome. My stomach twists at the sight of his profile and I fear I’m about to throw up the first half of my lunch. Please God no. Deli turkey with aioli mayonnaise will not reemerge pleasantly.
Derek laughs and my attention stays on him like he’s got me reeled in on a line. Under the fluorescent lights, he should look sickly like the rest of us. Instead, his olive skin glows warm and hearty. Can a man look hearty or is that adjective meant only for cans of soup? Here I am, considering that very thing, when Derek glances over and catches me watching him. A good spy I am not.
His eyes crinkle at the edges and he tips his coffee cup in my direction—a pointed gesture after his gaze flits down to my table, to the matching coffee cup sitting before me. Only a few hours earlier I told him I no longer consume the beverage.
He finds the fact that he’s caught me in a lie extremely amusing, I’m sure.
I reach for my cup and gulp down a long sip. It burns, but I don’t let up.
He smiles and turns back to finish his conversation.
It feels like I just survived a third world war. I push my tray of food away from me and drop my chin into my hands.
“Tell me when he leaves,” I tell Carrie, moping.
“He’s walking toward the exit…oh! Wait. Now he’s talking to a girl.”
My head whips around so fast, it takes my body with it. I nearly slip off the plastic chair and eat the ground before I catch myself.
She laughs. “Ha. Made ya look.”
So yeah, Carrie and I aren’t friends anymore, which is a pity given our history, but I’m confident I can survive this cruel world on my own.
That night, I walk into my dorm room and step directly onto a Starbucks gift card. The plastic crunches under my foot before I realize it’s there. There’s no accompanying note or signature. I look around to see if anything else was slid under my door with it, but I find nothing. No hint as to who it’s from. Deep down, I have a pretty good idea.
By the way, it’s for $15. I don’t know why I find that fact charming. Maybe it’s because I know Derek and his family are worth a trillion and one dollars. I’d half-expect him to be so out of touch with reality that he’d mistakenly gift me a card loaded with a thousand bucks. Isn’t that the cost of a cup of joe these days?
The gift card comes with a hundred questions. How did he find out where I live? What does he think of the fact that I still live in a dorm?! Did he hand-deliver it?
I drop it on my nightstand and vow not to use it.
When I awake the next morning, I blink my eyes open and stare directly at it. It’s blinding.
At work, Derek is back for another shift. He and Ryan stand together in front of the hearth. There is no competition. There is only a very obvious, very confident winner with a knowing glint in his eyes when I step up to take my position.
“Sleep well, Whitney?” he asks, the emerald green in his jacket setting off his eyes.
He’s wonderful.
WHAT?!
I clear my throat.
“Wonderfully,” I say, voice strained.
“Get your caffeine fix this morning?”
So there it is, a definitive answer.
I should thank him for the gift card, but something tells me that’s the wrong move. It ends the game right here and now.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” My tone is dipped in sugar. “Thank you for asking. I ha
ve a little coffee pot in my dorm room. I used an extra dark roast this morning. Drank two cups while I listened to the birds chirping outside my window. Aren’t mornings so peaceful?” Without pausing, I turn to Ryan and smile. “Ryan, you look handsome. Did you get a haircut?”
His eyes widen in shock that I’ve given his appearance any thought at all.
“What?” He touches his hair. “No, uh…but I did get some new hair gel last week.”
“Well whatever you’re doing, it looks great.”
My dimples pop with the compliment.
His cheeks are rosy red and Derek hasn’t uttered a word in minutes and maybe I’m better at this game than I thought I was.
A quick glance back at him proves that theory wrong.
His smirk is in place. He sees right through me.
An hour later, a girl who looks to be around ten asks me why I have “two princes”.
“Oh my. Two princes? Surely not. His Royal Highness is right here.” I place my hand delicately on Ryan’s arm.
She narrows her eyes suspiciously then inflates a bubble out of her pink gum and makes it POP.
“Well then who’s that?” she asks, pointing back at Derek.
Yes. Who is that? No one has given me a script for how to handle this scenario. She’s not the first child to ask me about my two princes, she’s just the boldest.
“That’s a friend of His Royal Highness,” I assure her, bending low. “I love your blouse. Is that a butterfly?”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks. Yeah. Anyway, he must be a prince too because he’s dressed just like this guy. And if they’re both princes, is this like The Bachelorette? My mom lets me watch it with her sometimes—”
At this point, her horrified mother is dragging her away while she continues, now shouting.
“I just want to know which one you’re going to choose?! I think the other one is cuter! He looks like a real prince! Mom, let me go! You’re hurting me!”
The next day, I’m down in the Underground walking with Julie on the way to my shift. I pass an open door and find Derek alone inside a dressing room with a member of Costuming. A tall, lithe woman has her hands on his throat, fixing his cravat so it lays perfect beneath his sharp jaw.
