His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  She’s giggling and chattering on.

  He turns and notices me paused there, transfixed.

  I realize, a moment too late, that my jealousy is written across my face, plain as day.

  I turn quickly and flee after Julie.

  Later the next day, I meet Cal for dinner. I have half a mind to cancel, worried sick over the idea that Derek might join us, but when I arrive, the table is only set for two and Cal assures Ava no one else will be joining us. I discreetly wipe the bead of sweat from my brow. It’s only midweek and already I’m starting to doubt my ability to be around Derek without making a misstep. I try hard to completely ignore his presence altogether, but I never fully succeed. I end up finding excuses to turn around and look at him during my meet-and-greet shifts, or I cave during lunch and scan the perimeter of the cafeteria like a hawk, ignoring my food and waiting for him to make an appearance.

  Cal usually offers me a glass of expensive wine with dinner, and I always accept. Tonight, though, I’m tempted to ask Ava to leave the bottle. Better yet, waterfall it into my open mouth, will you? Cal takes his wine very seriously. His selections are always thoughtful. This vintage was grown during the rainy season in Tuscany. I don’t tell him it could be gas station wine for all the difference I taste.

  Tonight, especially, he’s raving about the bottle he’s selected, and I nod and hum when it seems appropriate, but my mind is not present. It seems to be completely absent this week.

  He mumbles something.

  I nod again. Yes, grapes. I taste them.

  Then he catches my attention with his next comment.

  “I’m so happy you’ll be there.”

  Wait. What?

  “Sorry, I spaced out. Did I just agree to something?”

  He smiles, unperturbed by my lack of focus.

  “I’m hosting a dinner party on Friday. I’d like you to come. You can bring Carrie.”

  I open my mouth, scrolling through potential rejections in my head. Women in the ’50s didn’t know how good they had it. That hair-washing excuse? Brilliant.

  “It’s settled then,” he says, refilling my glass. “You’ll be there.”

  * * *

  I can’t go on. This week has lasted four hundred years. I’m barely sleeping. Caffeine has lost its effect on me. Every time I walk into my dorm room, that gift card taunts me. Eventually, I pass it off to one of the freshman girls, the first one I see out in the hallway.

  “You. Here. Take this.”

  I shove it into her hand, hard.

  “Are you serious?” she asks, eyes wide. “Did I win some kind of sweepstakes?”

  “Yes. Go.”

  Get it out of my sight.

  I feel better with it gone. I walk back into my room and am glad to find there’s one less thing to remind me of my old crush. I barely think of him at all as I slip into my pajamas and grab my book. I’ve forgotten he even exists as I reread one page three times before slamming the book shut and staring up at my ceiling, angry.

  On Thursday, Derek rescues a toddler. I wish I were kidding.

  Somehow, a little boy with rosy cheeks and chunky I-wanna-eat-’em-up thighs gets loose underneath the red rope that separates us from the crowd. Unaware of the potential danger, he beelines straight for the one death trap in the entire great hall: a decorative poker resting in front of the hearth.

  “Ben! Benjamin!” His mom’s shouts are piercing as they echo off the walls.

  Derek steps forward and scoops the boy up, inciting a wave of audible sighs—because duh, the whole image is peak adorableness.

  The toddler’s mom comes barreling through the crowd, crying as she thanks Derek—who, by the way, didn’t really do all that much except confidently hold a child in his arms and look good while doing it.

  It doesn’t matter. The story gets inflated. Did you hear Derek rescued some kid who fell from the second story of the castle? is the iteration I hear back at the dorm later, during the ice cream social I organized for my floor. I stand behind a table, doling out scoops while the freshman girls twitter on about the story as if it’s breaking news. They’re supposed to be bonding, I think, before realizing they are…over Derek and how “He’s not just handsome, he’s a hero!”

  The next day, it gets worse.

  After I finish taking a photo with a family, I step back and catch the bottom of my dress on my heel. The tulle gets stuck. I lose my balance and flinch in anticipation of my collision with the ground. Then, suddenly, arms swoop out to catch me, stopping my momentum so I end up horizontal in someone’s arms rather than on the floor.

  Derek has a confident hold on me while he leans over, mouth inches from mine.

  “Steady.”

  His deep voice is a whisper that steals my breath.

  A thousand volts of energy surge from where his hand lingers at my waist.

  “Whit! Er…Princess Elena, are you okay?” Ryan asks, rushing over to help right me. His reflexes are as slow as molasses. If it were up to him, I’d be nursing a concussion right now.

  I swallow in lieu of answering. It was nothing. Not even a trip, just a stumble. And yet my heart is pounding like I fell. Hard.

  “Let’s take five.”

  Derek’s suggestion isn’t meant to be questioned, but I do anyway.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Perfectly fine might be a slight exaggeration.

  After all, Cal’s dinner party is tonight and I have no idea how I’m going to survive it. I’ve spent all week running from one activity to another, keeping myself busy—on purpose. The few moments I’ve been alone, I’ve immediately defaulted to thinking of Derek. Carrie keeps asking me how I feel now that he’s back, and there’s no simple answer for it. My emotions can’t seem to agree. Part of me is still angry with him for how he left things eight years ago. It wants retribution. Part of me is elated that he’s finally come home. I feared he never would. Another, smaller part—the part I wish I could ignore—is still embarrassed by how I behaved back then. Like an overeager puppy.

  Proof of this is found in an email I pull up while I’m waiting for Carrie to arrive at my dorm that evening.

  * * *

  From: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

  To: DerekKnightley@Knightley.com

  Subject: RE: Assignments

  Good morning Derek!

  I hope this email doesn’t wake you up. It probably won’t considering you seem to never sleep. Haha. I set my alarm an hour early so I could read the article you sent over before I have to go to class. I know we don’t meet until next week and you said we could discuss it then, but I thought I’d go ahead and email you!

  * * *

  I can’t read the rest. My true feelings must have leapt off the screen and slapped him across the face. I AM HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH YOU! CAN’T YOU SEE?

  With a shudder, I close my laptop, grab my phone, and walk over to my closet. I balk at everything my hands touch. Jeans? Not. Good. Enough.

  I have Ryan’s number, though I’ve never used it. While I rifle through dresses, I send him a text.

  Whitney: Busy tonight?

  Then I text Carrie too.

  Whitney: If you haven’t left your apartment yet, would you mind bringing me an outfit I can borrow for the dinner party? Something you’ve always wanted to put me in but I’ve never let you.

  I get two texts back right away.

  Ryan: No. Want to hang?

  Carrie: YES. Be right there.

  Two hours later, I’m in the elevator heading up to Cal’s penthouse flanked by Carrie and Ryan.

  My makeup has been painstakingly applied. My hair hangs in intentionally loose waves. I’m wearing a thin black V-neck sweater that hangs off my shoulders, paired with a black silk skirt that falls to midcalf. My heels give me an inch on Carrie.

  It’s an outfit that should be adorning an A-list celebrity whose main goal is to look ridiculously hot without looking like they tried at all. I’m not so sure I’m ca
pable of pulling it off. I want to reach up and adjust the sweater so it doesn’t reveal so much skin, but Carrie assures me it’s tasteful and fitted perfectly. According to her, it won’t slip down even though it feels like it will. As it is, there’s only a hint of cleavage below my bare décolletage.

  Back in my dorm, I suggested a necklace, and Carrie laughed.

  “Your accessories are your collarbones and the shadows just beneath, the slope of your neck and smooth shoulders. Believe me—you don’t need a thing. Women underestimate how sexy this area of their body is.”

  I took her word for it. After all, she’s the costume designer.

  To her credit, Ryan did do a double take when he first saw me. That has to count for something.

  “Are you sure Charles won’t mind that you’re bringing me along?” Ryan asks, tugging on his tie. He’s dressed up in a black suit. The boxy fit and the way the pants hang a little past his ankles kind of make it look as if he’s on his way to prom. I half expect him to whip out a corsage. Still, I find it charming that he’s put in so much effort. I think he’s nervous to meet Cal, and I understand how he feels. I would be nervous too.

  “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  And if not, well, it’s too late now.

  Carrie and I exchange a quick glance before I reach for the lipstick in my purse. The color is “Pucker Up”, a coral red subtle enough to draw attention to my lips without screaming for it.

  Carrie’s taken just as much care with her appearance tonight as I have. Her dark red dress has billowing long sleeves and a short hemline. She saw it in hanging on a mannequin in the window at Free People two months ago and since she couldn’t afford it, she went home and mimicked the design herself. Tonight is her first time wearing it, and I wonder if she’s hoping Thomas will be in attendance. I’ve seen him at these things before.

  Of course, I could just ask her, but it seems tonight there’s a silent understanding that it’s best to tiptoe around each other’s hearts.

  She fusses with her short black hair, and I tell her she looks great just before the elevator doors slide open and voices swoop in to greet us.

  We’ve arrived.

  Ryan steps out of the elevator first, extending both of his elbows to us. There’s a crooked grin in place when he explains, “Seems like if I’m going to crash a dinner party, I might as well do it with two beautiful women on my arms.”

  It’s smooth, especially coming from Ryan, and I find myself genuinely glad to have him here with me. I might have originally invited him on a whim as some juvenile attempt to prove to Derek that I’ve grown up and turned into a woman men want, but there’s another layer to it, something innocent and pure. Ryan truly was someone I saw myself dating. For months, I had a crush on him. In the two weeks since Derek has returned to town, he’s been thrown onto the back burner, but that’s not quite fair. I owe it to myself to see if I really do have feelings for him. In fact, I desperately want to have feelings for him because when we step into the living room, where guests have already started to amass, I find Derek engrossed in conversation with a group of people, a beautiful woman by his side.

  She’s no stranger. Nadine has been a manager in the Entertainment Department for the better half of a decade. She helped train me for my role as Princess Elena. Tall, dark-skinned, British. There’s not one bad word you could say about her unless it’s that she’s too polite. You know those type of people. Their entire existence is one big apology. Oh, am I in your way? Oh, here, you go first. Oh, please, take mine.

  They look handsome together, standing side by side, much closer in age than he and I are. I doubt she has ever sent anyone embarrassing emails inviting them to dinner, and if she has, they probably tripped over themselves to send back a quick reply, their fingers popping letters off the keyboard.

  Thomas stands in their circle, a fact Carrie doesn’t miss.

  To save us both, I head in the direction of the bar, where Cal stands behind the counter, uncorking wine for his guests. He spots me and smiles, pulling the plug on a bottle just as we join him.

  “Ah, perfect timing,” he says, filling the glasses lined up in front of him. “Whitney, I barely recognize you. You look radiant.”

  “Are you saying I don’t always look radiant?” I ask, knowing full well that half the time I show up for our weekly dinners wearing yesterday’s jeans and a loose t-shirt, hair knotted up on top of my head.

  “I’m merely suggesting that tonight, especially, there’s an air about you.”

  “Carrie dressed me. That’s probably it.”

  “Well then, Carrie, you’ve done a fine job. How are you?” He greets her with warmth. I’ve brought Carrie over to Cal’s plenty of times. They get on well, and she’s an easy addition to our dinners.

  Then Cal’s eyes cut to Ryan. “Ah, and you brought another guest.”

  “Ryan Culver, sir,” Ryan says, extending his hand. “I work with Whitney.”

  Cal nods and I’m sure he seems perfectly pleasant to everyone else, but I can tell he’s not too keen to see Ryan here. He’s made his feelings about him perfectly clear to me. Still, he tries.

  “Any friend of Whitney’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to my home. We have wine and cocktails here. I used to hire a bartender, but I find people are usually adept at making their own drinks if you give them the chance. Dinner will be served at half past seven.”

  With that, he shoots me another glance before moving around us to greet someone else.

  “Holy shit.” Ryan exhales with a laugh once the three of us are alone. “I just talked to Charles Knightley! I’m inside his house!” He’s wiping his palms on his pant legs. “Do you think that painting over there is by someone famous?”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s an original Cézanne. Instead, I hold up my wine glass for a toast.

  “Here’s to an interesting night.”

  Chapter Nine

  Derek

  Whitney is here, and she made quite an entrance. I think the entire room stopped to watch her and her friend walk in.

  I’ve never thought of her as someone willing to reduce herself to arm candy, but there she stands, propped up by Ryan near the bar. He makes her smile and she leans in, her body brushing his.

  Tonight especially, her hair looks like it’s on fire, burning in waves across her pale shoulders and black sweater.

  I tamp down a twinge of annoyance as Nadine follows my gaze.

  “Ah! Whitney’s here,” she notes pleasantly. “And she brought a date from the looks of it. I think that’s the boy who plays her prince in the castle, isn’t it?” Someone confirms he is and she sighs like she’s just been presented with a newborn baby. “Oh, that’s too sweet they’ve come together. I wonder if they’re an item.”

  “No no. Haven’t you heard? Derek here is her new prince,” Thomas says, grinning.

  He and I go way back. Our years at Princeton overlapped prior to him coming to work for the Knightley Company, and I consider him a friend more than a colleague.

  “Unofficially,” I amend, sipping my drink.

  Thomas narrows one eye playfully. “I’ve seen the getup they have you in. Seems pretty official to me.”

  Nadine’s jaw drops. “No! You can’t be serious!”

  I explain the situation to her using every shortcut possible. Still, she lights up with excitement.

  “Please say you’ve got a photo on you. I have to see you all done up in the costume. I bet it’s too good! Are the moms all squealing over you?”

  “Haven’t you heard about him rescuing a toddler?” someone else feels the need to add.

  I glance back at Whitney over the top of my drink—except she’s not at the bar anymore. Ryan and Carrie chat alone. I glance across the room, toward the hall that leads toward the bathroom, but then I catch a glimpse of fire disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I say to the group, cutting through the middle of conversation like a blunt ax without even re
alizing it.

  I trail after Whitney, intrigued by her destination until I spot her near the sink, giving Ava a hug. The head chef and the sous chef from Étoile toil away on the far side of the kitchen near the stove. Ava is supposed to be out in the living room, with us, a guest tonight. I tell her so as I step into the room.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” she promises. “I just couldn’t pass up the chance to see the chef at work.”

  Ava isn’t classically trained. She was a cook at a mom-and-pop diner off the highway a few miles from the turnoff for Fairytale Kingdom. She makes the best food, genuine home-cooking. Chicken fried steak, cornbread, roasted carrots. My grandfather ate at her diner once after a late flight, and to this day, he says that was the best meal of his life. He sent a runner back every day for a week, trying something different each time. The following Monday, he marched down to the diner and offered Ava a job working as his personal chef. I once saw what he pays her. It’s obscene, and she’s worth every penny.

  “I won’t keep you,” Whitney says, smiling guiltily at Ava. “I just wanted to say hi.”

  The older woman swats her arm. “Nonsense! I’m glad you came in here. And look at you! I’ve never seen you so fancy. Doesn’t she look pretty, Derek?”

  Beautiful. Radiant. Un-fucking-believable.

  “Yes,” is all I manage.

  Ava chuckles to herself and pushes off the counter, heading over to the chefs. “Do you two need any help over here?”

  “Ava, c’mon,” I warn playfully. “It’s your night off, remember?”

  She throws up her hands in surrender and leaves the kitchen, laughing. Cal will be glad I insisted. She’s as much of a workaholic as the rest of us.