When I step offstage, well-wishers swarm around me and offer positive words, warm hugs, and sweet smiles. I see a dried-off Owen waving good-bye to me from a short distance, and then he and R.J. slip out unnoticed. I’m grateful. And giddy. In fact, the rest of the festival, I feel like I’m walking on air.
“YOU BEAT him to the spot!” My bookseller buddy Eliana greets me with a mischievous grin from behind the counter.
Oh good! I really need that cozy reading nook today. I’m feeling brave enough to text Owen again but haven’t actually done it yet. You can’t get more comfy and encouraging than that reading nook. The two-seater faux leather couch is the perfect kind of used and worn.
“But you’re going to want to head to the YA fantasy section first because the book you’ve been asking about is here, but there’s only one copy!” Eliana sounds even more persuasive than usual. “I didn’t get a chance to grab it for you, and can’t leave my post now, but I wrote down where you can find it.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively.
She hands me a piece of scrap paper with her chicken scratch on it. I’m happy the book is in, but were it not for Eliana literally nudging me to the YA fantasy section, grabbing it would not be my number one priority.
“And don’t worry about your reading nook. I have it blocked off for cleaning, so consider it reserved just for you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Because she’s watching, I take a few steps in the direction she’s sending me. When I think the coast is clear, I turn around, but she’s still staring. I give her a wave and give up faking my way to the nook and head to grab my fantasy novel. It’s the series-ending book and I am a little excited it’s here.
I read the note: “Lowest shelf, alphabetical, Rusnack.”
Careful not to scrape my legs against the carpet and get them ashy, I take a seat on the floor to locate the “R” author names. It’s a good thing I decided against wearing my mini summer dress. I’m rocking my fave denim shorts—loose-fit and distressed with a rolled-up hem—so there’s no danger of exposing myself.
That’s when I see it. But oddly, there’s a cell phone pressed against my book. Who left their phone there?
“I don’t know about you, but I need another confessional.” The voice is coming from the other side of the bookshelf, as if the person is seated on the floor, too.
“Owen?”
“Ah-ah-ah,” he says. “No recording devices may remain on your person during this conversation. You know what to do.”
I cover my face with my hand and shake my head when I see him make room for my phone.
“Okay, see it now?” I ask when my phone is in place, next to his.
“Thank you,” he says.
Eliana is in sight. She peeks her head down the aisle and, through gestures, asks if I’m okay. She’s making sure she didn’t aid and abet a creep. I give her the thumbs-up.
“Did you orchestrate this with Eliana?” I ask.
“I have to give her most of the credit. She knew your favorite bookshelf category.” He pronounces “category” in three syllables. “I had originally gone over to the travel section expecting to see you zoom-in reading.”
“How many times do I have to tell you there was a teeny-tiny caption on the page and I wanted so desperately to read it?” I say.
“That’s right. Pardon, I keep letting actual facts cloud the details.”
We’re both facing the bookcase now. I can see the hunter-green cap he’s wearing. I’m sure he can see my piled-on coily bangs.
“Congratulations on the festival yesterday,” he says. “And it sounded like you met your fundraising goals?”
“It definitely made a splash,” I say, even though I know it’s corny. “Thanks in part to you.”
“No, it was all you. The dunking was a gesture.”
“Thank you.” I decide to take the compliment. “That took humility.”
“It was the least I could do, Zora, after the award fiasco.”
“I was upset, but … I know there’s nothing you could have done about that.”
“Oh, really?” I hear him scoot closer. “Well, maybe now I can give you my news in person, instead of over text.”
“What’s the news?” I ask.
He speaks with a hushed, tender voice. “Remember the beautiful girl on campus who I wished would notice me? Well, a few days ago, she actually did.”
My face warms up and my heart races. Just to make double sure we’re speaking of the same person, I ask, “Really? Tell me what happened.”
“I’m sure you can imagine,” he plays along. “Instead of breezing right by, she finally saw me, halted her speed walking, pulled out her earbuds, and said hello.”
“And where exactly did this happen?” Just to make triple sure.
“Right outside the Hurston Hall passageway,” he says.
“When?” Quadruple.
“Let me see, it was … Thursday.” He sounds like he’s smiling.
“Oh, well, I’m happy for you.” I touch my warm cheeks. “What is it that you said you saw in her again?”
“When I see her, she reminds me that some things in life aren’t too good to be true,” he says.
I catch my breath.
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“That’s the truth.” He sounds relieved to have said it.
For a moment, we sit in the comforting echo of his sentiment. The tenderness of his feelings and the bravery in saying something so personal are tugging us in each direction until we’re rocking back and forth in a cradle of sweet sincerity.
I want to run over and give him a hug, but I tread carefully instead. “So, now that she’s noticed you, what’s your next step?” I ask.
“Well, that’s why I’ve come here to talk to you. I was hoping you could offer some advice.”
“That depends. What does she think about you?”
“At first I thought, I probably look nothing like the type of guy she goes for,” he says. “But now, I don’t know, I get the sense she thinks I’m a good-looking bloke. Plus, she seems to like hanging out with me.”
His swagger gets me hyped. It’s unexpectedly cool, like my chemistry teacher’s killer drumming skills. If Owen weren’t a royal, sometimes I’d think he were from the Landerelian equivalent of Appleton. And with that thought, I remind myself that at the end of the day, Owen is still a royal. Hello, reality.
“What about you being a prince and all that comes with that, like your jumpy Secret Service agents?” I ask.
“That I unfortunately can’t change,” he says. “But I’d be as transparent as possible with my security chief so there are no surprises from them, and so that they are more sensitive to her privacy and personal space.”
“So, no more Men in Black banging down my front door?” I ask, abandoning all pretense of talking about “her.”
“I promise, Zora.” He raises his head above the books and I see his hazel eyes peer through. I sit on my legs to elevate my eye level to meet his.
“Permission to come over to your side of the aisle?” he asks, his eyes unblinking.
“Permission granted,” I say.
In a few heart-pounding moments, he is walking toward me wearing a cute grin. I stay where I am, sitting on my legs, and he joins me on the floor.
Hoping to extend these seconds of bliss, we both sit there facing each other.
“Good to see you again,” he says warmly, which is just what I wanted to say to him. An electric current runs through my arms, and I look down and smooth my hair.
“Nice to see you, too.” Owen is wearing a crisp white V-neck tee, slim fit but relaxed jeans, and white sneakers. He takes off his cap and hooks it on one raised knee. His other leg threads underneath.
“Has your dad asked you to stay away from me?” he asks.
“No,” I laugh. “Not yet.”
“I was relieved he didn’t spot me at the festival,” he says. “By the way, any chance you’re the type
who the more your parents hate a person the more you like them?”
“Not always, sorry.” I get comfy and sit on my bottom with my back to the bookcase. He does the same.
He fakes an injury to his heart.
“That’s okay, I’ll find another way to win you over,” he says.
“Oh, were we talking about me all this time?” I ask playfully.
“You have to know how I feel about you,” he says. “I’m pitiful around you.”
My heart races at his words. “No, I wouldn’t say pitiful,” I say. “Although, you came pretty close when my dad started interrogating you.”
We both crack up at the memory.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Fair enough. But you should’ve seen your face when Kelsey asked you to take a photo of us.”
“Oh, that?” I ask. I roll my eyes and shrug my shoulders. “I was just surprised, because I didn’t take her for an Android phone type.”
Owen is smiling at me now. I try not to smile back at him, but I’m failing.
“Okay, Zora. But just so you know, Kelsey and I are not dating. And we never did date. We’re old friends and I have no interest in being any more than that with her. And the other girls I’ve been photographed with these past few years? They’re my sister Emily’s friends. They’ve taken me under their wings because they know how much I meant to Emily.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, feeling a rush of relief.
“And I can’t promise you that I won’t get … attention from the media. But I will do everything I can not to let it get in our way.”
I nod, grateful. “What’s that you got there?” I ask, and I gesture to the book he walked over with. Owen grabs the book on the floor behind him and hands it to me.
“Black Women in History,” I read the title.
He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I figure, with all the Landerelian study and close-up look at me, I can learn something about you.”
“I haven’t—” I pause, but continue looking at the artsy images of the four women on the cover.
“You haven’t what?” Owen asks.
“I started to say I haven’t been to space or led an army. But I guess through these women, I kind of have, or at least feel like now I can.”
I pass the book back to Owen with a nod of approval.
“And just so you know,” I tell him. “That brief and not-so-close-up look at you was more for study than for pleasure.”
“If you say so.” He grins.
We have a fun time chatting, teasing each other, catching up. He admits to me it felt like a long week without really talking to each other, which gets my stomach twisting, in a good way. When Eliana pokes her head around again to check on me, I give her the thumbs-up. I also mouth to her that she can free up the reading nook (for my bookstore nemesis or whoever may want it). She beams at me and gives me the thumbs-up back. Then she gives Owen a meaningful glance and gives me another thumbs-up, this one clearly conveying her approval of Owen, specifically, his looks. Wondering what I’m smiling about, Owen turns to Eliana, who by then is pretending to straighten books.
When he looks back at me, I give him my best innocent lamb look and shrug my shoulders.
“Okay, Zora Emerson.” He gets back to the matter at hand. “What say you? Should we give us a try?”
“Sure,” I answer, my heart pounding. “Let’s give us a try.”
Owen beams and I’m sure I do, too. But we don’t make a move, because by now, there’s a crowd of people milling around. He nods and wipes his hand over his mouth as if to stop it from smiling too hard.
“I like the sound of that,” he says.
“I STILL can’t believe we raised so much money at Fam Fest!” I exclaim, leaning back against my headboard with my phone in one hand.
“Well, you worked your butt off with those fundraisers, so I’m not surprised,” Skye says on speakerphone. “You need to just write the book on fundraising … Skkrrrr-skrrrr.” She suddenly makes a high-pitch screech to mimic a car braking. It’s like going from playing elegant word piano to banging her elbows on the keys. There’s a good chance everyone downstairs heard her, too. I have a feeling what this is about.
“Okay,” she continues. “I know we have a rule about not making guys the center of our worlds, but dang, girl, we’re not talking about just some average Joe. The prince of Landerel is your bae.”
Skye is still talking when I see a text come through. It’s from Owen!
Panic pulls me to my feet in no time.
His text reads: I got a bit distracted this morning and forgot that I have something else to ask you. Might you be available to continue our conversation?
I respond: Sure, I’m free to chat now if you are.
Brilliant. Are you home?
Yes.
I’m near Appleton and can pick you up if you’d like to go somewhere to talk. I can be over in 10 minutes if you send me your address.
I’m about to have dinner with my family. How about you just come over and we talk here? I type out my address and hit send before I can hesitate.
Owen responds almost instantly. I’ll be right there.
“Ohmygodohmygod,” I interrupt Skye. “Owen! He’s coming right now! To Appleton! And I just invited him to my house.”
“Now? What are you wearing?”
My closet door mirror never lies. And right now it’s giving me the side-eye. Or rather, I’m giving my outfit the side-eye.
“Christmas pj bottoms and a coffee-stained tee.”
“A dress! One and done. Go! Throw on a dress or romper, slap some shea butter on them legs, and top-knot that hair,” Skye commands.
I know just what to throw on. I had already picked out tomorrow’s outfit. Hoping to psych myself into kicking off the week strong and confident, I had set aside my favorite summer dress: a pretty mustard button-up with a ruffled hem. It’s perfect, and at least I know I look good in it. Something about the way the mustard plays off my brown skin. Plus, it’s the perfect mid-thigh length and has the right halter cut to show off my shoulders.
“No crisis can make me cry, sis!” Skye and I squeal at the same time before I hang up and jump into action. I barely have my big head through my dress’s neckline opening when it hits me.
My family!
I grab my phone and race down the short hallway. I skip the last four steps and land downstairs with a thud.
“What in the Bell Biv DeVoe?” my mother calls out, startled.
I intercept Ma and John in the hallway before they can make it to the stairs to investigate. They look like middle-aged superheroes responding to a distress call—Ma in her workout gear, a pencil speared through her wavy auburn locs, and John holding his glasses like a Black Clark Kent mid–wardrobe change.
“I don’t have much time to explain everything, but Owen is on his way over to see me in about five minutes.” I pause to take a breath.
“Coming here? To our house? To see you? Here? Now?” My mom is short-circuiting. Fast. “I need to get dressed!”
In a hopscotch-esque move, she is halfway up the stairs, but then she freezes.
“The kitchen is a mess. All my paperwork.”
Ma skips back down the last four steps.
“Yo, prince or no prince, you’re both losing it and it’s not a good look.” Zach emerges from the kitchen, obviously having heard all the details. He brushes past us on his way to the front door, where he peers out the side window panels. “Tell that dude good luck finding a spot for his motorcade. Alternate side parking rules go in effect tomorrow, and folks are already claiming their spots,” he says before dismissively reporting back to the family room couch.
Suddenly, my mom is a blur, speed-tidying from the dining table to the kitchen counter and to the adjoining family room, where the couch pillows are haphazardly placed.
“Yvette, he’s not coming here for a house tour, he’s coming to speak to Zora.” John’s glasses are back on his face, and he is as measured as you’d
expect him to be. But his words only frazzle my mom further.
“What? Zora, you’re not going to introduce him to the family?”
“I can, but please don’t embarrass me.”
Ding.
Our one-note doorbell still hasn’t been fixed.
I don’t even get the chance to top-knot my hair or lotion my legs. But somehow my mom manages to get the kitchen and family room in solid shape. And at some point, she also found the time to throw on a cute, lightweight sweater. She looks good.
“He’s your guest—you answer the door.” Zach sucks his teeth and lounges deeper into the couch.
I roll my eyes at Zach and stand there raking my tight coils with my fingers, gathering them up into a presentable updo. Thankfully, Ma hands me the stretchy hair tie she has around her wrist. The bell doesn’t ring again. Maybe Owen had the good sense to leave.
John is enjoying this, I can tell. He leans back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
“You want me to answer the door?” Ma offers.
“No, I’ll do it,” I say. “It’s no biggie. I’ll just chill with him for a bit, then he’ll be on his way.”
“No biggie.” Ma shrugs her shoulders. “But you are brilliant and you look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
She gives me a hug. “He’s just a human being, baby. If you prick him, he bleeds, okay? Remember that.”
“Yeah, and if you punch him he bruises, I promise you that,” says Zach.
John shakes his head, still smiling to himself.
I ignore Zach’s shade and make my way down the hallway to let Owen in.
THERE HE is. Waiting patiently on the front stoop with another breathtaking floral arrangement in hand—this one is in an elegant square vase. He’s standing a polite distance from the door—a few paces back. When Owen sees it’s me, a slow smile spreads across his face. He seems focused on maintaining eye contact, but I suspect he’s looking me up and down at the same time. It’s a stealth skill I learned about from Zach. He once told me about the art of checking a person out without making it obvious, and I didn’t understand it until now.
Truly Madly Royally Page 14
