Royals

by Rachel Hawkins

  “Tea,” he tells me very seriously, and I nod at him.

  “Absolutely tea. Murder and disappearance? Scorching Earl Grey right there.”

  Pleased with himself, Miles keeps moving forward, and I keep following, trying to listen to him, process the fact that he might be cute, look for Isa, and not get accidentally sucked into an orgy.

  It’s clearly a tall order.

  But then, finally, the crowd parts a little bit, revealing a bar against the back wall, and standing in front of it are—

  “Oh my god.”

  Chapter 22

  When you’ve been best friends for as long as Isabel and I have—ten years and counting—you get pretty good at reading each other’s faces. Isabel knows when I’m making my “I’m embarrassed and about to make it worse with a terrible joke” face. I know her “I’m maybe not telling the entire truth” face. And I definitely know her “I’m about to hand this stupid boy his ass” face because I’ve seen it in class about a hundred times.

  And that is very much the face Isa is wearing now.

  I thought we’d find them all cozied up, Isabel’s face aglow with princely attention. Or maybe they’d be kissing, which would be worse.

  What I didn’t expect was to see them standing near the bar, staring each other down, with Isabel yelling over the music, “You’re a complete jackass, you know that?”

  Seb is looking as stunned as I feel, and next to me, Miles pulls up short.

  “This is . . . unexpected,” he mutters.

  “I beg your pardon?” Seb asks. Neither he nor Isabel have noticed us yet, so intent on whatever it is they’re arguing about.

  “A jackass,” Isabel repeats, not even fazed. Her shoulders are back, chin lifted, and ohhhh, this is bad. “Or whatever word you use for that here.”

  “I’m familiar with the term,” Seb replies, some of his shock giving way to the icy disdain thing I’ve seen El pull. “I’m just not sure why it’s directed at me.”

  Before this can get any worse, I step forward, practically dragging Miles with me. “Hey, you two!” I say, and my voice is so loud and so bright that I actually wince.

  “What’s going on?”

  Seb and Isa both startle a little looking over at us.

  “Monters?” Seb asks, confused, and Miles goes to stand next to Seb, slapping one hand on his shoulder. I do the same on Isabel’s side—well, minus the show of testosterone—and Miles and I glance at each other, suddenly realizing all we’re doing is hemming our feuding besties in closer together.

  Which is clearly an issue since not even our presence is going to stop this argument.

  “It’s not sexist, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Seb says to Isabel, obviously just picking up wherever this left off. “I certainly have no problem with women, but Gregorstoun isn’t the place for them. It would be . . .” He waves one hand, looking up at the ceiling like the answer might be there. “Distracting,” he settles on, and Miles groans, tipping his head back.

  “Seb,” he says, “we’ve talked about this.”

  “I’m right!” Seb insists, turning to look at Miles. “You know I am. And that place is a bloody nightmare, Monters, do you think girls would like it there?”

  “Wait, there really aren’t any girls at your scary boarding school?” I ask, and Miles meets my gaze again, his expression apologetic.

  “There aren’t, and it’s become a bit of an issue. Some of us live in the twenty-first century and think going coed is not a bad idea. Others of us are—”

  “Sensible,” Seb finishes, giving Miles a light shove. “Honestly, Monters, this has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with tradition. And . . . and safety.”

  Isabel’s eyes are practically blazing. “Why wouldn’t girls be ‘safe’”—she makes air quotes before tucking her hands back under her elbows—“at your school?”

  Seb looks so flummoxed that I almost feel sorry for him, and when Isabel’s meaning dawns on him, he seems genuinely horrified. “I don’t mean they wouldn’t be safe from us, Christ, what sort of person do you think I am?”

  “I think you’re a spoiled, selfish, sexist jackass,” Isa says, not even hesitating, and on the other side of Seb, Miles’s eyes go big. It’s clear no one—and certainly no girl—has ever talked to Seb like this.

  “I’m a prince,” he finally splutters, and Isa makes a clicking sound with her tongue like that explains it all.

  Shaking his head slightly, Seb looks down at the floor. All around us, his friends—or people who’d just like to be his friends—are still dancing and drinking and probably lighting more things on fire, but we’re having a conversation about coed schools. “Gregorstoun is isolated and remote. They make us . . . sail boats in awful weather, and climb bloody mountains, and run in the freezing cold. That’s all I meant, that it’s simply too . . . too physically taxing for women.”

  With that, he fumbles on the bar to his right, grabbing a glass of whiskey that may or may not be his. He throws it back, then looks to Miles.

  Miles just shakes his head. “Not a shovel big enough to dig you out of this one, mate.”

  Sighing, Seb slams his now-empty glass back onto the bar. “This night is really not going the way I expected,” he mutters, and Isabel huffs out a sigh before turning to me.

  “The feeling is mutual,” she says, and then goes to push her way through the crowd.

  But before she’s swallowed up, she turns to look over her shoulder at Seb and calls out, “For the record, I’ve had better kisses from band geeks.”

  That actually gets the attention of some of the people on the dance floor, and one girl with long, stick-straight blond hair actually covers her mouth with her hand, eyes going wide.

  With that, Isabel walks off, leaving me standing by Miles and Seb, Seb’s face going stormy, Miles looking like he wished he was anywhere else.

  I know that feeling.

  I hurry after Isabel, dodging Missy, who somehow got even drunker in the past few minutes and calls after me, “Is Monters still here?”

  “He’s by the bar!” I shout back. “Knock yourself out!”

  She wrinkles her nose, but I’m already at the stairs, catching up with Isa.

  She’s halfway up, and I catch her arm.

  “You kissed him?” I ask, breathless from the drunk rich people gauntlet I just ran through, and she sighs, rolling her shoulders.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Pausing, she tilts her head, long black hair sweeping over her shoulders. “And I lied about the band geek part. It was actually pretty awesome, but I’m retroactively taking away points because he’s such a toolbox.”

  We make our way up the stairs. The main part of the club is empty now, Gilly and his leggy lady nowhere to be seen. The bodyguard is still by the door, though, and Isabel stops, moving her bag to her other shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and I look at her, confused.

  “For calling Seb a toolbox? You shouldn’t be, he kind of is. I was going to tell you that earlier, but I didn’t want to ruin your—

  “Not that,” Isabel says, shaking her head. “For ditching you. I was just . . . everything with Ben, and then there was a prince asking me if I wanted to get away for a little bit, and I . . . got dazzled.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Which is totally unlike me, but this place is weird.”

  That’s the truest thing I’ve heard all day, and I nod, throwing my arms out to the side, taking in Seb’s club, Seb himself, this entire day. “Welcome to my world.”

  Shuddering a little, Isa shoves her hands in her back pockets. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick to reading the blogs from now on.”

  We head for the door, and Isa gives another sigh. “It was all going really well up until I asked about his school, too. I mean, not well, maybe the conversation
was kind of awkward, but the kiss was promising.” Then she screws up her face. “I can’t believe I kissed a dude who doesn’t think women should go to his precious boarding school.”

  I wonder if I should bring up my own Seb kiss but then decide that no, this night has been a lot already.

  Something Isabel confirms as she says, “I just want to forget the past few hours ever happened.”

  “Solid plan,” I agree as the bodyguard opens the front door for us.

  But any thought of forgetting this night happened is erased as about a thousand flashes go off in our faces.

  Chapter 23

  Later, I’ll learn that there were only four photographers outside the club, but at the time, it feels like there are dozens. Hundreds, even. The flashes are blinding, the clicking incessant. Somehow it’s worse than that day on the Mile, maybe because it’s dark and the flashes seem so bright, or maybe because then I was with Ellie and the other guys, and a whole bunch of bodyguards. Now it’s just me, and I can hear people calling my name.

  “Daisy, are you dating Seb?”

  “Daisy, does your sister know you’re here?”

  “Who’s your friend, love?”

  It’s a constant barrage, and I blink against it, frozen until I feel a hand on my elbow and look up to see Miles standing next to me, Seb right behind him.

  “All right, gentlemen, that’s enough,” Miles says calmly, and bizarrely the flashes stop. Well, they pause, at least, and then Seb steps forward.

  “Slow night, lads?” he teases. “Can’t imagine what the going rate is for me spending time with my future sister-in-law.”

  Smiling down at me, Seb steps closer, and Isabel is basically hidden behind his back, Miles just off to the right. Weirdly enough, it’s Seb’s calm that makes me calm.

  Maybe too calm, because when a photographer calls out, “What did you think of Seb’s club, Daisy?” a reply jumps to my lips before I can stop it.

  “Disappointing,” I reply. “Hardly any naked ladies, and only one chimpanzee.”

  There’s a burst of laughter at that, and the cameras start up again.

  Seb laughs, too, putting a friendly hand on my shoulder, but I realize it’s less for show and more to start gently but inexorably pushing me toward the waiting car. His bodyguard is out of the club now, making a path for us to the car, and as the four of us pile in, I feel Miles’s hand at my back. The shutters are clicking again, but then the door closes with a thunk, and the chaos outside is muted.

  I flop back against the seat with a sigh, placing a hand on my forehead.

  “Chimpanzee?” Miles asks, and I shake my head.

  “I panicked.”

  The corners of his mouth turn down as Seb settles into the back seat, the car gliding away from the curb.

  Isabel doesn’t seem as freaked out, just looking out the window with a frown. “So that’s what it’s like,” she muses softly, and Seb looks over at her sharply.

  “It’s usually worse,” he tells her, flicking his auburn hair out of his eyes. “That was mild, love.”

  “Don’t call me love,” she shoots back, and then she fishes in her bag for her phone.

  To say that it’s awkward in the car is a bit of an understatement, and I clear my throat. “Sorry your first night wasn’t the best,” I offer to Isa, but she smiles at me and shrugs.

  “It was actually kind of fun. I mean, before this guy.” She jerks her thumb at Seb, who gapes at her.

  “This guy?” he repeats, but she’s still looking at me.

  “Tomorrow is bookstores and museums, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, relieved. Okay, so we’re back on track. One brief aberration, a quick toe dip into potential scandalousness, but we are okay, and we can all just forget this night ever happened.

  We’re quiet for the rest of the ride, and when we pull up to the Balmoral, it’s fairly empty. No photographers, no one gawking. I start to get out to walk Isabel to her room, but before I can, she lays a hand on my knee and says, “I’m good, promise. Tomorrow, bookstores, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, “total nerdery, here we come.”

  Isa flashes a grin at that, then adds, “Bye, Miles, nice to meet you.”

  Pointedly ignoring Seb, she climbs out of the back seat and heads for the hotel without a backward glance.

  Seb rolls his eyes, but then goes to get out of the car, too, and I grab his arm.

  “Okay, you’re not following her,” I say, but he shakes me off with a sniff.

  “Bloody right I’m not. But I need a drink before heading home, and the Balmoral makes the best martinis. You two go on back.”

  With that, he slams the door, leaving me and Miles in silence. The car pulls out onto the street just as a misty rain starts falling again, and I sigh, sinking deeper into the leather seat. “So that was a thing that happened.”

  Miles doesn’t say anything, and I glance over at him. He’s sitting stiffly there in the back seat, head turned to look out the window.

  “I hate having to say this, but thank you,” I tell him. “We saved the day, and I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  He doesn’t say anything, and I reach across the back seat to poke him in his arm, which is surprisingly hard under my fingertip. “Hi, I’m trying to be nice? Even though it causes me physical pain?”

  Finally, he looks over at me. “You know those pictures are going to be in every paper tomorrow morning.”

  There’s that muscle tic in his jaw again, and I twist in my seat to face him better. “A thing that is very much not my fault,” I remind him, and he waves one elegant hand, swatting that thought like it’s a bug.

  “I’m aware of that, but the point is, before you got here, there were never any photographers at Seb’s club. Someone let them know that you were here.”

  Now I think my own jaw muscle might be acting up because I am clenching my teeth pretty hard as I stare him down. “Again with this?” I say. “Because I could almost forgive it at Sherbourne, what with me being a total stranger and all, but if you could honestly spend all of that stupid race with me and still think I’m interested in Seb or getting my picture in the paper, or whatever it is you think I want—”

  “I know you’re not out to get Seb,” Miles interrupts, “but for someone who claims not to want to be in the tabloids, you’ve certainly been there enough over the past week.” He pauses, his eyes on my face, and I remember earlier when I thought he was kind of cute and want to go back in time and punch myself in the head.

  “Again, maybe you should have this talk with Seb,” I tell him. “Because Seb was the problem tonight, not me.”

  Miles looks away then, and I feel like there’s something he’s not saying. Something he wants to say.

  But then he turns back and asks, “Could it be your parents?”

  I honestly feel like I’ve been slapped. My head rears back and everything. “Excuse me?”

  Chafing his palms on his thighs, Miles shrugs. “Calling the photographers. You may not want to be in the papers, but they might. I know your father used to be—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” I say, holding up one hand. I think I might actually be shaking, I’m so pissed.

  “You don’t know anything about me or my parents if you think for one second they’d try to shove my ass up the ladder with Ellie. I know it makes all of you people feel better to think we’re a bunch of gross social climbers because then you don’t have to deal with the fact that maybe Alex just likes Ellie better than the Flisses and Poppys of the world.”

  “That is not at all what I—” Miles starts, but I cut him off again.

  “I actually thought you might not be as big of a douche as you seemed, but you, my friend, are clearly the Earl of Summer’s Eve.”

  Miles’s brow crumples in confusion, but luckily the car
has pulled into Holyroodhouse now.

  I don’t even wait for the driver to open the door for me; I step out into the rainy night and don’t look back.

  * * *

  • • •

  I wake up to a thump right by my head. Cracking my eyes open, I see an iPad lying on the pillow next to me, and I scrub at my face, trying to pull myself out of a dream I can barely remember, except that I think Miles might have been in it, and that is just—

  “What the hell happened last night?”

  That’s Ellie, and a supremely pissed-off Ellie if that tone is anything to go by. I’ve gotten kind of used to that weird museum-guide voice she does around here, so a return-to-form Ellie is both alarming and kind of welcome.

  And then her question sinks in.

  I sit up in bed. It’s bright outside, the light streaming in through the gaps in the heavy velvet drapes, and I wince when Ellie marches over to the window and yanks the curtains open. The clock by my bed says it’s just seven, but Ellie is fully dressed in a conservative black sheath covered with a red cardigan, her blond hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck. She even has jewelry on, a pretty little brooch in the shape of a thistle, and a thin silver bangle. Do bluebirds help her get ready in the morning?

  Oh, right, last night.

  I pick up the iPad and see the headline on the Sun’s webpage.

  “CRAZY FOR DAISY!” it screams, and there’s a blurry shot of me outside Seb’s club, his hand on my shoulder. Miles and Isabel are nowhere to be seen, and this really looks like . . .

  “Okay, this is stupid,” I say, looking up at Ellie. She’s standing at the foot of my bed, jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Isabel was with Seb last night, and I went out to get her!”

  Walking over to the bed, Ellie takes the iPad from me. “That’s not what the internet is saying,” she says, and she opens another page, then another, scrolling through a series of links.

  “SEB AND DAISY!”

  “PRINCE SEBASTIAN: CAUGHT AT LAST?”

  “OOH-ER! A ROYAL NIGHT OUT!”