Her big blue eyes roll to the sky. “How are we even related?” She drags me into her bedroom and smacks me in the face with a six-month-old issue of People magazine. “That was Prince Nicholas!”
And there he is, on the cover—perfect mouth grinning, perfect arms folded across that broad chest, wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt. Looking like an Oxford University wet dream.
“Get out!” I deny it, even while ripping the magazine out of her hands.
That explains the accent I couldn’t place—not British or Scottish, but Wessconian. And his attitude—he’s not a leader of the pack, he’s heir to a freaking throne! There are a dozen more pictures inside. A baby photo, his first day of school wearing a lacy collared shirt, a close-up of him as a teenager glaring at the camera, looking broody as hell. And more recent ones—one with his arm draped around a stunning, tall blond in a red dress at a dinner party, another with him sitting in a high-backed wooden chair during a session of Parliament.
And, holy shit, this one’s gotta be a paparazzi shot—it’s got a grainy, zoomed-in look to it but it’s definitely him, walking out of the turquoise ocean off the Maldives Islands, skin glistening, dark hair slicked back…naked. The full monty parts are blacked out, but a dark, happy trail and the defined V of his pelvis are so very visible.
My tongue tingles with the raw desire to trace that groove. Fuck, I want to lick the picture.
A sidebar provides quick facts about his country and ancestry. He’s a direct descendent of John William Pembrook, a northern British general who joined forces with the southern Scots in the Wars for Scottish Independence. He married the daughter of Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots. After Scotland’s defeat, Pembrook’s coalition broke off from both mother countries and after years of battles, formed their own independent nation: Wessco.
Blood rushes to my cheeks and my head feels hot. He must think I’m an idiot. Did he know that I didn’t know? Who am I kidding, of course he knew—I threw a pie in his face.
Jesus.
Ellie grabs her glitter-cased phone off the bed. “I am so putting this on Snapchat!”
My reaction is immediate and visceral.
“No.” I cover her hands with mine. “Don’t. Everyone will come here looking for him—it’ll be a madhouse.”
“Exactly!” She jumps up and down. “Business will be crazy. Ooh! We should name a pie after him! The McHotty—the king of pies!”
I know that would be the smart thing to do. The part of me that doesn’t actually want to get kicked out on the street yells, Sell, sell, sell!
But it feels…wrong.
I’m still not entirely sure Nicholas isn’t the dickhead he acted like the other night. I don’t owe him a thing. And yet, selling him out, using him to bring in business, telling the world where he might show up next, feels like…a betrayal.
“He won’t come back if you post that, Ellie.”
“Did he say he was going to? That he’s coming back?” This possibility seems to excite her more than a million social media likes.
“I…I think he will.”
And electricity races up my spine, because I want him to.
Ellie and I use the rare day off as a do-it-ourselves spa day. We soak our feet, loofah our heels, and paint each other’s nails. We glob Vaseline on our hands and put them in thick cotton socks, to moisturize. We rub a mixture of olive oil and raw eggs through our hair, then wrap our heads in plastic wrap, a verrry attractive look—if only Instagram could see us now. We put cucumber slices on our eyes and oatmeal masks on our faces—all with a VH1 The Big ’80s: The Big Movies marathon playing in the background—Ghostbusters, St. Elmo’s Fire, Dirty Dancing. We finish the beautification ritual by tweezing each other’s eyebrows—the ultimate trust exercise.
At about four o’clock, our dad comes out of his room. His eyes are tired and bloodshot, but he’s in a good mood. We play a few rounds of Hearts, a game he taught us when we were kids, then he makes Ellie and me tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. It’s the best dinner I’ve had in a long time—probably because someone else made it for me. After the sun goes down and I can see my reflection in the window, Ellie slips on her boots, throws her coat over her pajamas, and walks to a friend’s house down the block. Our dad follows soon after—heading to the bar to “watch the game” with the guys.
And in my bed, alone, with a sandalwood and coconut candle burning on the nightstand, feeling soft and smooth and pretty, I engage in the activity I’ve been fantasizing about all day long.