There’s a rumor he only got the Royal Blue gig because he’s friends with the showrunners—apparently, they were all in college together—but it’s hard to hold that against him. He’s actually very good at what he does. He has a vision for the show we’re trying to create. There have been many times I’ve been struggling with Aeryn’s motivation for a certain scene and Peter has taken me aside and said the perfect thing, making it all fall together in my mind.
One of the best things about Peter, though, is that he owns the Cornwall Coastal Hotel a few miles from the studio where we film. It’s a great place for parties. No one ever feels out of place showing up here dressed to the nines, and we often hang out here alongside other names from the industry. Tonight, though, it will be just us. Just the family.
My driver drops me off in front of the hotel and looks back over the seat. “What time should I pick you up?” he asks.
I feel bad asking him to wait— I could be out in twenty minutes, or I might surprise myself and have a great time, emerging in the early hours. I settle on a compromise.
“Not sure yet,” I say. “If you want to head home now, I’ll call you when I’m ready. Is that okay?”
“You got it, Miss Steadman.”
I step out of the car and look up at the hotel. This place never fails to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it. Tonight, Peter has lit up the footlights at the base of each of the columns in front of the main entrance, using colored bulbs so they glow in the red and gold of the Redfall family crest. I suppose that’s in Gary’s honor.
The door to the main lobby stands open, the warm, dry California air blowing in, and I pass under the archway and onto the mosaic tiles.
The woman behind the reception desk looks up at my entrance. “Welcome to the Cornwall Coastal Hotel, Miss Steadman.”
“Thank you.”
I’m not used to everyone knowing who I am. I probably should be, but it’s only been true since Royal Blue started to be so successful. Nowadays, everyone I meet knows my name, and most of them think they know something about me, too.
This woman is staring at me with that hungry gleam in her eye that lets me know she’s mining our interaction for details to report back to her friends later. Anything I do, anything I say, might indicate something to her.
“She seemed overly cheerful,” she might say if I smile back and say hello. “She was obviously covering up her embarrassment about that article we read last week.” Or, “she didn’t say anything at all to me. She’s so cold. No wonder she has trouble making friends.”
Every conversation, every interaction, is fraught. All of a sudden I’m counting down the hours till I’m back in Ohio.
At least the people inside the party itself are my own people. They don’t draw any distinction between me and themselves. And tonight has also turned out to be a good opportunity to dress up. I love wearing designer dresses for award shows, and I enjoy the period costumes I wear as Aeryn, but it’s just not that often I get to pick out a nice dress in a store and wear it somewhere. Tonight’s is a rose-gold strapless sheath covered in sequins from top to bottom. I’ve pinned my hair up on one side, leaving the rest free to tumble around my shoulders.
As I make my way down the hall to the Cornwall’s main ballroom, Lizzie emerges and comes racing toward me. I would say she’s already had a few drinks, but honestly, with Lizzie, it’s impossible to tell. She’s just as buoyant when she’s completely sober. Right now she’s like a balloon, bumping along the ceiling. I wish I could bottle her good energy and drink it like a tonic.
She flings her arms around me. “You came!”
“I told you I would,” I say, laughing. “You didn’t believe me?”
“Seeing is believing,” she says sagely, her tone as serious as if she’d just come up with that saying herself.
“So what’s been going on?” I ask her. “Have you made your move on Peter yet?”
She groans. “Not yet. He’s too gorgeous. I can’t.”
“You’re not ever going to do it, are you?”
We’ve reached the door of the ballroom now and I lean on the frame, taking in the room. A large bar has been set up at one end, and small tables, each seating six, have been arranged around the parquet dance floor in the center of the room.
From here I can see Gary at one table, surrounded by several members of the cast and crew—they’ve pulled up chairs to talk to him. The boy who plays my youngest brother is racing around the dance floor, being chased by the girl who plays the daughter of the royal stable master, and their parents—the only non-industry people at this party—are clustered in a corner around their drinks, talking.
Lizzie takes me by the hand and leads me over to one of the tables, close to the bar. “I saved you a seat.”
“Great.” I drop my purse on the table in front of the empty chair. “Let me just go say hi to Gary, okay? And get a drink? And then I’ll meet you back here, and we can set up a plan for how you’re going to approach Peter.”
Lizzie’s eyes sparkle. “Awesome!”
I shake my head slightly as I walk away, amused by my friend. She might never actually make a move on Peter. For her, planning it and fantasizing about it are almost as good. A part of me wonders if that’s a function of growing up in Hollywood, if it’s made her more able to live in her own imagination. And, if so, is that something that will happen to me if I stay here too long?
I stop by the bar and order a rum and cola. It arrives perfectly mixed, with a lime wedge perched on the rim, just the way I like it. I know Peter is particular about the staff in his hotels, refusing to hire any but the best bartenders, chefs, and even housekeeping staff. It’s one of the reasons his hotels are so noteworthy.
Drink in hand, I make my way over to the table where Gary is sitting. He’s surrounded by a random assortment of people from the show—Chris Watson, two of the writers, one of the showrunners, a background extra who appears regularly in crowd scenes, the art director, and a girl I recognize not from the show but from a spread in a fashion magazine I have in a basket beside my bathtub at home. Of course—she must be Chris’s date. He’s famous for his proclivity for models.
I pull up a chair at the table and Gary’s attention immediately shifts to me. “Erica! You made it!”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him, feeling sincere in the sentiment now that I’m here. I’m very glad I came out, glad to be among these interesting people, glad to help honor Gary as he leaves the show behind. “Royal Blue isn’t going to be the same without you.”
“I guess you two will be fighting for the throne,” Gary says, indicating me and Chris with a chuckle. “I don’t really see Lizzie getting mixed up in that.”
“He can have it,” I say, taking a long pull of my drink.
“Lord Boniface Redfall, King of the Realm,” Chris says, trying it on. “It does have a ring to it, doesn’t it?” The model squirms on his lap and whispers something in his ear, and he laughs aloud. “Someone likes it.”
Gary turns to the writers. “I don’t suppose you could give us a clue?”
“Couldn’t if we wanted to,” one of them says. “Honestly, we haven’t decided where it’s going yet. We’ll probably hole up in a cabin over the hiatus and figure it out.”
“I just wanted to come by and congratulate you,” I tell Gary. “And to tell you how much you’ll be missed.”
He gets to his feet and hugs me. “I’ll miss you too, Princess. You keep kicking ass, okay?”
“Come by and see us,” I say. “Promise?”
“Of course.”
I take my drink and head back over to the table where I left Lizzie. It looks like a few people have gathered there in my absence. One of them is the girl who plays the queen of a warring faction set to destroy the Redfalls. The others play her bevy of handmaidens.
I’m coming up behind Lizzie, but it’s not my intention to eavesdrop. I’m about to announce my presence when I hear my name.
“Poor Erica
, I mean, wouldn’t you just die?”
The tone of Lizzie’s voice is familiar to me. She’s in gossip mode. Her words could be sympathetic, but there’s something in that tone that’s full of delight, gleeful at the chance to dissect someone else’s misfortune. I’ve always known Lizzie had a gossipy side, but it’s so common in LA that I never held it against her.
But now it’s different. She’s talking about me.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” one of the other girls says. “It’s not like they turned up anything scandalous.”
“Oh, God, it’s worse than a scandal,” a third girl says. “You could tell, that reporter just felt sorry for her. It was like…in high school when a teacher said to partner up for a project and there was always that one kid who couldn’t find a partner, and you just had to watch them look around desperately, remember that?”
“She’s always been a bit…different,” Lizzie says. “I mean, you don’t come here from Ohio and immediately just start blending in, do you?”
“Yeah, but she’s been here for years.”
“I actually had to beg her to come out tonight,” Lizzie continues. “She was too embarrassed to show herself. So just be nice to her if you see her, okay? Pretend you haven’t read the article.”
I back away. I can’t let them know I’ve heard this. I can’t let them see me, but I can’t stay here, at this party where people are talking about me. I can’t look around me at every conversation in this room and wonder how many of them are about how weird I am and how humiliated I must be. If Lizzie’s doing it, anybody could be.
I back through the ballroom door into the hall, turn, and walk as quickly as I can back to the lobby, trying to blink away tears. Halfway there I realize I’ve left my purse behind, and that I don’t have my phone. I won’t be able to call my driver to come and pick me up. But I can’t stand to go back. I’ll go to the front desk. Maybe they’ll have a phone I can use. I think I remember the right number to call.
I’m so distracted by everything running through my head that I walk right into someone as I turn the corner from the hall into the lobby. I trip backward in my heels and nearly stumble, but he catches my arm and rights me, and as he does so I look up into his eyes and lose my breath entirely.
He’s gorgeous.
Olive skin. Tousled dark hair and neatly trimmed dark facial hair. Dark eyes, like pools of hot chocolate. It takes me several long moments to realize I’m staring into them, mesmerized by his looks. He’s taller than me by about a foot, and broader, built out with muscle. The hand on my forearm is large, the fingers thick and sturdy, and yet his grip is surprisingly gentle.
His face breaks into a smile. “Princess Aeryn Redfall, it’s lovely to meet you. Prince Alessandro, at your service.” And he steps back, releasing my arm, and sinks into an overly formal stylized bow.
Oh, God. This has happened to me before. Strangers—usually men—have come up to me wanting to start some kind of role-play. It’s usually princes, but sometimes I get knights looking to defend my honor, and once or twice even a rogue looking to kidnap me.
I never know what to say when this happens. I don’t want to spoil their fun, but at the same time, Princess Aeryn is a job for me. It’s a job I like, but I’m not going to go around playing princesses with everyone I meet on the street.
Then the man laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says easily, and I register that he speaks with an accent. It sounds European, Italian, maybe, but I’m not certain. “Though I did recognize you from the show, of course. I’m a fan. Can you forgive me my little joke?”
I’m so relieved that he’s not expecting me to respond in kind that my whole body relaxes instantly. “Of course,” I say. “I don’t mind at all. To tell you the truth, it happens all the time.”
“I’m sure it does,” he says. “After all, you have one of the most recognizable faces in the world.”
“I don’t know about that,” I counter. “My show is big, but it’s an ensemble piece. It’s not like I’m the star. And not everyone watches Royal Blue.”
“I’ll bet,” he says, “that most people could name more members of the Redfall family than of any real-life royal families.”
“Well, in America, that’s probably true,” I say. “We don’t have a royal family to worry about. I don’t know how it is where you’re from, but you seem like you might not be from around here.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “I’m here on holiday.”
“And the country you call home, does it have a royal family?”
“It does,” he says. “And I admit, I’m more familiar with the royals in my home country than I am with the Redfall family. But I also think I’m probably an outlier.”
“What’s your name?” I ask him, feeling bold. “Unless you were serious about me calling you ‘Prince Alessandro?’”
He laughs. “No, I wasn’t. You can call me Alex.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Alex. And you can call me Erica.”
We exchange a handshake. I try hard not to stare at Alex, at his soft eyes and his warm smile, but it’s not easy. He is so handsome. A part of me wants to draw closer to him, to feel the smooth skin of his arms and squeeze the muscles that lie underneath, to explore him like a work of art. I restrain myself, barely.
“What are you doing here tonight?” Alex asks.
“I—” I hesitate. I don’t want to talk about the party—he might suggest that we go back to it together, and that’s the last thing in the world I feel like doing. “I was having some drinks with some friends,” I say.
“Are they waiting for you?” he asks.
“I’m finished,” I say.
He nods. “I was just heading to the bar for a nightcap. Would you like to join me? It’s not often a man gets a chance to meet a princess.” He quirks the side of his mouth, making sure I understand that he’s kidding.
“Sure,” I say, “I’d love that.”
Honestly, at this point, anything to avoid going back to that party. Even if Alex seemed boring or unpleasant, there’s a chance I’d choose an evening with him over the people who can’t stop talking about how sorry for me they feel. It’s infuriating. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m happy in the life I’ve made here in LA, even if things are hard sometimes. But everyone around me can’t seem to stop comparing me to the sad wallflower with no friends in school.
Well, never mind. It’s given me an opportunity, a chance I wouldn’t otherwise have had to sit down for drinks with a handsome man with a deliciously indecipherable accent.
He leads me up the steps into the bar, which is raised slightly above the rest of the lobby, and directs me to a table near the window. From here, we can look out on the city at night. It’s beautiful, serene and quiet.
I know Lizzie is going to wonder what happened to me, and I wonder how long it will take her to realize I’m gone. I do love Lizzie. She’s my best friend here, and I understand her very well. I understand how easy it is for her to get caught up in an interesting piece of gossip, how much she wants to talk to people about what’s on her mind. When she learns, tomorrow, what upset me and made me leave, she’ll be effusive in her apologies. I have no doubt of that.
But as I take in the handsome man sitting across from me, I’m feeling like an apology might not be necessary.
Chapter 3
“So,” Alex says when our drinks have arrived and the server has left us to our conversation, “what’s it like being a princess?”
I laugh. “That’s not what people usually ask me.”
“What do people ask you?” he says, swirling his cocktail in his hand.
“Oh, they want to know what’s going to happen next on the show, usually,” I say. “Or else they want to know about their favorite member of the cast, what he or she is really like.”
“They tell you that you’re not their favorite?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows. “That seems rude.”
“It’s not a big deal. I can’t be everyone’s favor
ite,” I say. “Besides, it’s not like any of these people know us personally. And you get trends. Young women tend to like Chris a lot. Older women prefer Gary, or sometimes Lizzie.”
“Who likes you?” Alex asks.
“Guys,” I say. “Young ones, mostly. Some older, kind of sleazy ones. But like I said, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like they know me, or anything about me.”
He nods and sips his drink. “I bet you’re probably not even allowed to tell them what’s coming up on the show, right?”
“Right,” I confirm. “Not that I know that much about it either, at least not right now. Season three hasn’t even been written yet.”
“Wow,” he says. “But you could tell me how season two’s going to end, I’ll bet?”
With a shock, I remember that the airing dates of the episodes are a few weeks behind the shooting dates—of course they are, but it’s something I never really think about. The huge cliffhanger we shot today isn’t public knowledge yet. I could definitely tell Alex something that no one else knows about the direction of the show.
I lean in conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t normally do this,” I say quietly, “but we did shoot the season finale earlier today, and if you want, I can tell you how it ends.”
I’m not sure why I’m doing it. Ordinarily, I would never betray the show I love so much. Maybe it’s just the shock of having heard my colleagues talking about me. Lizzie and the girls betrayed the trust I had in them for a moment of fun gossiping together. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, right now, to betray the show for a moment of fun with a handsome stranger.
But Alex is shaking his head. “I wouldn’t ask you to tell me anything,” he says. “I’ll wait and see it when it airs like everyone else.”
I’m surprised. “Really? I never offer people information about the show, but most fans I’ve met are dying to find out anything they can.”
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