Being back at the scene of the crime makes me feel like shit for not telling my father to toss out his folder of dirt. I should have explained that he had it all wrong. I wasn’t some helpless girl seduced by the dashing prince, and if our relationship was strained, it was probably mostly my fault. I knew what I was doing back then, but no father wants to hear that about his daughter.
Sure, it was all complicated as hell, but that wasn’t because of Ollie.
Still, I pick up the folder of articles. It wouldn’t be fair to read them. How did I even know any of them were true? The sheer amount would suggest there was some validity to the rumors that floated my way across the pond. Those stories followed me into every frat party I attended. Every group of girls I tried to befriend. Soon as they figured out who my father was, they knew I was the little American girl who grew up among princes, and there was no quelling the tide of inquiries into my personal life.
Aren’t you that girl?
The one who grew up with the royal family?
What were they like?
Didn’t you feel so plain? So common living with them?
Is it true about the youngest one?
I was so bombarded by questions that pertained to my old life that I became a hermit. Mostly. Except for a few friends I played basketball or futbol with…and a married professor, that is.
My first experience with the press corps had been my first Easter living at the palace. The press had already had a field day with the idea that a former American ambassador and his daughter were living with royalty. Stories about my mother’s death were splashed across newspaper covers for weeks. Tidbits about what kind of cereal I ate made the nightly news. I had never been the best reader, even back then, but the small bits of comprehension that I could manage at such a young age made my whole existence seem otherworldly, like I was living outside of myself. The girl I thought I was replaced by some new girl, a girl who looked like me but wasn’t me. And this girl stole my identity. She pretended to be something I wasn’t. This went on and on until she became the real version, and I was nothing but an imposter.
I didn’t know how to speak about it, this sense of a fractured self. My father was happier than I had seen in months, and I didn’t want to cause any problems. The sweet blue-eyed, blond-haired American Alexandra Ryans didn’t complain. She smiled in her petticoat dresses and pigtails that Mrs. Wright picked out. She stumbled over her curtsey as the press laughed good-naturedly. She rarely spoke at all. Just smiled.
She didn’t dare say anything about how the words would jumble together when she read, or how she stayed up at night wondering why her father never took her to visit her mother’s grave. How she sometimes wished they would return to America, the place where her mother was born. That she could attend a regular school.
She never complained.
She was practically royalty, after all. The whole world saw her as the luckiest girl in existence.
It was an Easter tradition that the royal family walked to the Sandringham church. Commoners would line the roadways in an effort to catch a glimpse of the family, offering their holiday blessings. The king had insisted that we join the family on this walk, desperate to drive home to my father and the world that we were family now.
My father and I walked in the back. Even though he was used to the press, he clutched my hand. Perhaps, even though we never spoke of it, he knew how difficult it had been for me. The crowds were deafening. They yelled out nothing but positive things, but the noise of them, the way they shouted and clamored for the family’s attention, made me feel so small.
I didn’t belong there, and soon, the crowds, the British people, would figure it out. Everything was still so new back then. What if I didn’t kneel at the right time or said the wrong prayer? What if I made a mistake? I was always making them with my tutors. Each step we took, I felt my chest tighten.
A few in the crowd called out my name, and the blood rushed to my ears until all I could hear was my own heartbeat going wild. I didn’t want any of them calling my name. I didn’t need them paying me any special attention. I couldn’t let them figure out just how ordinary I was.
My feet skidded to a stop, and even though my father yanked on my hand, I didn’t budge. He begged and pleaded with me to keep moving, but I couldn’t. I was frozen, stuck between who the family needed me to be and who I really was.
And then, suddenly, my father was gone, and the Dudley brothers flanked me. They surrounded me like a wall, a fort. Aiden took my left hand, and Ollie my right. Freddie stood in front of me, ready to lead the way. I barely knew them. I had only been living in the palace for a few months, but they were there by my side. As I looked into each of their eyes, it didn’t matter that we hadn’t spent much time together. They knew what it was like. Hell, it had been their whole lives. And they weren’t going to let anything happen to me.
I loved each of them from that day on.
I yank open a dresser drawer and shove the folder into it, slamming it shut before the temptation to read the contents grows too strong. What good would it do? Would it make me feel better about the choices I made back then? Choices I couldn’t change? No. Reading those articles would alter nothing.
I wouldn’t read them, but I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, either. Maybe it was knowing Ollie’s darkest secrets were waiting for me, or maybe it was the guilt that ran through me after my father unfairly blamed all of my problems on Ollie, but I feel restless.
I pull some workout clothes from my suitcase before heading toward my closet, hoping that with the decor untouched, the Queen Mother didn’t remove anything from there as well. My closet always held more sports gear than dresses.
Five minutes later, I’m kicking the futbol up and down the South Lawn. It feels good to move, to run. I haven’t been this relaxed in weeks. Not since I got the call from Mrs. Wright that an airline ticket had been purchased for me.
Despite being the middle of July, the summer air is cool, and though I see an occasional staffer or security member walk by, it’s quiet. I’ve worked up a pretty good sweat, and my muscles are loose. I enjoy the way it feels to move like this—the adrenaline that zaps and tingles across my skin like electricity, the way my chest heaves up and down likes waves, the panting of my breath. When one works so hard to go unnoticed, it’s easy to forget what it feels like, this explosion of life. I search for it every time I step on a court or run down a field. There are very few things in life that scream such a strong sense of vitality, and those other things, they have consequences that can, in my experience, be lasting.
Earlier in the night, I had gotten two texts from the professor. Deleted but not forgotten. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo that I wanted to pretend like the whole thing never happened. Even thinking about it now made me nervous. Like if I thought about it long enough, some staff member would read it all over my face and leak it to the press.
With a groan, I shake out my legs and all thoughts of the professor from my brain and run faster. The tiredness that starts to take over my limbs only pushes me harder. Me. This body. It’s the only thing I can control, and so I like to test it. I move farther away from the palace, the darkness of the night shrouding me. I kick hard. Run faster. Zig and zag across the grass as I kick the ball. I move and move until I can do so no longer. Once I’m finally spent, I place my hands on my knees and hunch forward, willing the oxygen into my body.
“Remind me to pick you when we select teams. Your form has gotten a hell of a lot better.”
Startled, I spin around to find Ollie leaning against a tree. The way his eyes roam up and down my body, I’m not entirely sure if he was talking about my athleticism or if he was making a pass. The thought that it might be the latter makes me want to find a sweatshirt and give him a good wallop.
“They say with time comes improvement, but the transformation is breathtaking. Don’t get me wrong, Ryans, you were always good, but this…” He lets out a low whistle.
I’ve neve
r been a fan of this Oliver. The smooth talker. The flirt. Even when everything happened, it was never with this version of him. He had always been different with me compared to how I had seen him talk to other girls.
“What’re you doing out here?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, hoping to give him less of a show. I didn’t want that kind of talk from him. Looking back at what happened to us was already difficult enough. I didn’t need the ease with which he appeared to lump me in with the rest of his conquests to cheapen it.
“I live here, remember? You used to live here as well. Or are you still a bit knackered? From what Mrs. Wright says, you showed up quite sloshed when you stepped off the plane at Heathrow.”
Ollie advances toward me, stepping into the moonlight. It’s only now that I note how dressed up he is. A perfectly fitted black tux leaves nothing to the imagination. Clearly, he’s come from some social event.
When we were younger, after the hustle and bustle of some gala or soiree, Ollie would always disappear for hours. It was years before he shared with me that he liked to walk the grounds. It was always hard to believe that someone who so enjoyed being “on” all the time would need to recharge.
He has certainly grown up.
For most of our childhood, he was only a few inches taller than me. But now, wow, the years have done him justice. I bet he could reach all the pickle jars nestled on the highest shelves. His jacket lays tight against his arms, proving that his workout routine had extended way past the pickup futbol games we joined in on during our younger years. Not only could he reach all those pesky pickle jars, but he could open them without breaking a sweat.
But there’s still a bit of the old Ollie there beneath the bulging muscles he seems to have acquired in adulthood—the same ruddy cheeks and piercing emerald eyes. The wild dark-chocolate hair that spoke of the danger that laid in consorting with Oliver Dudley.
I take a step back. “Mrs. Wright told you? Or are you talking about what you overheard? You know, when you were eavesdropping? Remember that? When you were wearing that ridiculous costume?”
Ollie moves closer. I take another step back. “You are referring to, of course, the time I saved you from the press?”
“That…that was you just taking advantage of a situation,” I stammer. “You love getting to play the hero. Anything that thrusts you into the spotlight. I’m sure you and Liam had a real good laugh over it.”
I slip on the anger like my favorite jersey. Easier to let it course through me than the other feelings that bubble up at seeing him.
Oliver chuckles, pulling out a cigar from his coat pocket. “Why are we arguing, Ryans? I haven’t seen you in years, and we’re sitting here like gobby children.”
I stare at him as he works on lighting his cigar. The lighter illuminates his face in a warm glow, and for a moment I’m taken back.
“What is it, Ryans? Am I hurting you?” he asks, his breath labored.
I shake my head, my own breath too uneven to speak right away. I reach up and run my fingers down the side of his face. Ollie laughs, slightly nervous but mostly amused. “What is it?”
“It’s just I never noticed. I never really looked,” I admit.
“Noticed what?”
How beautiful you are. But I don’t say it. Instead, I bring his lips down to mine, and we fall right back over the abyss again. Together.
“What were you thinking putting on that costume? Acting like you didn’t know me?” I ask, my voice rising.
“I thought you might need a good laugh. Hell, I thought we might both need one. I assumed seeing each other again could be a bit awkward, so I was trying to take some of the tension away from it. God only knows why I thought this might be a bit strange,” he charges, raising an eyebrow.
I feel my cheeks burn at the subtle accusation. “And when were you going to reveal it was you, exactly? It wasn’t enough for you to listen in on all my life regrets? You wanted to sit there and watch me squirm under Mrs. Wright’s sympathy as well?”
“I hardly doubt those were all your life regrets,” he retorts, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice.
“You listened in on things that were private! That stuff wasn’t any of your business!” I yell, refusing to let him turn this into something about us. There is no us. Not then. Not now. There couldn’t be.
Ollie opens his mouth and then shuts it. He brings his cigar to his lips and takes a long pull, his eyes narrowing at me. After a few moments of silence, he nods. “I was a right git not letting you know it was me earlier. I really was just trying to take the piss out of you. Like old times. Thought maybe you needed a bit of reminding that the old times weren’t all bad.”
My throat goes dry, and I find it hard to look at Ollie. I swallow, kicking the futbol from one foot to the other and back again.
“Were they, Ryans? Was it all bad?” The gentleness of his voice causes my head to snap up. The way he looks at me…
“What?” I ask, feeling a bit bewildered by the weight of Ollie’s stare.
Ollie takes another drag of his cigar. “I’m sorry about the ruse. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he explains, choosing to drop his earlier question.
I nod, feeling grateful he’s giving me a pass. I bend down and pick up the futbol, cradling it against my side. “About what you heard in the pub, I…I…I didn’t know…I’m not…” My voice cracks. I bite down on my bottom lip in frustration. How could I explain the past few years of my life? All the mistakes? Especially when I didn’t understand all of them myself.
“What you did back in the States is none of my business, Ryans. You don’t owe me any sort of explanation,” he explains. While I welcome the out, I don’t understand why Ollie sounds so defeated.
“You won’t tell any of them?”
Ollie takes another puff of his cigar before chucking it. He walks over to me until his shoulder brushes against mine. He stares up toward the palace as I stare into the darkness. “Your secrets are safe with me,” he whispers into my ear. “But for the record, before you knew it was me in that pub, I think you rather liked me.”
Bollocks.
Chapter Seven
22 Years, 9 Months, and 25 Days
In most fairy tales, the heroine feels safest in the highest tower of the castle. I’m the most secure when I’m watching a good old futbol match with the Dudley boys.
“Please tell me that’s what you’re wearing to the rehearsal dinner,” teases Ollie’s older brother, and second in line for the throne of England, Freddie.
“You mean this little thing?” I ask, doing a little spin in my sweatpants and Liverpool jersey. “Whatever would Mrs. Wright say?”
“Oh, who cares? As long as she’s busy with you, she’ll leave me alone,” pipes a small voice belonging to a petite brunette, who sits nestled under Freddie’s arm on the couch.
“Yes, Aly, anything you can do to keep Mrs. Wright away from Sophie would be greatly appreciated,” Freddie jokes as he gently detangles himself from his fiancée and stands. He opens his arms up for a hug that I happily fall into. “It has been way too long.”
“I know,” I reply, a bit bashfully, as I pull away.
“You’re Aly? The Aly?” Sophie asks as she moves to stand next to Freddie.
I shrug. “I don’t know about being ‘The Aly’. Makes me sound way more important than I really am.”
“Now, Ryans, you know once you’ve lived in this house, you’ll always be a ‘The Something,’” says a voice from the doorway. I turn to see Ollie watching us, wearing his Manchester United jersey. “You’re The Royal Prince or—”
“—the Royal Pain in the Ass,” quips Freddie. Sophie begins to laugh so hard at his joke that she actually snorts. My eyes go wide as I look over at Ollie. “Perfect for each other,” he mouths to me, and I can’t help but smile.
Freddie wraps an arm around the giggling Sophie and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t she just lovely, Aly?”
“He has to say th
at. Especially now that our wedding is costing the country millions. Too late to go back now,” she teases, her voice all airy and light. I’m not sure if her smile is for him or for me, but it’s the brightest, prettiest smile I’ve ever seen. Without warning, the little sprite of a girl launches herself at me, hugging me till I can’t breathe. “I’ve heard so much about you. We were so worried you wouldn’t be able to make it. Your father mentioned something about being swamped with summer classes at your university.”
Right. Another lie. I manage to free myself from Sophie’s grip before suffocating. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Of course she wouldn’t. Aly’s practically our sister,” Freddie chimes in.
My eyes find Ollie, and his face looks about as red as mine feels. He clears his throat as he moves farther into the room, picking up the remote from the coffee table.
The Queen Anne room is about the only space in the palace safe from Mrs. Wright. Decorated in wood and tartan, it always felt less refined than any of the other rooms. Here we read comics and played board games. Watched futbol and horror movies. How many days did we all spend curled up on the couches just existing together?
“You ready to get spanked today, Ryans?” Ollie asks.
I nearly choke. “Excuse me?”
Ollie points to the telly, which is now showing the start of the Manchester United vs Liverpool game. I quickly glance at Freddie, who’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “In your dreams, Ollie,” I manage to reply with a laugh. A laugh I hope sounds more carefree and less nervous.
“Some nights,” Ollie whispers in my ear as he moves past me to the call box.
“So, you’re here to watch the match?” I ask, turning to Freddie and Sophie, my voice coming out all high and squeaky. “Freddie’s never been much of a futbol fan.”
“I suspect he’d rather read his biography of Winston Churchill in the garden, but he’s being a doll and hiding out with me in here. Mrs. Wright can be a bit overbearing.”
Royal Attraction Page 4