“I just got off the plane in London, and I was mobbed by the press.” He muttered something that I didn’t quite catch, but I could imagine what it might be. “They were all yelling at me about you. Kyra, did you say anything to the media?”
I couldn’t answer him for a moment. Hurt and a little pissed at his assumption, I hoped he could hear the annoyance in my tone. “Of course, I didn’t. What do you think of me? I didn’t even tell Shelby. She just found out what’s going on when she tried to leave the house to buy milk and ran into a bunch of photographers in our front yard.” I sniffed a little. “She needed milk to make me waffles, because she’s such an awesome friend, and I hadn’t even told her. So please don’t insult me by assuming I’d blab to the press.”
“Kyra.” I heard the apology in his voice even before he spoke the words. “I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to say. I was taken by surprise—like I told you last night, reporters don’t take that much notice of me usually. I can come and go without them bothering me. I didn’t have any warning this time. I guess I sort of went over the edge. I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “But how did this happen? And why do they care?”
“They have a picture of us,” Nicky said grimly. “It’s a little blurry and dark, but it’s clear enough to see you and to recognize me.”
“The lady with the phone?” I rubbed my forehead, where a headache was lurking. “I told you I thought she was taking pictures.”
“Probably,” Nicky agreed. “Not that there was anything we could’ve done at that point, even if my policeman had caught her in the act.”
“But how did they figure out who I am?” I hadn’t seen anyone I recognized at the restaurant. “Gav would never tell anyone. He’s not that way.”
“You made the reservation last night in your name,” he reminded me. “It wouldn’t take much investigation to find that information. And the hostess recognized me—she had your name on her computer. Not that difficult to come up with the right answer when you add two and two.”
“Ack.” I dropped back down onto the bed, closing my eyes. “What a mess. What do I tell them? How do I deal with this?”
Nicky sighed. “It’s best just to be as pleasant as you can be. Don’t talk to them, but don’t run away. Smile and ignore their questions. If you have to say something, say ‘No comment.’”
I wrinkled my nose. “Great. On the other hand, I could just stay in the house until they get bored and go away.”
“You could do that, but then you and Shelby wouldn’t get your waffles, would you?” There was a teasing note in his voice. “By the way, please do apologize to Shelby for me. Please tell her that it was totally my fault you kept her in the dark. And tell her . . .” He hesitated. “Tell her that I can’t wait to meet her the next time I’m in the states.”
I swallowed. “So . . . there’s definitely going to be a next time? All this . . . the press . . . it doesn’t scare you off?”
He laughed softly, and the intimacy of the sound thrilled my heart. “I think that’s a question I should be asking you, not the other way around. It’s going to take more than some idiots snapping pictures and yelling questions to frighten me.” He hesitated. “What about you?”
“Puh.” I blew out a breath. “Please. I don’t scare that easily. Besides, they’ll get bored and go away soon.”
“Right.” There was a voice in the background, speaking low. Nicky said something in reply, but it was too muffled for me to understand. “Sorry, but I need to go now. I’ve got a meeting, and I’m late. Talk to you tonight?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Okay. Bye, then.”
I sat with the phone in my hand for a few more seconds. The mattress dipped as Shelby sat down next to me. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes were full of curiosity.
“Want to catch me up on a few things, Kyra?”
The rest of that day was surreal, like something that was happening to a different person. Only, it wasn’t. It was happening to me.
Shelby had listened to my explanation in complete silence. When I’d finally run out of things to say, she’d just shaken her head.
“I get it. I understand why you didn’t tell me. And I forgive you. But holy shit, Kyra. He’s a prince. You’re dating a prince. That’s . . . it’s kind of insane.”
I’d dropped back onto my bed, screwing my eyes shut. “I know.”
“By the way, whoever outed you didn’t know you at all. The reporters were all shouting your name when I came out—they thought I was you—but they were pronouncing it wrong. They said Keera, not Kyra. I didn’t correct them, because—well, because I was too stunned.”
“That makes sense. If they got my name from someone at The Meadows, from the list of reservations—that wouldn’t tell anyone how to say it, just how to spell it. At least I know it wasn’t anyone close to me who spilled the beans.”
“So what comes next?” Shelby had laid down on the bed, too, stretching alongside me. “Are you going to England? Do you have to get a bodyguard? How does this work?”
I’d lolled my head slowly back and forth. “I have no idea, Shelby. No idea at all.”
As much as I’d wanted to hide in bed all day and hope that the reporters got tired of waiting, I had promised to meet Ed at the garden before lunch, which meant I had to get up and put on some clothes, even if there weren’t any waffles coming my way anymore. It was too late for us to make them now, and I was too rattled to enjoy them, even though Shelby had calmed down enough to offer to make the necessary the milk run.
She trailed me from my room to the closet to the bathroom as I got ready to leave, peppering me with leftover questions.
“Did he talk about his family?”
“Does he live in a palace?”
“Is he an amazing kisser?”
“Is that really what you’re wearing?”
At the last one, I wheeled around, hands on my hips. “Since when do you critique my wardrobe choices for working in the garden? Yes, this is what I’m wearing. Jeans, my boots and a sweatshirt. Those are garden clothes. If I put on a dress and heels to get on my hands and knees to dig, Ed would have me committed. And he’d kick me off the project, which would make me furious since it’s my idea in the first place.”
“Fine, fine.” Shelby held up her hands. “I’m just saying, whatever you walk out in right now is what they’re going to take pictures of, and those pictures will show up everywhere—and that’s going to be the first impression you give the world. Couldn’t you skip the garden today and go visit H squared instead? You could put on a really cute dress, and I’d do your hair for you.”
“No, I could not.” Catching up my curly hair, I wrangled it into a band on the back of my head. “Because Honey would think I was crazy if I showed up at her house, all dressed up. I can’t stop living my life because there are a few people with cameras in our yard, Shelby. Besides, Nicky wouldn’t want me to change anything about myself. He said so.”
“I’m not suggesting you should. But there’s a difference between changing who you are and presenting who you are in the best possible light. When you’re first dating someone, you realize that if this person is your one and only, eventually he’s going to see you without make up, with your hair a mess. He’s going to see you on sick days and PMS days—and yeah, he’s going to see the not-so-pretty. But you don’t show him that on the very first date, or he’d go running into the hills, just like you would if he showed up unshaven in dirty boxers and a three-days’ growth of beard. Putting your best foot forward isn’t lying about who you are.”
“I agree with you. Which was why, when Nicky was here, he saw me all dressed up, and he saw me in jeans. He saw me at our romantic dinner in my cute little dress, and he saw me at the garden, mucking up dirt. I don’t have to impress him.” I sat on the edge of my bed to tie my Converse.
“It’s not Nicky I’m talking about here. It’s the world, Kyra. I
t’s his family. They’re going to get their first look at you in these pictures.”
I stood up, reaching for my sunglasses. “And that is why I’m wearing my sneakers and not trudging out in my garden boots, which are in the back of the car. If they follow me to the garden, they can see me in my boots.” I paused as a new thought occurred to me. “I hope they don’t follow me to the garden. I don’t want people tromping all over my plants. That would suck.”
“That’s what worries you most, huh? Your plants? Aren’t you the least bit spooked about what they’re going to write about you? Aren’t you at all nervous?”
“Shelby, relax. This isn’t a big deal.” I dangled the car keys from one finger. “Do you need to use the car? You can drop me off if you do.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m here all day, studying for finals. Without milk or waffles, of course.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to remember to pick up the milk on the way home, and maybe we can have waffles for dinner. Okay?” I bent to kiss her cheek. “See you later, chick. Thanks for forgiving me and understanding about Nicky.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand. “Go on. Go get mobbed by the press and let them photograph you in your dirty jeans.”
I stuck out my tongue at her. “They’re not dirty. They’re well-loved.”
“Whatever!” she yelled after me, so that I was laughing when I opened the door to step outside . . . and was immediately overwhelmed.
Once upon a time, I thought celebrities who wore sunglasses all the time were being ridiculous and putting on affectations. But now . . . now, suddenly, I got it. Because even with my sunglasses, and even though not all of the people taking pictures were using flashes—it was gray and cloudy outside—I was momentarily blinded on my own front stoop.
“Keera! Over here! Keera! Are you Keera? Keera! Are you dating Prince Nicholas? How did you meet? Are you in love with him, Keera? Are you moving to England? Are you planning to see him again? How long have you been together? Keera! Over here. Smile for us, love! Give us a smile!”
I wanted nothing more than to run back inside my house and slither under my bed. I forced myself to try to walk forward, keeping my head down until my eyes cleared and I could see where the hell I was walking. I was terrified that I’d stumble over a rock and land on my ass. Talk about first impressions.
“Keera! Are you in university? Do you have a job? Did you see the pictures of you with Prince Nicholas? What did you think?”
“Keera—”
“Actually, it’s Kyra.” I couldn’t stand it one more moment. Hearing them yell my name—saying it wrong—was like nails on a chalkboard. “Kyra. If you’re going to yell my name, could you at least pronounce it right? Thanks.”
As if all the reporters thought with one brain, they fell silent when I spoke. I could still hear the click of the cameras, though. I managed to reach my car.
“Kyra, then.” The voice was closer than I expected it to be, and I startled. “Kyra Duncan. I’m Sophie Kent. Would you like to give me a statement about your relationship with Prince Nicholas? Something that we can print—you know, your side of things. So that the world can hear your story. What it’s like to be an American girl dating a British prince.”
When I didn’t answer, she went on. “If you don’t say something, we’ll just run the story based on what we’re guessing and seeing. Conjecture. Give us something to print.”
I opened my car door and turned to face the woman standing behind me. She was about my age, I guessed, holding a camera and a small recorder. I knew she was here because she had a job to do, but I didn’t like the situation any better, even though I understood the why.
With a ghost of a smile, I shook my head.
“No comment.”
TO MY RELIEF, THE REPORTERS didn’t follow me to the garden. I drove with one eye on my rearview mirror, watching for anyone who might be trailing me. I even took the precaution of driving a circuitous route, but it didn’t matter—when I pulled in, the parking lot was empty except for Ed’s truck.
When I joined him at the control plot, he hardly spared me a glance before he launched into an update on the plants, the weeds, the bugs and the soil test results. For a solid fifteen minutes, I only had to make grunting noises of affirmation as he spoke. It seemed that Ed remained blissfully unaware of anything going on with me.
I spent two wonderful hours immersed in the soil and plants, forgetting anything that had to do with England, reporters or cute guys who kissed me until I forgot how to breathe. I’d left my phone in the car on purpose; being away from everything was a wonderful respite, and I needed it.
But nothing good lasts forever. After Ed and I walked to the parking area, he climbed into his truck and rattled away. I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and checked my phone.
I had over fifty messages.
“Shit,” I groaned, my voice reverberating in the emptiness of the car. For a dizzy moment, I considered driving far, far away, to some place where no one knew me or could find me. It was tempting, but it was also impossible—and running away was a coward’s escape. I was no coward.
With a deep breath, I began scrolling through messages. The first five were from my mother. Apparently, Honey had filled her in on last week’s spring-the-prince on Kyra dinner, but now that she’d seen photographic evidence, she was gushing and wanted ALL the details. The next six were from my sisters—four from Lisel and two from Bria—demanding an update and accusing me of being “the worst sister in the world” for not sharing my news with them. Then there were two from Honey, asking if I was all right and if I needed any help.
Bless my grandmother. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could hide out at my grandparents’ house until all of this blew over. They had acres of land and security. I’d be safe there, and no one would bother me. It was definitely a thought to tuck in the back of my mind.
The rest of my messages were from old friends who hadn’t contacted me in years, or acquaintances from both college and grad school. A few came from numbers I didn’t recognize and asked pointedly personal questions that I deleted hastily.
Are you sleeping with Prince Nicholas?
How’s the sex?
Were you a virgin when you met?
“Oh, my God.” I dropped my phone on the passenger seat and closed my eyes, leaning my forehead on the steering wheel. “This is insane.”
My phone buzzed with a new text—this time, it was Shelby.
Check out TMZ. You made their site—and their show.
“Great. Just great.” I groaned again, but I swiped my fingers across the screen and did an internet search until I found the site in question.
Prince Nicholas finds love in the US!
Britain’s Prince Nicholas, cousin of the heir to the throne, has often been known as the playboy of the royal family. But it seems now he’s broadening his horizons and coming across the pond to find love.
This picture was sent to us by a vigilant reader in Coby, Maine—a small town south of Bangor. You can see the lover prince with his American girlfriend at a local restaurant here—and you’ll need an oven mitt to pick up the HEAT of the kiss between these two.
Sources tell us that the woman in the photo is Kyra Duncan, 24, a student at Grant College. Other people at the restaurant with the pair say that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other all evening—and that neither of them were shy about showing the sizzling attraction between them.
Although Prince Nicholas flew back to England today, we’re betting it won’t be long before these two hook up again.
Meanwhile, we reached out to Kyra to get her take on her royal boyfriend. She didn’t have a comment for us. But clearly, she wasn’t dressing for a date today.
Below those words was a picture of me from earlier, standing by my car as I opened my mouth to give my no comment answer. My mouth was opening, the camera had caught my head mid-turn, and I looked horrible.
“Holy shit.” I dropped my head ba
ck to the steering wheel. “Holy fucking shit.”
The phone buzzed again, but this time, I was afraid to look at it. When I did peep down at where it rested on my lap, the number on the caller ID was unfamiliar. I hit ignore. Five seconds later, it started again—different number, still unknown.
Picking up the phone, I placed it face-down on the seat next to me, started up my car and drove home.
I’d hoped that the hours I’d spent at the garden would have allowed time for the reporters to grow bored with waiting and leave. But when I turned into the driveway, there was still a knot of strangers holding cameras. True, that group was smaller than it had been—but they were still there.
I picked up my phone and shot Shelby a terse message.
I’m home. Make sure the door is unlocked, please.
The reporters who had lingered clearly were the more tenacious of the bunch, but apparently, they were also slightly less bold. No one crowded my car as I climbed out and made a dash for the back door, although the minute I’d left the safety of the driver’s seat, they all began calling to me.
“Kyra! Are you going to see Prince Nicholas again soon?”
“Kyra! Over here. Do you think you’re going to be the new American princess?”
Well, at least they had my name right this time.
I made it inside and closed the door behind me with a long sigh of relief. Shelby glanced up at me from the kitchen table, where she sat in front of her laptop.
“You okay?” Her voice was sympathetic.
“I guess so. It’s crazy . . . and that’s just the ones who are actually here, in this country. Shelby, you should see the messages on my phone. And hear the voicemails. People are nuts. And why? Because someone took a picture of me with a guy who happens to be part of a famous family in England?”
Shelby cocked an eyebrow at me. “I did a little investigating while you were gone. I saw the picture that set all this off. That wasn’t just a friendly peck, Kyra. The kiss was hot. That’s what people—the press—are responding to.”
The Anti-Cinderella Page 9