“Tall enough for what, may I ask?” Jamie inquired politely.
“You know,” Heaven said meaningfully.
Oh brother.
“Jamie, this is my best friend, Heaven.”
“Very best friend,” she added. “I know everything,” she whispered, leaning in close.
“Then I’ll do my utmost to ensure Dylan only provides you with exemplary reports in areas where I am concerned.”
“I like this one.” She squinted at him critically. Then she snorted. “This one. Not like there’s been a bunch. Jamie, you are the first guy Dylan’s ever—”
“Great!” I interrupted them briskly. “Great introductions, just great stuff all around.”
They both stared at me.
“Should we get some dancing going?” I asked, pulling at the neckline of my dress. How was it suddenly so hot in here? “Like, we’ve got these stupid shoes on, might as well dance, right?”
“I couldn’t agree more!”
Kit Kirby leaped into the room with a grand jeté even higher than Heaven’s had been, his short legs sticking out from beneath his kilt in a perfectly perpendicular line to his round torso. He landed in a plié, bringing his arms above his head with a dramatic flourish.
“The dance!” Kit declaimed grandly, stepping toward us with outstretched arms and pointed feet. “Poetry in motion! Och, Scottish country dancing, the finest jewel in the artistic crown of the British empire! You American ladies are in for a treat! It’s your first ceilidh, int’it?”
“Cay-what?” I asked.
“Ceilidh,” Ronan answered in his rumbly Scottish burr. “A ceilidh’s a Scots party of sorts with music and dancing. And you can bet your arse our wedding will be the biggest damn party the Highlands have ever seen!”
I legit could never keep a straight face when Ronan started waxing lyrical about Scottish traditions or even mentioned the word “Highlands.” I knew the Highlands were, like, an actual geographical location, but whenever Ronan said it he sounded one step away from painting his face blue.
“Hear, hear,” Kit Kirby cheered. “I plan on dancing ’til dawn and waking up either engaged or imprisoned. Or both.”
“Ooo, that’d be a real fairy-tale ending, Cinderella.” Ronan laughed.
“You’re not the only one who deserves a happily ever after, yer lairdship,” Kit retorted. “Now, everyone,” he addressed the five of us, suddenly all business. “When we begin to dance, please, dinna be intimidated.”
“Intimidated?” Heaven crossed her arms. “By you?”
Heaven wasn’t just in show choir. She was also on the dance team, and anytime she began to move, a dance circle magically formed around her. Going to a school dance with Heaven was like being an awkward extra on the set of a music video. You just had to get out of her way or prepare to be demolished by a tornado of rhythm.
“Is that a challenge, you wee slip of a thing?” Kit stepped up to her, belly first.
“Could be.” She posed, one hand on her hip. “You looking for a dance battle?”
“Jazz shoes at dawn!” he cried.
“Can we please begin?”
I hadn’t even noticed Ronan’s mom come into the room. Or the violinist behind her. But as soon as I heard her crisp tones, it was like the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. Unlike the rest of us cotton balls, Florence was wearing a black velvet blazer and a calf-length tartan skirt. I swear, that woman owned more blazers than Hillary Clinton.
“Two lines. Ladies and gentlemen facing,” she commanded. “Jamie, your posture is, as always, impeccable.”
I rolled my eyes at Jamie as I walked into the girls’ line. His posture was, as always, unremarkable. He must have written Florence some really choice thank-you notes in his childhood or something.
“This isn’t over,” Heaven mouthed at Kit Kirby as she stalked across from him to the head of the line.
“The first dance at the reception will be the Scottish Grand March,” Florence announced.
“Our first dance?” Dusty’s brow wrinkled as we all turned to look at her. “But that’s not our song.”
“I’m sorry?” Florence asked frostily.
“Our song is ‘It’s Your Love.’ Tim McGraw and Faith Hill?” Florence remained stone-faced as Dusty kept talking. “It was playing at the bar the night we first kissed. Remember, boo?”
Ronan leaned across the line and squeezed her hand.
“It’s tradition,” Florence sniffed. “The bride and groom always enter the reception hall to the Scottish Grand March, followed by the wedding party. I suppose you may have your American first dance afterward.”
“Well…all right, then,” Dusty said in a watery voice. “I mean, that’s great!” she added brightly, smiling desperately at Florence. “I’m so honored to do the Scottish Grand March. Thank you so much, Lady Dunleavy.”
“Um, excuse me?” I raised my hand, like I was in school. “Followed by the wedding party? Do we have to do a dance? Like all of us?”
“Yes.”
“Dancing’s not really my thing,” I said lamely.
“You’ll be fine, wee sister,” Ronan said kindly. “It’s mostly marching around in a circle.”
“Precisely. No challenge at all for a dancer of any merit,” Kit added.
“We’ll see who’s got merits once we start this march,” Heaven said.
“The march will be merely the beginning. We will of course have a traditional ceilidh band playing traditional Scottish music throughout the reception,” Florence continued.
That was a lot of traditional.
“Will they know any Tim McGraw?” Dusty asked worriedly.
“I’ll make sure they do, darlin’,” Ronan promised.
“While I cannot promise any Tim McGraw”—Ronan’s mom spoke over her son—“I can assure you they will be playing ‘The Duke of Atholl’s Reel,’ and you will all be dancing it.”
A snort escaped. I hastily tried to cover it up as a cough.
“Atholl?” Jamie mouthed across the line.
“Yup,” I mouthed back.
He nodded sympathetically.
“The Duke of Atholl’s Reel is Dunleavy tradition!” Florence said shrilly. “And I expect perfection in its execution.”
“Perfection is guaranteed,” Kit Kirby declared.
“From some of us,” Heaven countered, apparently having forgotten that Anne Marie, not her, would be doing these dances on the big day.
Ronan’s mom began walking us through the steps of the dance. There was a lot of pacing back and forth and hopping and skipping from side to side. I wasn’t really getting any of it. But the beautiful thing about dancing in a line was that if the people around you knew what they were doing, they could just push you along. And that’s exactly what they did.
After several dry runs, Florence cued the fiddler, and we began walking toward each other and skipping back and forth.
“Dylan,” Jamie whispered as we circled with our arms around each other’s waists. “I want to take you on a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes, a date,” he repeated as we spun the other way. “A proper date. One that doesn’t involve horse blankets. Something outside the grounds of Dunyvaig Castle.”
We backed away into our respective lines. Hop, skippity, skip. Skip, skip, skip. First Dusty and Ronan passed, then Heaven and Kit; then we joined hands and skipped together down the aisle of dancers.
“What, like, dinner and a movie?”
“Something like that,” he answered, an amused smile playing about his lips. “Will you go out on a date with me?”
“Um. Sure.” As I realized suddenly that I didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, I continued, “Yes. Yes I will.”
“Good.”
He deposited me at the end of the line, and we clapped in time with the music as Ronan spun Dusty through the dancers and around the room.
“Friday. That’s the traditional date night, yes? I’ll pick you up at
eight,” he said, clapping away merrily.
“What exactly is Mr. Darcy blabbering on about over there?” Heaven asked, leaning into my ear so I could hear her above the music.
“Dinner at eight.”
“What?”
“A date,” I marveled. “I’m going on a date.”
“This really is a castle of miracles,” Heaven marveled right back.
“Shut it,” I whispered.
But even though I’d never admit it, I agreed.
Somehow, I survived five days of torturous anticipation, during which I managed to remain relatively normal around Jamie and committed myself to attacking any and all chocolate-covered biscuits with gusto. As I walked into my bedroom on Friday afternoon, I stiffened involuntarily, the hairs on my neck rising. Something was off. There was a dress waiting on my bed, and it wasn’t mine.
I walked toward it suspiciously, just in case it decided to fly up and try to smother me. But it remained stationary.
“What’s up with all these white dresses?” I muttered as, almost of its own accord, my hand reached out to touch it. “I’m not the one getting married.”
The dress had long sheer lace sleeves and a short ruffled skirt below the dropped waist. The ivory lace was made up of cascading flowers and vines, but not in a way that looked cheesy or tacky. It was like a modern princess dress. It looked like a dress that belonged in this castle.
I noticed a shoe box to the right of the dress with an envelope propped up on top. Curious, I opened it.
Production thought you might not have brought anything suitable. Enjoy your date!
∼ Pamela
A chill ran down my spine as I sank onto the bed. Of course they knew. Of course. How could I be so stupid to think that leaving Dunyvaig meant leaving TRC behind? Part of me wanted to stuff that dress in the bathtub and drown it out of spite, but it was too beautiful to destroy. And what if Jamie was wearing a suit and I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt? I’d look like an idiot. Maybe it was better to take the dress from the devil and save face. Hell, this was actually nice of them, in a strange, interfering way. It would have been way worse if they’d sent me out on a date in my gym shorts or something. Maybe Pamela wasn’t conspiring with the network to make me look like a total idiot after all.
Honestly, though, I had a hard time believing Pamela wanted me to look like anything. I couldn’t imagine that anyone at TRC could possibly be interested in the dating misadventures of Scotland’s two most socially awkward tourists. They must have been really starved for footage if they thought sending cameras to downtown Dunkeld with me and Jamie was a worthwhile use of their time. This dress seemed like a useless expense for something that would inevitably end up on the cutting room floor. Or whatever the digital equivalent of that was.
A knock at the door. Was that Jamie? No! Impossible! It wasn’t anywhere near eight, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready!
“Dilly?”
Definitely not Jamie.
“Dilly, it’s Dusty. Let me in!”
I swung the door open. She looked good even in yoga pants and an absolutely enormous Cambridge rugby shirt that must have been Ronan’s. Annoying. Although why anyone required a full face of makeup when roaming around in a sweat suit was beyond me. The world wasn’t going to end if Dusty didn’t wear eye shadow 24/7. I wondered if Ronan had ever actually seen her real face.
“Are you moving in?” I pointed to the rolling suitcase at her feet.
“Naw, that’s hair and makeup stuff.” She strolled right past me into the room as I shut the door behind her. “I thought I could help you get ready for your date!”
“Oh Lord,” I moaned. “Did they broadcast this on the news? Is there an unofficial Dunyvaig Castle newsletter I haven’t been getting? How does everyone know about this?”
“There are no secrets in this place,” Dusty said darkly as she unzipped her suitcase. “You should just be happy the camera isn’t here now.”
“Yeah. How exactly did you manage that?”
“I sold them on a movie-makeover-type transformation, but they want it to be magic. They don’t want to, like, see the process.”
“I don’t understand why you had to sell them on anything,” I said. “This show isn’t about me. It’s about you. Why do they want to film this at all?”
“They film everything, Dylan. That includes Mama doing her crossword puzzles. That includes Ronan flossing after breakfast. That includes you. Get used to it.”
Get used to it? Never. I snorted at her, but she ignored it.
“Besides, everybody loves a makeover, but nobody wants to see the foundation go on.” Dusty busied herself unpacking various potions and bottles and setting them up on my desk. “TRC wants the audience to think you waltzed up here all…you…and waltzed right back on down all Princess Barbie.”
“Like Hermione at the Yule Ball.”
“Yes, nerd.” She rolled her eyes.
“Harry Potter is not nerdy!” I cried. “He is a universally beloved boy wizard!”
“You’re not helpin’ your case, Dilly.”
“Well, you can pack right on back up and take your Harry Potter hatred out of here. I don’t need that attitude. I don’t need your help getting ready for my date. And I definitely don’t need a makeover.”
“Come on, dummy.” She kept unpacking, ignoring me completely. “Jamie likes you just as you are, and that’s great, but everyone can use a little bit of enhancement.”
“I really don’t want to be enhanced.” I folded my arms across my chest protectively.
“Dylan.” She finally stopped unpacking, sat back on her heels, and looked up at me. “Do you remember what your favorite movie was when you were little?”
“Um, abrupt change of subject, weirdo.”
“Answer the question.”
“The Little Mermaid.”
“That’s right.” She smiled fondly. “You made me watch that thing so many damn times. I considered doing serious damage to that DVD to free myself from a lifetime of listenin’ to ‘Under the Sea’ fourteen times a day. And do you remember what your favorite part was?”
“The crab?”
“No, it was not the crab,” she scoffed. “It was the part when Ariel comes into the dining room wearing the pink dress, and Prince Eric sees her, and his li’l cartoon eyes light up because she is just so damn beautiful. You made me rewind it over, and over, and over again. You loved that part. Sometimes that was the only bit you watched all day.”
“Okay…”
“And when you walk down the stairs tonight,” she continued, “and Jamie is waitin’ there to take you out, don’t you want his eyes to light up just like he’s Prince Eric in the ballroom? This is your pink-dress-Ariel moment,” she said seriously. “Live the fantasy a little.”
I looked at her in silence. She looked back at me, steely eyed.
“Fine,” I said in the quietest voice imaginable.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Fine,” I repeated, louder. “Fine, okay, fine! Do whatever! Just don’t be annoying about it!”
“Oh, Dilly!” she squealed, leaping to her feet and squeezing me into a tight hug. “This is going to be so much fun! You won’t regret it, I swear! And I won’t be annoying at all!”
“Too late,” I murmured through the muffled strangulation of her hug.
I had no idea why I was doing this. No, that was a lie—I knew exactly why. I hated myself for admitting it, but I wanted Jamie’s eyes to light up like he was a cartoon and I was a mermaid. And also a cartoon.
“All right, now, first things first.” She released me from the hug and leaped back to the suitcase, which she began rummaging through like a rabid badger. “Aha!” She sprang up, triumphantly holding a small box aloft.
“Dusty, no,” I commanded. “Put the Clairol down.”
“But you said—”
“I’m not going blond.”
“But you’re already blond!” she protested. “It’s jus
t sort of…dirty…and ashy…and sad.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically. “I’m not going blond like you and Mom.”
“No, not like me and Mom. Go blond like you. See?” She held the box up to the side of my head. “It’s your color, just a little brighter. A real natural, soft, honey blond. Just trust me, Dilly. Please. Can you trust me?”
She’d asked me to trust her before. And I’d ended up drinking salad dressing because she’d sworn it was lemonade. Somehow, I still hadn’t learned.
“Fine.” I capitulated. “Fine. If we’re gonna do this, let’s just do this.”
“No more fighting me?”
“As long as there’s no blue eye shadow.”
She grinned. “Deal. Now get in the bathroom, girl, we’ve gotta get you ready!”
What felt like hours of plucking and primping and curling later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, touching my face in disbelief. Who was this stranger with soft gray-blue eyes framed by long dark lashes? Whose plump peachy lips were those? They sure weren’t mine. Hell, even my nose looked straighter, somehow, and I’m pretty sure Dusty hadn’t engaged in any clandestine rhinoplasty while I wasn’t paying attention. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right about the hair. Brightening it up a little bit made my whole face glow. Or maybe I was just excited to see Jamie.
“Do I look okay?” I asked nervously as I crossed out of the bathroom, tugging on the hem of my dress. “Is this dress too short?”
“No!” Dusty yelled. “It’s perfect. As long as you stop playing with your skirt like a toddler.”
Suddenly, Dusty clamped her lips together and bolted for the bathroom. She didn’t even have time to shut the door behind her before I heard the unmistakable splatter of vomit.
“Jeez, overreact much? I thought you said I looked okay!” I followed her to the bathroom, leaning against the open doorjamb. “What the heck is going on with you, Barfy? Are you pregnant?”
Blearily, Dusty looked up from the toilet bowl. But the expression that flitted across her face wasn’t nausea—it was panic.
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