Royally Yours

by Amy Brent

  My fingers slipped to hers.

  “For a minute there, I was afraid something…untoward was going on there.”

  Her hand squeezed mine.

  “Something like pen poisoning?” she quipped, her smile growing. “Or wait, something even worse…” She lowered her voice, assuming a grave expression. “Fancy shirt defacing.”

  Instead of laughing again, which was what I really wanted to do, I held my lips in a sort of morose expression. Lifting up my left sleeved arm, I asked, “This is fancy to you?”

  She managed a laugh. “Sorry. Forgot you royals probably sleep in gold jammies.”

  “Hey—” My phone buzzed. I answered it without looking.

  “Charles. I’m assuming you’ll be here in the next thirty minutes, seeing as our guests are arriving in the next hour.”

  Hearing Mother’s already displeased voice, I gulped. I really had to get a special ringtone for her, something to alert me—like dun dun dun or just something really annoying.

  “Of course,” I told her. “We’ll be there shortly.”

  “So by that I’m assuming you are with Henry, correct?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered quickly. “You have to give me a minute to get him going. You know how he is.” Before she could respond, I was already chirping, “Got to run. Bye, Mom.”

  As soon as I hung up, I heaved a sigh of relief. Another day, another motherly bullet dodged. I didn’t care to know how pissed our dear Queen Mother would be to find out her sons were at a popsicle photo shoot with sexy American models, or that I had the phone number of one written on my hand.

  Heidi was surveying me with interest in her wide-set eyes.

  “So that was…”

  “Queen Mary, yes,” I said with a flippant wave of my hand. “You know, my mom.”

  She giggled. “This has really been the craziest day of my life.”

  I gave her hand another squeeze.

  “I can’t say this has been exactly a routine day for me either.”

  “Oh come on,” she protested. “You’ve probably met tons of models, gone to tons of shoots.”

  “I’ve had my fair share, yes, but—”

  I stopped myself from saying it seconds in advance because it was ridiculous to say “there’s been no one like you.” I’d just met the girl. What was the big deal? Anyway, I had to get Henry out of here.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, “but I do have to go. My brother and I have a state dinner, and he’s tardy in the best of times.”

  “Of course,” she said in a different voice than before. “I understand.”

  Backed by the other two models, Henry wasn’t the easiest to get out of there. First, he directed the models on a giggling running-away-from-me spree; then he locked himself in the men’s bathroom. Finally, when I threatened to call our mother directly, he relented.

  “But I only got two numbers,” he whined as we walked out of there to the tinted car waiting for us.

  “There were only three all together,” I reminded him.

  “And?” he countered.

  As we got on the road, I glared at the traffic ahead of us that was probably going to make us ten minutes later than Mother would’ve preferred.

  “And I got her number.” I showed my hand.

  He laughed. “Dude, you’re afraid of us getting there late because of me?”

  Glancing down at the looping red-ink script, I realized he had a good point. Sporting a model’s phone number on my hand didn’t exactly shriek of class. I’d have to transfer it to my phone, then vigourously wash my hands.

  Once we got home, I immediately set off for the bathroom before Mother could say a word to me, let alone spot the scrawl in my hand, but something else struck me. Staring at myself in the mirror, I noticed my blond waves were tousled as usual. I leaned in closer. My eyes. It was my eyes that were different.

  “Heidi,” I said to myself. I repeated it once more, liking the sound of it: “Heidi.”

  There was something about that girl, something intriguing, enticing. My mind flashed to the house on 2515 Clair Creek. My hidden house with the hidden room that something told me Heidi would enjoy very, very much.

  Chapter 2

  Heidi

  “Shut up, you liar. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my life.”

  Liza scrunched up her button nose, squishing her freckles into indents. She was sitting on our flower-tiled kitchen floor. I could’ve pointed out that her current floor-bound position was way more ridiculous than what I was telling her, but it wasn’t quite true. Besides, sitting on the floor was Liza’s thing. Whether we were shopping and she got tired or we were at the bus stop too long or even in our own home when there was a usable chair literally two feet away, Liza just liked sitting on the floor.

  Last night, I’d been too beat to tell her about the craziness that had happened at the popsicle shoot. Today, I’d told her two different times and she still wasn’t buying it.

  “Fine. Don’t believe me,” I said simply, flashing her a picture of Charles and me on my phone.

  She stared at it for a long while before she said, in a less certain tone this time, “That was photoshopped.”

  When I followed with a picture of Henry and me, her jaw dropped, showcasing her expensively veneered teeth. Her head then swiveled my way.

  “So you mean literally two days after you had that crazy sultry, creepy dream about you and Charles—”

  “I met him,” I confirmed with a swift nod.

  I thought her jaw couldn’t gape any bigger, but as it drooped farther down, I was proven wrong. Gathering herself on her shaky feet, she said, “So you’re telling me that at the stupid candy photo shoot I turned down, the princes themselves were there?! What!”

  I nodded, reaching into the freezer and producing two of those rocket popsicles: the purple, green, and pink ones I had copiously enjoyed in my childhood.

  I waved one in her face.

  “They gave these to us for free, too, at the end. Extras.”

  She snorted.

  “I figured that much. But no one mentioned anything about the princes, the Prince Henry and Prince Charles, stopping by.”

  “I told you, it was totally unplanned. Some man who owned the building and was renting a room to Rita apparently called a friend who called a friend, who called Henry.”

  “Prince Henry,” she said in hushed reverence, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was saying the words.

  Her blue eyes darted to me suspiciously.

  “And you said that Prince Charles himself asked for your number?”

  “In a way,” I said, smiling at the mere memory of the banter I’d had with Charles. “The important thing is, I scrawled my number on his hand. I doubt he’ll actually call me up. The whole thing itself was like some kind of crazy dream, a fluke.”

  She nodded without saying anything and grabbed the popsicle I’d offered her. With one tear, she released the purple tip and slipped it into her mouth.

  “I want to be happy for you,” she confessed, “but I also want to stab you with the pointy tip of this popsicle.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. That was Liza for you, full of hyperbole and exclamations. She was also the reason I’d agreed to come to London, which was so far away from home. I’d always been close with my family and my friends, but Liza made being away exciting and bearable. Not to mention we were in London, England for God’s sake.

  “But what are you going to do if he does call you up?” she asked, tapping her lower lip with the popsicle.

  “Is that even a question?” I asked, finally starting in on my own popsicle. “Of course I’d agree to do whatever he asks.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, leaning against the wall, assuming a sultry stance. “Whatever?”

  “Okay, you can shut up now,” I said, slinging my wrapper at her halfheartedly. It only travelled about a few inches before swooping down to the ground.

  With one big bite, she remov
ed the purple portion of the popsicle. Chewing it, she said thoughtfully, “If you do manage to meet up with him, or even if he just calls you, you have to promise me one thing.”

  “Anything,” I said in a British accent, slapping my hand to my heart.

  Liza didn’t even notice. Her gaze was off in la-la land, probably imagining what she was going to say next.

  “You have to get me Henry’s number.”

  That wiped the smile clean off my face. She’d gone from disbelieving me entirely to demanding I get her a date with the prince’s brother?

  “He hasn’t even called me yet,” I pointed out, “and probably won’t.”

  She merely responded by biting the whole green trunk off the popsicle. With a mouthful of icy green sugar, she said, “Maybe not, but if he does…”

  “Fine,” I said, hoisting my purse over my shoulder after having chucked my popsicle stick. “Anyway, before you accused me of being a ridiculous liar, we were going to go shopping, if you recall.”

  With one big neat bite, she devoured the final pink part of the popsicle. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she pointed out, “I didn’t call you ridiculous. I said it was the most ridiculous thing I’d heard. I would never call you ridiculous, darling.”

  “Aw, gee, thanks,” I said, sticking my tongue out at her. “Just a liar then.”

  “Just a liar,” she agreed, hoisting her own briefcase of a purse onto her thin shoulder.

  As we stepped out into the sun, Liza paused. Getting out her rhinestone-emblazoned Gucci frames, she dipped her head back and spread out her arms. I paused as well to soak in the welcome rays, smiling at the scene. Right now, on a posh London sidewalk bordered with well-trimmed hedges while wearing her extravagant cat-eye sunglasses, she looked like Audrey Hepburn—if the actress had grown her hair long and bleached it blond.

  “How long are we staying here again?” she asked me in a breathless purr.

  “Three months.”

  As we set down the oddly spaced sidewalk, she continued. “And remind me why you like Charles better than Henry?”

  “Why don’t you remind me why you like Henry better than Charles?” I shot back.

  “Not fair,” she said, jutting out her chin with an aristocratic tilt. Nevertheless, she responded. “He seems so much more down to earth. He doesn’t try to put on this facade of being a good, responsible boy. He just does what he wants.”

  “Which often involves drunken revelries around town, not to mention a new girl every week,” I pointed out, throwing her a look out of the corner of my eyes.

  She threw up her hand and waved it around a little, as if she could physically push away my words.

  As we stopped at a stoplight, she added, “You said it yourself after your dream the other night. That there’s some deep, dark, mysterious undercurrent to Mr. Perfect Charles Williamson.”

  I was glad Liza had her gaze fixed on an adorable mahogany Yorkie-poo across the street so she didn’t see the frown on my face. Even yesterday, as Charles and I had chatted and flirted amiably, that sense had been there and remained. There was something about the prince that was far darker than met the eye. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Liza.

  Just then, my phone rang, and I smiled. Saved by the phone.

  “Heidi Sommers?” a slightly familiar British voice asked.

  “Yes,” I said hesitantly. “Who is this?”

  Because really, it felt…well, ridiculous to say who I was pretty sure it was. There was no way Prince Charles was actually calling me on my dinky, slightly cracked iPhone 6. It was probably some photographer wanting to meet me in person or maybe a fan who had somehow wrestled my name out of someone I knew.

  “This is Charles,” the voice said, and my heart toppled out onto the sidewalk. I froze, clasping my chest.

  “You okay?” Liza asked. I waved her away hastily.

  “Hey, Charles,” I said, putting on my best rendition of a nonchalant voice.

  Which was not great, to say the least. There was a reason I’d become a model and not an actress. Case in point: after a less-than-inspiring rendition of Puck in my middle school’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Murphy, had almost begged me, “Please, for the love of God, don’t ever make anyone watch you act again.”

  “Are you busy now?” Charles asked politely. “I can call back later.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I have a minute or two.”

  I could almost hear his challenged smirk over the line.

  “Oh yeah? What if this takes more like five or ten?”

  I laughed, glad he couldn’t see how my cheeks were probably heating up with flushed excitement.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I have to admit,” he said, “meeting you like that at the photo shoot, that was…surprising.”

  “What, meeting a model at a photo shoot?”

  He gave a low chuckle, then said, “Careful.”

  That single word sent a shiver down my spine.

  It was a good thing he responded next, as I had no idea what I was going to say.

  “Unfortunately, as much as I would enjoy seeing you this minute, or this week for that matter, I do have royal duties to attend to.”

  I bit back a smile. He said “royal duties” the way Liza and I said “brush our teeth.”

  “So, would you be free to meet on Monday?” he asked.

  I made myself pause for a second so I wouldn’t blurt out my psyched “yes.” Then, in the coolest voice I could muster, I replied, “Monday would work for me.”

  “Excellent,” he said, and then paused.

  It was unclear whether he was thinking or waiting for me to say something. Just as I was about to blurt out a mundane comment about the wonderfully sunny weather, he continued. “I assume you like dining at restaurants and don’t have any overly particular food tastes, correct?”

  Some restaurant joke flashed through my head before I hastily pushed it to the side. Charles clearly had things to do; that was why he had cut to the chase about meeting up with me.

  “I eat just about anything,” I told him. I couldn’t help but add, “That whole thing about models eating healthily isn’t really true for most of us.”

  I turned to give Liza, who had been eavesdropping, a wink.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said in a tone that made me imagine a smile with it. “See you on Monday then, Heidi. I’ll text you the restaurant name, although I will have a car coming by to fetch you. You can send me your flat address over the phone if you’d like.”

  My words were all gobbled up in my throat. Charles had just asked me out on a date! As in Prince Charles—the same prince I’d had a crush on since I was thirteen and had pinned his smiling picture from my J-14 magazine over my bed. The same prince I’d actually had dreams of being with. Yes, Prince Charles, who I’d obsessed about, dreamed about, and swooned over for years, was asking out…ME!

  “Sounds good, Charles,” I said, feeling like I might fall over at any point. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” he said in a voice so resonant, I resisted the urge to fall to my knees.

  Only once the dial tone buzzed for probably the twentieth time did I realize Liza was clutching my arm and talking to me.

  “That was him, wasn’t it?”

  I turned to see a reflection of what I probably looked like at this very second. Liza’s eyes were bulging out slightly while her lips were gaped in a permanent O.

  All I could manage was a slight nod.

  “That was him, Prince Charles.” I managed a smile. “We’re going out on a date on Monday.”

  Chapter 3

  Charles

  Only two more days, I reminded myself.

  The thought sent a thrill through me. Sure, Henry had already gone to meet with one of the models from the popsicle shoot. He hadn’t hesitated to give me all the sordid details, from their romp in Harrods to their final night in her suite. But something told me my date with Heidi
wouldn’t be just another forgettable roll in the hay. Even over the phone, with every vibration her lips made against the speaker, I could feel it. The I don’t know what. The something. The difference.

  Anyway, I needed to focus on the task at hand. I’d been planning this charity dinner for weeks now, and I intended it to be as successful as possible.

  After all, I had a special interest in this one. Sure, I ran a handful of charities, some for endangered species, one for lupus, and one for cancer, but in none of those was I as personally invested as this one. Multiple sclerosis had taken out my grandfathers on both sides. I wanted to be the prince who eradicated it. Not just for my family and myself, but for others too. The only way I knew how was through these dinners with tickets at two hundred pounds apiece in a gala room big enough to sit one hundred and then a raffle for lunch with my parents, for which tickets were another one thousand pounds.

  So far, everything was running smoothly. Other than my momentarily distracting thoughts about Heidi, I was in my element. Everyone else was too. The Zanes showed up, all seven of them dressed to the nines in their typical silvery-skinned splendor. Ronald and Helga even shown up and bought two raffle tickets each.

  I forked a bite of salmon into my mouth and closed my eyes to enjoy it fully. Henry hadn’t recommended Stella Weiss for nothing. With all the dates and crazy nights out with friends he engaged in, he would know when he encountered a good cook. And Stella worked at The Lofts, the upscale eatery that was apparently booked months in advance. I hadn’t gone there myself, but if her cooking was anything like what we were having tonight, I was all in. The salmon was so crisp and tender, it broke apart in my mouth. The buttery potatoes were so good that you almost had to sigh as you ate. Not to mention the broccoli, which I’d waged a solid childhood war against but was now stealing from Henry’s plate.

  “Don’t cause a scene,” Henry said sweetly as he stabbed his stolen broccoli with his fork, taking it back.

  I scowled darkly at him but let go. Trust Henry to be able to throw that in my face. His good behaviour was as tentative as ever. Right now, he only had two glasses of wine in him, so I was probably safe. But any more and a good-looking female or two and we’d be in for a night.