His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  Three, if you count Charlie.

  “And remember,” Derek says, walking into the living room, “you can’t forget to pay your annual Halloween tax.”

  Katherine and Annie roll their eyes as if their dad couldn’t be more ridiculous if he tried.

  “I get two Reese’s from each of you,” he says, fingers pointed menacingly at one daughter and then the other as if to say neither of them is exempt from his demands.

  “Yeah right!” Katherine protests.

  She and Annie hurriedly start to shove their candy back into their Halloween buckets, worried their dad will steal all the good stuff before they’re done.

  Charlie, sweet, quiet Charlie, sits between them with his mop of dark brown curls, pretending to sort his candy like his older sisters. At three, he’s just happy to be along for the ride. When he sees them picking up their stashes, he immediately hurries to join in. Stray candy flies across the room. Derek bends down and retrieves two Snickers, holding one out to me as he comes to sit on the window seat beside me.

  We sit for a moment, watching our kids.

  Katherine reaches up to fix her faux emerald tiara, ensuring it’s perfectly in place, and Derek chuckles. She’s wearing a miniature version of my old costume, a pale green gown with a skirt so poufy she’s been having trouble walking all night.

  “You look so much like your mom in that costume, Kat,” Derek says. “Did you girls know your mom used to play Princess Elena in the park?”

  We’ve explained to them before that we used to work In Character, but neither of them believed it.

  Annie and Katherine know the current Princess Elena. She’s eighteen, sweet as can be, and so much cooler than us according to Katherine. The few times she’s come over to babysit the girls, they talked about it for months afterward. MOM, PRINCESS ELENA READ ME A BEDTIME STORY! SHE BRAIDED MY HAIR! SHE HAS A BLOG! I WANT A BLOG!

  “Mommy wasn’t Princess Elena! She helps run the park with you, Daddy,” Annie corrects Derek, shaking her head as if saying, Gosh, my parents are so dumb.

  They know that for work, Derek does something important—“He’s the president or something.”—and “Mommy is his trusty sidekick.” However, to them, Aunt Carrie has the coolest job because she “dresses all the princesses”.

  “I have a picture somewhere to prove it,” Cal says from his perch on the couch.

  He stands up slowly, using his cane for support. He’s careful to navigate around Charlie, who’s now running at full speed out of the room with candy clutched to his chest. Stray pieces slip from his grasp and rain down across the floor. Ava goes after him and I mouth, “Thank you,” before turning to see the photo album Cal retrieves from the cabinet behind the couch.

  “It’s in here somewhere,” he mumbles. “I think.”

  I’ve never seen the album. I didn’t realize Cal was much of a scrapbooker. Upon closer inspection, it’s clear he’s not. The photos are just clumped together in a pile behind the front cover, not yet protected behind the thin plastic film. I’ll give him credit, though—he bought the album and printed the photos. That’s more than I’ve done for poor Charlie. He’s the third child; what can I say?

  Cal rifles through the photos carefully and I peer over his shoulder, noticing there’s no real order to them. In one photo, I spot a young Derek with a hardhat on, breaking ground on the London theme park. Another photo is a candid of the two of us on our wedding day, smashing cake into each other’s faces. We really went for it. Derek still had some icing up his nose the next morning.

  Cal keeps scrolling and Annie exclaims, “Wait! There’s Uncle Thomas and Aunt Carrie!”

  It’s a photo of them in the hospital when Logan was born. Carrie looks exhausted but happy. Thomas just looks terrified, on the brink of a panic attack. I’ll have to send the picture to them later for a laugh.

  Another photo is of Katherine as a toddler, taking her first steps down in the Underground. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. Half of our staff was down there cheering her on. When she finally managed to take three steps without falling, everyone exploded in a chorus of cheers, thus scaring the bejesus out of her and causing a nuclear meltdown. The photo was snapped at the exact moment the wailing began.

  All of our kids have grown up inside Fairytale Kingdom. They think it’s totally normal to live inside of a theme-park castle. They do their homework in my office above Castle Drive. They play tag down in Elena’s Village. Annie’s first word was “park”, pronounced with an h instead of an r, like she was a Long Islander. It took her forever to learn how to say it the right way, and I was devastated when she finally got it. Why do they grow so fast?!

  After shuffling through a few more photos, Cal finally finds the one he’s looking for.

  He holds it up with a shaky hand and the girls immediately snatch it.

  I try to see it, but they press their little heads together and hide it from view. It takes a few seconds for them to piece together what exactly they’re looking at—no doubt they’re confused by this ancient form of non-digitized photography—but then then they erupt into giggles. “That’s Mommy! And…Daddy! Look! He’s dressed up as His Royal Highness!”

  They whip around, looking at Derek with fresh eyes. Before this moment, he was just Dad, the dude with the terrible jokes. Now, he’s a former royal. They’ve never been so impressed. Their eyes go wide. They keep glancing down at the picture and then back up, as if trying to identify how exactly we’ve changed.

  Well, you see, when you carry three children…

  I yank the photo out of their hands and take a look for myself. Derek comes up to stand beside me and the two of us immediately bust out laughing. Tears soon burn the edges of my eyes.

  “How?” I ask Cal, completely perplexed by the fact that he has photo evidence of this moment in his possession and he’s managed to keep it a secret until now.

  He smiles and winks before asking the girls to lug him back to his feet. They do it, because second to Princess Elena, Cal is their favorite person.

  “Grandpa, can we look at the other pictures in here?” Katherine asks, picking up the photo album.

  He nods, walking back over to the couch. “Bring ’em over. We can look together.”

  Derek steps closer and wraps his arm around my waist. “Do you remember this?” he asks, voice low so only I can hear.

  How could I forget?

  In the photo, Derek and I are dressed for our fictional wedding as Princess Elena and His Royal Highness. We’re standing up on the holiday parade float, and while it’s festooned with roses and garland—a work of art someone took a lot of time to create—Derek and I couldn’t care less. We’re at war.

  In front of an out-of-focus crowd, we stand inches from each other. My neck is craned so I can have a clear view of where I need to poke if I want to permanently blind him. His hands are fisted at his sides as if having to restrain himself from pushing me overboard.

  In the background, a hazy red arch looms.

  The arch.

  The exact location where Derek finally kissed me senseless and all my nerve endings threw confetti. FINALLY!

  I smile.

  I want to blow this photo up and frame it.

  I want to send it to the Smithsonian and tell them to archive it.

  It’s a national treasure.

  “I knew I had you that day,” Derek gloats quietly. “I knew in that moment you were in love with me.”

  I roll my eyes as I hand over the photograph. “So spoiled. His Royal Highness always gets what he wants.”

  He winks. “You’re right, and I want you.” His gaze drops to my mouth before he gives me a quick chaste kiss. “Always.”

  I hope you loved stepping into Derek and Whitney’s fairytale! If you love friends-to-lovers, off-the-charts steam, and witty banter, keep reading for an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy

  Not So Nice Guy.

  SYNOPSIS

  “Oh my god. Who is that?”
r />   I get asked this question a lot.

  “Oh him?” I reply. “That’s just Ian.”

  Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century. Just the Mona Lisa. Just the Taj Mahal. Just Ian, with his boring ol’ washboard abs and dime-a-dozen dimpled smile.

  Just Ian is…just my best friend.

  We’re extremely close, stuck so deep inside a Jim-and-Pam-style friendzone everyone at work assumes we’re a couple—that is until one day, word spreads through the teacher’s lounge that he’s single. Fair game. Suddenly, it’s open season on Ian.

  He should be reveling in all the newfound attention, but to our mutual surprise, the only attention he seems to want is mine.

  He’s turning our formerly innocent nightly chats into X-rated phone calls. Our playful banter sports a new, dangerous edge.

  I want to assume he’s playing a prank on me, just pushing my buttons like always—but when Ian lifts me onto the desk in my classroom and slides his hands up my skirt, he doesn’t leave a lot of room for confusion.

  I’m a little scared of things going south, of losing my best friend because I can’t keep my hands to myself. So, I’m just going to back away and not return this earth-shattering kiss—oh who am I kidding?!

  Goodbye Ian, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal!

  Helloooo mister not so nice guy.

  Chapter One

  SAMANTHA

  This morning, we’re having sex inside the army barracks again. It’s hot and heavy. The enemy is advancing—we might not make it out alive. Explosions rumble in the sky and in my pants. I’m sweating. Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. That’s how I know I’m dreaming—my mouth isn’t that skillful. In real life, I’d chip a tooth on his zipper.

  My alarm clock fires another warning shot. My waking mind shouts, Get up or you’re going to be late! I burrow deeper under my covers and my subconscious wins out. Dream Ian tosses me over his shoulder like he’s trying to earn a Medal of Honor and then we crash against a metal bunkbed. Another indication that this is a dream is the fact that the fleshy part of my butt hits the corner of the bunk yet it doesn’t hurt. He grinds into me and the frame rattles. I scrape my fingers down his back.

  “We’re going to get caught, soldier,” I moan.

  His mouth covers mine and he reminds me, “This is a war zone—we can be as loud as we want.”

  A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupts just outside. Heavy boots begin stomping toward the locked door.

  “Quick, we’ll have to barricade it!” I implore. “But how? There’s nothing useful in here, just that standard-issue leather whip and my knee-high combat boots!”

  He hauls me up against the door and we lock eyes. The wordless solution suddenly becomes clear: we’ll have to use our own writhing bodies as a sexy blockade.

  “Okay, every time they kick the door, I’m going to thrust, got it? On the count of three: one, two—”

  Just as my dream gets to the good part, my phone starts blaring “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Cool 80s country pop serenades me at max volume. There are synthesizers. I groan and jerk my eyes open. Ian changed my ringtone again. He does it to me every few weeks. The song before was another silly throwback tune by two old kooks.

  I reach out for my phone and bring it beneath the covers with me.

  “Yeah yeah,” I answer. “I’m already showered and heading out the door.”

  “You’re still in bed.”

  Ian’s deep, husky voice saying the word “bed” does funny things to my stomach. Dream Ian is blending with Real Life Ian. One is a hunky lieutenant with arms of steel. The other is my best friend whose arms are made of a metal I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling.

  “Dolly Parton this time? Really?” I ask.

  “She’s an American treasure, just like you.”

  “How do you even come up with these songs?”

  “I keep a running list on my phone. Why are you breathing so hard? It sounds like you’re over there fogging up a mirror.”

  Oh god. I sit up and shake off the remnants of my dream.

  “I fell asleep to reruns of M*A*S*H again.”

  “You know they’ve continued making television shows since then.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve yet to find a man who titillates me like Hawkeye.”

  “You know Alan Alda is in his 80s right?”

  “He’s probably still got it.”

  “Whatever you say, Hot Lips.”

  I groan. Just like with Major Houlihan, that nickname annoys me…kind of.

  I sweep the blankets aside and force my feet to the ground. “How long do I have?”

  “First bell rings in thirty minutes.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to skip that 10-mile morning run I was planning.”

  He laughs. “Mhmm.”

  I start rummaging through my closet, looking for a clean dress and cardigan. Our school’s employee wardrobe requirements force me to dress like the female version of Mr. Rogers. Today, my sundress is cherry red and my cardigan is pale pink, appropriate for the first day of February.

  “Any chance you filled up an extra thermos with coffee before you left the house?” I ask, hopeful.

  “I’ll leave it on your desk.”

  My heart flutters with appreciation.

  “You know what, I was wrong,” I tease, affecting a swoony lovesick tone. “There is a man who titillates me more than Hawkeye, and his name is Ian Flet—”

  He groans and hangs up.

  Oak Hill High School is a five-minute bike ride from my apartment. It’s also a five-minute bike ride from Ian’s house. We could make the morning commute together, but we have drastically different morning rituals. I like to roll the dice and push the limits on my alarm clock. It thrills me to sleep until the very last second. Ian likes to wake up with the milkman. He belongs to a gym and he uses that membership every morning. His body fat percentage hovers in the low teens. I belong to the same gym and my membership card is tucked behind a beloved Dunkin’ Donuts rewards card. It leers out at me each time I make a midday strawberry frosted run.

  Those barbaric contraptions at the gym intimidate me. I once sprained my wrist trying to change the amount of weight resistance on a rowing machine, and have you seen all the different strap, rope, and handle attachments for the cable machine? Half of them look like sex toys for horses.

  Instead of subjecting myself to the gym, I prefer my daily bike rides. Besides, there’s really no fighting my physiology at this point. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman still riding the wave of pretend fitness that comes naturally with youth and the food budget of a teacher. The only #gains in my life come from binge-watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on Fixer Upper.

  Ian says I’m too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely-filled B cups. On good days, I’m 5’3’’. I think I can shop at Baby Gap.

  When I make it to school (ten minutes before the first bell), I find a granola bar next to the thermos of coffee on my desk. In my haste to make it to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. I’ve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find something—nuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. There’s even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. I’m the hangriest person you’ve ever met. When my blood sugar drops, I turn into the destructive Jean Grey.

  I scarf down the granola bar and sip my coffee, firing off a quick text to thank him before students start filing into my classroom for first period.

  SAM: TY for breakfast. Coffee is LIT.

  IAN: It’s the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?

  SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. I’m not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.

  “Good morning, Missus Abrams!” my first student sing-songs.

  It’s Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the
Oak Hill Gazette. He’s the kind of kid who wears sweater vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriously—even more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.

  I level him with a reproving look. “Nicholas, for the last time, it’s Miss Abrams. You know I’m not married.”

  He grins extra wide and his braces twinkle in the light. He’s had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.” The kid is relentless. “And may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming. The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, you’ll be a missus in no time.”

  “No, you may not say that. Just sit down.”

  Other students are starting to file into my class now. Nicholas takes his seat front and center, and I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible once I begin my lesson.

  Ian and I have drastically different jobs at Oak Hill High.

  He’s the AP Chem II teacher. He has a master’s degree and worked in industry after college. While in grad school, he helped develop a tongue strip that soothes burns from things like hot coffee and scalding pizza. Seems stupid—SNL even spoofed it—but it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. He’s the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.

  I’m just the journalism teacher and the staff coordinator for the Oak Hill Gazette, a weekly newspaper that is read by exactly five people: me, Ian, Nicholas, Nicholas’ mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the “if you can’t do, teach” category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and I’m not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists don’t make very many friends. They jump into the action, push, prod, and expose important stories to the world. In college, my professors chastised me for only churning out “puff pieces”. I took it as a compliment. Who doesn’t like puffy things?