To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  I snapped off a panoramic shot and fired it over to Felicity. She’d be so jealous. Ridiculous that the thought could bring me such satisfaction, but it did. Ha.

  We passed through a fire door on our way to the arena, and I nodded to the orange flame symbol and then back to the dog cages. “How do the dogs get out if there’s an emergency?”

  “Don’t worry.” The event coordinator motioned to a red fire alarm switch. “If the alarm goes off, the cage doors open.” She pointed back to an owner pouring designer Swiss Mountain bottled water into her pug’s porcelain bone-shaped dish. He licked his nose in return and then slurped some down.

  Did dogs prefer bottled water? We gave Trapper tap water. Always had.

  “You needn’t worry. These priceless creatures are very safe, very well cared for.”

  Wythe wasn’t saying much. This was my first viewing of his public persona since I’d been introduced to the Prime Family on day one. Come to think of it, even on stage, he’d had the least to say.

  I tilted my head. Wythe didn’t look uncomfortable. But he wasn’t at ease, and he didn’t seem to be enjoying the noise or the crowd. Not that anyone else could tell that. He was perfectly polite. Maybe that was it. I knew what he looked like when he was interested and engaged. This wasn’t it.

  We emerged into a traditional arena area with stadium seating. The event coordinator continued to lead us while going on about the breeding and special handling. I yawned deeply and covered the motion with the back of my hand. When the jetlag was finally over, I’d be so happy.

  “Just there. That’s the seating reserved for special guests.” The coordinator paused and waved toward a row of roped-off seats.

  I checked her eyes for mockery or some type of inference about the Prime Family’s own special handling. Nothing came; she just displayed more Wythe-focused professionalism and British reserve.

  I yawned again. The fog of jetlag haunted me every overseas trip without fail. It always lasted the full two weeks for me. Just about the time I’d gotten used to the schedule, my grandparents would be shipping me back home.

  Then the cycle would start over again, but not as bad.

  Wythe leaned toward me on the steps and put his mouth close to my ear.

  The feel of him so close perked me right up.

  “No more yawning. The press will say you’re bored with the event.” He’d been trained for public life, and he was right.

  “Then order me some tea.” I said it like a challenge. There was no drink stand here.

  He nodded and motioned to the coordinator. She came running, and he put in the request for teas and a lemonade for Caroline. I liked guys who got things done, who made the improbable possible.

  We took our seats in the roped-off private section: one of the guards, Wythe, Caroline, then me. The other guards were down below by the entrances.

  When the drinks came, he passed the lemonade to Caroline, who held it with both hands, and gave a warm paper cup to me. The smell of a floral bergamot came through the little plastic lid. Stronger than the Earl Grays at home but still definitely Earl Gray. Tea at Downing Street was served in china cups. This to-go cup reminded me of home and was strangely comforting.

  He gave the guard the next cup and took the last one for himself. His manners were effortless, and crazy attractive for that very reason. He didn’t need me to tell him how to act. And he’d served us before himself. I wanted to scoot closer.

  Caroline pointed, her arm straight out. It caused the cup to tilt in her little hand, spilling her lemonade over the top. “Look at them.”

  I scooped the cup from her and put it between us, one hand on it for security, my fingers a little wet and sticky now.

  “Just look,” Caroline said.

  Center stage, the judge let go of the Yorkshire terrier’s tail and stepped back from the display platform with a nod. The handler lowered the terrier to the artificial turf so he could run in a circle for us to watch. Caroline popped up so she could see better. She took in the action with big eyes and a grin. “He has hair like you.”

  Wythe shot me one of those side glances.

  Chestnut Yorkie. Yep. “Uh. Thanks.”

  Claps accompanied the terrier’s leashed circling.

  “And he goes and goes.” Caroline hadn’t mastered the restrained British enthusiasm yet. But her commentary was mostly to herself and didn’t require input from us.

  I turned to Wythe. “The British love their dogs and their gardens.”

  He wore a polite interested expression while watching the show, and he arched one eyebrow at me. Something lit in his eyes when he looked at me. “Correct.”

  “At some point, my ancestors left their dogs behind, or did the Quakers bring them over on a boat?”

  “They took them.”

  “Right. They love them. Then how come my parents never let me have more than one dog growing up?”

  His eyes flashed. “Unfathomable.”

  “Trapper’s an exceptional dog. He’s a Japanese Chin, and the smartest dog ever.” I wasn’t really bragging about my dog—who was totally brag-worthy. I was challenging him, engaging him.

  “No doubt.”

  Caroline turned to me, her blue eyes big. “I haven’t even one dog.”

  I showed her a picture of Trapper on my phone, and she made the appropriate appreciative noises. I showed Wythe, too. He arched both eyebrows and nodded. But he didn’t share anything from his phone. Either he’d never had a dog and he didn’t know this was his key to cue up a cute Internet picture, or the social cues differed from America.

  I tipped my teacup at him. “Half full or half empty?” I was really asking how he was handling the event. Was he enjoying it at all? Would it be easy to get him to two more events? Would an offer of two kisses work?

  One side of his mouth quirked. “Haven’t you heard the old engineering answer to that question?”

  I looked him up and down. Rich kid. “It doesn’t matter as long as someone else is pouring it?”

  He bit his lip and thumped the half-full cup. “The glass isn’t half full or half empty. The cup needs a redesign.”

  When he talked to me, he tilted his body toward mine. I caught his gaze and knew I was smiling at him, not the event. I’d wanted to engage him, but his charm was sucking me in. I jerked away. Cameras. Public. Don’t get caught staring at the guy. It was hard not to, because there was a lot I wanted to explore there.

  I turned back to the stage. Despite the importance of Wythe’s family name, no one had bothered us, but I could tell they knew who Wythe and Caroline were. When we’d come up the steps, the people in the closest seats had stiffened and stared at Wythe and Caroline, glanced away, and then stared again. Those in the seats in front of us did it, too. We kept our gazes on the event.

  In the ring, the tiny terrier was replaced with an enormous Irish setter led around in a fast circular trot by a man in a navy suit. The setter’s golden hair flew back in bouncing waves with a controlled abandon I could never achieve. The jingle for a popular shampoo ad flashed through my head and stuck. Grr. I needed earbuds and a tune to wash this one away fast. My fingers twitched toward my pocket, but I knew it wasn’t appropriate to plug in. Not when half the crowd aimed their cellphone cameras our way. I pulled my public smile back on.

  We sat through ten more dogs before Caroline squirmed. Her gaze went to the door we’d come in through. “I want to pet the bunches of dogs.”

  Wythe lifted her up, and her yellow petticoat puffed over his jacket sleeve. He motioned for me and strode done the steps toward the door.

  Caroline was spoiled. But I sort of liked that he gave in to his sister. I only had the one sibling and getting my own way had been a fight from day one. College had brought distance, but not enough.

  We went back through to the holding area and once we got near the puppy cages, Caroline wriggled free. A guard moved into place near her.

  I didn’t know how puppies fit in with the show, or if they wer
e being sold. I’d have asked the handler, but Wythe motioned for me to join him.

  When I got near, he backed away, leading me two rows over. We reached the side wall in a less trafficked area. He looked down at me. “I realized that I should have insisted on my kiss before we left.”

  His words woke me up better than the tea had. He was thinking about me. And a kiss. Had to love that. A smile wanted to curl on my lips, but I refused to let it. “What? This place doesn’t exude romance to you?” I moved closer, partly to be near him and breathe in his yummy cologne, and partly to get out of the way of the tall blonde handler heading up the aisle with two lumbering Great Danes. One Great Dane was always enough.

  Wythe’s mouth twitched. “Oh, but it does.”

  I sniffed at the freshly shampooed dog air. “Uh huh. Is that eucalyptus or lemongrass?” A new handler came through escorting blue-eyed Siberian huskies. The myriad of dogs that filled the area was more than I’d ever seen or imagined seeing: beige to red to black; pocket-sized to outweighing me. “You’ve got to admit it’s a cool event.”

  Wythe brushed his fingers over the top of my shoulder. “Do I?”

  It wasn’t an overly familiar gesture, just a touch. But it made me want to press his hand there to really feel his fingers press against me. I swallowed. “Well, not number stuff on the computer fascinating. But fascinating.”

  “Fascinating.” Wythe was looking at me, not at the dogs. And his bright gaze lured me in.

  I was looking at him and not the cages full of puppies. He was more captivating than the puppies. I was so in trouble.

  What was it about him? He wore a navy jacket with khaki trousers—normal but formal guy clothes, nothing extraordinary. He fit in. The lighter-color trousers marked him as an onlooker. The guards, the staff, and the owners all wore dark trousers with their suits. Britain had uniforms within uniforms. Wythe did look great though. Better than any guy here. He was tall, broad-shouldered, had a narrow waist. I knew he ran with his brother. And he had a gym. What else did he like?

  A lady carrying a chow bumped into me from behind. “Excuse me.” She wore a frumpy navy suit, and her attention was solely on her dog, who was too big to be carried.

  Caroline gave a high-pitched squeal, jumping up and down in front of narrow tan yippy dogs I couldn’t identify. Her periwinkle dress swung, showing the yellow petticoats that bounced against the top of her bobby socks.

  The handler pointed to a cage full of white fluffy puppies. Caroline clapped and squeaked out praise we could hear from where we stood.

  “Your sister thinks this is cool.”

  “She’s six.”

  “She—”

  The guard nearest Caroline tapped on his earpiece. He moved toward her and at the same time held his hands straight up and tapped his fingertips into the palm of his other hand—the signal for an emergency exit.

  Emergency.

  Danger. My heartbeat picked up.

  Dogs.

  Kids.

  What? Fire?

  Energy rushed through me. Large crowd. Dangerous situation. Bad. Bad. Bad. Fix it. Help. Where had that exit been in this old building?

  “Wythe.” Strain sounded in my voice.

  Wythe moved to Caroline. The guard was already there, reaching for the little girl. Caroline leaned over the side of the cage and snagged a fluffy white puppy. She was balanced by her belly on the top edge of the cage, her feet kicking. “I got one. I’ll save it.”

  Her guard scooped her and the cotton ball puppy into his arms and headed for the exit.

  Wythe shifted direction and ran back to me.

  Wythe was running. Not out with his brother. Not on a treadmill in the family gym. In public. In panic? Bad. Bad. Bad. Fight the adrenaline. Think. I threw myself toward the wall, scratching along the painted concrete block walls, feeling for the red fire switch. I jerked the lever down.

  Chapter 10

  Alarms blared. A blue light flashed. Howls and barking pierced the air. The latches on the cages around me released. Three sheepdogs bolted for freedom, their hair bouncing like mops. Three ran straight out, and two circled me and Wythe, herding us toward the corner.

  I pushed at the sturdy, black and sable-colored dog. “Move.”

  Wythe broke past the largest. “Come on.” He lifted me up and over the dog and tossed me over his shoulder, firefighter style. My midsection rammed into him and my breath left my body. Wow. Crazy. This so could have been a moment. His hand. My butt. But I couldn’t even go there. All I could concentrate on was the madhouse around me and the need to suck air into my lungs.

  I wiggled to get a breath.

  I braced myself against the long muscles of his back, looking at the scurrying guests and the frantic pet owners chasing their pampered and shampooed show dogs. Bejeweled leashes hung from their hands as they called for “Mr. Potkins” and “Royal Alfa Four.”

  The dogs themselves shook off their training, resorted to their feral instincts, and bolted free to race around the room. Each displayed traits of their breeds: herding dogs herded, yappy dogs yapped, and they all ran.

  Wythe skirted around a lady, trying to coax a Chihuahua from under a bleacher with a treat. This wasn’t a time for coaxing. “Grab him and run,” I screamed at her. “He’s going to fry.”

  That earned me a startled look and a frown. I felt chastised and self-righteous at the same time. I was trying to save her.

  Wythe sped up. We bolted from the back entrance and tumbled into the limo. Caroline and her guard were already inside.

  Wythe checked her seatbelt.

  Before the outside guard got the door shut behind us, the car rolled into motion, pulling away from the building, jolting me against the seat.

  What the heck had just happened? I pulled on my own seatbelt and drew in a deep breath, rubbing my abdomen, which had taken a pounding during the amateur firefighter carry. I looked back through the window. Show people and dogs streamed from the exit. “Are they going to be okay? Should we direct them or something? Fit them in here with us?”

  Caroline’s guard tapped his earpiece. “It wasn’t a fire, Miss. Just a family drill. The dogs will be fine.”

  Wythe huffed out an audible breath and looked away, his shoulders tense, his body still. Then he looked me over, as if making sure I was okay.

  I gave him a reassuring smile. He seemed about to say something, but Caroline made a noise, drawing our attention to her.

  Caroline hugged the saved white puppy to her chest. “I got one. I got one. I saved it,” Caroline said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes a vivid triumphant blue. The white fluffy puppy had triangular ears. The only color on him came from his shiny black eyes and nose. If the poached dog had a mouth, I couldn’t see it.

  “That’s a teacup Pomeranian, miss,” the guard said, double-checking the door locks.

  “I will call him Teacup.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “See, Wythe?” Caroline held the puppy up and wiggled him.

  The upset emotions faded from his eyes, and his face softened as he looked at his little sister.

  I liked that about him. I didn’t know what I felt about the security drill. I guess a sick relief that it was a false alarm. We weren’t hurt. The dogs weren’t hurt. I needed to focus on the positive. Wythe and I had almost shared a moment. Plus, I’d gotten him there painlessly, which meant my first intern point had landed in my lap.

  I had to check my status. That uptick would help me chill. Surely, my point would have posted by now. Could I snip a screenshot of my success and email it to my sister? That would really improve my mood. I logged into my status on the intern.co.uk.gov portal that had been set up for our use.

  Wythe looked over my shoulder. “Really? We narrowly escaped with our lives and you’re checking on your status?” His voice sounded dry, not amused, not irritated. Just dry.

  “It’s important. I did my job. Got you to the dog show. I’ll get a point.” I wasn’t hiding it from him. He needed to
know this internship mattered to me and I appreciated his help. He’d gone to the event for me, and that helped my status. I clicked on my steaming egg. Zero points still hovered over the fat end of the egg. I frowned.

  Why? Why did the pointed end balance on the ground and the fat end wave about in the air? That wasn’t how eggs worked. That wasn’t how gravity worked. Zero. Zed. Zip. “Guess they haven’t updated the charts yet.”

  An area alert notification popped up on my phone. British news alert. Pictures of running dogs flooded the screen. But there, in the corner… I tapped on the photo. A picture of my butt blew up in the image.

  Wythe read over my shoulder, “Prime Minister’s son saves onlooker as dog show turns into a melee.”

  I double clicked a second post from the show. This one also featured Wythe’s hand on my butt. This one was captioned, Bummer at the Royal Dog Show. Awesome. Online news was quick.

  Wythe’s mouth twisted. “You’re smiling. You’re not put out?”

  “Please. Your big old hand makes my butt look small. I’m framing it.” I could remember how his hand on me had felt every time I looked at the picture. Not that I had really been able to enjoy it in the running, panicked exit. But I could roll the image around in my mind later. I smiled to myself and clicked again, but the rest of the shots were of dogs and their handlers. Some action running shots that were pretty funny, and some were suit-wearing owners clutching their canines as they gave soundbites.

  I showed Caroline a shot of the puppies. She looked, but all her focus was really on Teacup, petting him, reassuring him. Adorable.

  We were almost back at Downing Street when an email notification flashed on my screen. I read aloud, “Email from Peppa: Due to the press incident, anticipate an immediate transfer upon return.” My voice thinned, and my insides sank.

  Peppa had done it. She’d gotten me shifted off this assignment. Just like she’d wanted from day one. It physically hurt. The pain was either in reaction to the cessation of the adrenaline, being carried over Wythe’s shoulder, or sheer annoyance at the email… I didn’t know the exact reason, but it felt bad. Peppa had tried to boot me before. It hadn’t worked then. Now, she was seizing an opportunity. Like I had. This was just business for her.