Finding Holly

by B. E. Baker

  “Good idea,” he says. “I’ll feel bad eating all that food while you’re shaking hands unless you get some too.”

  “Nice try,” I say.

  His brow furrows. “Come again.”

  “I said nice try. You’ll be right there next to me, shaking hands too.”

  His mouth hangs open.

  “You’re my boyfriend. People will want to meet you.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I nod.

  “But what will they say? Here’s the Ruling Prince, and his wife, the Countess of whatever, and their two children, Fancy Cole McAmazing, and Holly Paisley von un der Importance, and then.” His tone goes flat. “Here’s Jim.”

  I laugh. “James.”

  “They don’t know me. They can’t call me James.”

  I laugh more. “You’re James Fulton the Fourth, of the North American Fultons.”

  “That does make me sound more distinguished.”

  “Good, because that’s how I told them to announce you.”

  His face blanches. “I’m being announced?”

  “Of course.” I lean close. “Now go change, James Fulton the Fourth, of the North American Fultons.”

  He complains, but when they actually announce us, he holds my arm smoothly, walks out perfectly, his broad shoulders square, his hair perfectly imperfect. My daring hawk, scowl-smiling like a natural royal. We make hideous small talk for over an hour before Mom dissolves the line.

  I want to sink into my chair and fall face first into my plate, but I don’t. After all, it’s soup. I might drown.

  “Don’t slurp,” Mom whispers.

  “I never slurp,” I protest.

  “You always slurp,” she says with a plastic smile.

  “I remember why I hate these things,” I whisper to James.

  “I don’t know,” James says. “I’ve never shaken more gloved hands in my entire life. I lost count at number fifty-six. Gloves. Who knew? I thought that was a dead industry, but maybe we can start making gloves and selling them to your titled pals.”

  “They aren’t my pals,” I say. “I didn’t know a single soul that was here tonight.”

  “Then explain to me how Count Francisco knew you had a birthmark under your right bum cheek?”

  Heat floods my face. “I don’t remember him, but apparently we went to Heviz Lake together once as kids.”

  “Where is that?” James asks. “I find that I’m strangely jealous, in spite of the close resemblance his nose bore to a dill pickle.”

  “It’s in Hungary. I recall the trip, but I don’t recall anyone that obnoxious following me around.”

  “I do believe the good Count might remember that trip a little too fondly,” James says.

  “Oh please, he was just trying to be funny.”

  “Maybe, but if so, why is he waving at you right now?”

  I turn toward where James is pointing. I’ve never seen a real, living person look more like Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice in my life. “Kiss me,” I say.

  James smiles so big that both dimples appear. “Happy to oblige.” He sets his fork and knife down and leans toward me slowly.

  My heart skips a beat. Then it skips another.

  He moves so slowly, I wonder whether his mouth will ever reach mine. But it does, oh, it finally does. And I feel it all the way down to my toes, which manage to curl, even in the stupidly uncomfortable heels that I wear with this dress.

  Applause and flashes. Oh no. I pull back and realize half the people in the room are staring at us—smiling and whispering behind raised hands.

  “Well.” I say against James’ mouth. “I think we sold it.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I’m not one to do something halfway. I’m willing to—”

  I peck him again just to shut him up, and then I sit up straight and go back to eating.

  The rest of the night passes just as well. I almost forget he’s not really my boyfriend, but of course, he isn’t. We’re waving goodbye to guests around midnight when James gasps next to me.

  “What?” I ask, a little alarmed. I’ve been around him pretty often in the last week, and I’ve surprised him with several pieces of odd news. He’s never gasped, not once.

  He’s looking at his phone like it might contain the cure to cancer.

  “What’s wrong?” I prompt again.

  He spins his phone around. “The New York Times featured article.”

  Time slows when I look downward and focus enough to read the tiny font on the small rectangular screen. REAL LIVE PRINCESS DIARIES, Princess Holly Paisley von und zu Liechtenstein living in Atlanta for almost a decade!

  “Did you tell Mary and Trudy yet?” James asks.

  I shake my head. I really should have, because I’m guessing they’re going to see this.

  My phone buzzes and I swivel it around slowly.

  TELL ME THIS ISN’T TRUE. Mary texts, with a screenshot of the same article.

  WE NEED TO TALK, I text back.

  I wait for the dots. I wait for a phone call.

  But no more texts, no more calls, and no dots at all.

  12

  James

  I leave before Paisley wakes up the next morning. I’ve never stayed in an actual palace before, and I wish I could stick around to enjoy it. But I have to catch my flight, and if I stay longer, I’ll just come up with another reason to delay. This fake boyfriend thing was fun at first, but now it’s starting to hurt. I learned at an early age to avoid everything that causes pain.

  Besides, I can’t help Paisley with what comes next. She has to talk to her friends herself. If she needs to talk to me, she knows she can call. I told her that. Which is why, when my fingers itch to text her before the plane takes off, I don’t. I turn my phone off instead.

  I need to get my head back in the game. I review the emails from Cooper and Anastasia and Thornton on my laptop the entire flight, and I calculate figures in my head. If all goes according to projections, I’ll still be thirty million shy of grandfather’s required hundred million by Christmas. And nothing ever really goes according to projections. I need to be closer, much closer. I’d prefer to have a margin of error, actually. A buffer so that if anything tanks, I still clear the bar.

  I click on the latest email from Cooper.

  Boss—

  You’re not going to believe this. Check out the data on this gem I found. For your new goals, it’s PERFECT. All we need to do is pull a Reddit until this takes off, and it will triple. If you leverage a few of your connections to get this moving on social media. . . Especially your girlfriend—with all the media hype, this could be huge.

  Cooper

  I scan the financials, which are abysmal, and I realize he’s right. We could pick this company up for a song. The idea is solid, the foundation is there, but it needs a media frenzy to really take off.

  Unfortunately, even with horrible financials, infrastructure has value. It will cost at least twenty-million to buy it… and since I’ve been holding on to every promising company and attempting to grow them, I’m strapped for extra capital right now. But I’m fairly sure I can parlay this twenty million investment into fifty by Christmas, which makes it the perfect solution.

  But the only way I could buy this is to sell off Berg Telecom. I close my eyes. Even if Paisley gets Paul on board, I doubt we can secure contracts that would be worth what I need. I should cut my losses on this deal.

  And I would, if it wasn’t for Paisley.

  Gah. This is exactly why I never have girlfriends. Or any friends at all, really.

  It’s bad for business.

  When I land, I turn my phone back on to call Cooper. He should be at work already, at eight-fifteen a.m. on a Thursday. I could take a nap, but I’d rather catch up on the pile I know is waiting at the office. Before I can call him, my phone rings. Irrationally, I hope it’s Paisley, calling to chew me out for not saying goodbye. I know just how her eyes will flash, and exactly what her tone
will be.

  But it’s not. It’s the opposite of Paisley. It’s someone I never thought would call me, and I almost don’t answer. Talking to her is always a nightmare. I only have her number saved so I won’t be caught off guard. But just before it goes to voicemail, I hit talk.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Jamie!”

  I cringe. She and Father are the only two people on earth who ever call me Jamie. “What do you want?”

  She splutters. “I’m hurt you think I want anything.”

  “The last time we spoke was three years ago, when you showed up at my office.”

  “And you made it quite clear that I shouldn’t bother you like that. So, see? I’m calling instead.”

  “You came to ask my bank to fund your current husband’s terrible ponzi scheme.” I hold the phone away from my ear, because I know her volume is going to skyrocket.

  It does. “Howard was the worst kind of scoundrel, and you were so wise to see that. But don’t worry. I divorced him later that year.”

  “I heard,” I say. “Or rather, I figured it out when I got your new wedding invitation.”

  “Yes, well, that’s sort of why I was calling,” she says. “I just can’t believe that you’re dating a princess!” She squeals. I should’ve kept the phone away from my ear a little longer.

  “Right,” I say. “It’s a real dream come true.”

  “Those photos are everywhere, of the two of you kissing in front of hundreds of lords and ladies.” She sighs dramatically. “I am just.” She trills in a way I’ve never heard. “My entire book club is dying to meet her, and you, of course.”

  She has got to be kidding.

  “I’m calling to find out when you can scoot up for a visit.”

  “I’m not flying to Boston, Mother. And I’m certainly not going to meet anyone from your book club.”

  Her giggle is like nails on a cheese grater. “I’ve forgotten how hilarious you are.”

  “It’s probably easy to forget when you go years and years in between seeing me,” I say.

  “Right, and that’s my exact point. We really need some good Mother-Son bonding time.” She sniffs. “And of course I just must meet your girlfriend before you propose.”

  I can’t handle her. I never should have answered. “I am not proposing, and you are not meeting Paisley. She would—” I almost said she would hate you, but I try not to be out and out rude to my parents. “She’s far too busy right now.”

  “I completely understand. I’m sure it’s a whirlwind to be home again, and I hear her father is sick. Everyone is speculating that they may be changing the laws, to allow her to take over when he. . . well, you know.”

  When he dies? Trust my mother to be eyeing the throne already.

  “And I hear their art collection rivals the Royal House of Windsor!”

  I’d lay odds on my mother not having been able to point out Liechtenstein on a map two days ago. She might not have known it was its own country. But now she’s a walking trivia spouter. She could do tours of the place. “I can’t speak to that,” I say, “never having dated a British princess, but I’ll say this. That golden carriage is pretty amazing.” I better throw her a bone, or she will show up at my office. “Look, I’ll text you a photo of Paisley and I in the carriage last night, okay?”

  “Why do you call her Paisley?” Mother asks. “Isn’t her name Holly?”

  I sigh. “She goes by her middle name, preferentially.” There. Now she’ll have a photo to plaster on social media, and some inside information to share. Maybe that will be enough for her to leave me alone.

  “Oh, this is just so exciting. I’ll send some dates and times to your assistant, okay? Look them over and let’s try and get something on the books.”

  “Sure, why not?” I’ll be sure to tell Kimball to delete any and all emails from her, pronto. There’s absolutely no chance I’m putting some kind of lunch, or tea party, or photo session on my calendar. “But look, Mom, I really need to go, okay?”

  “Of course.” She squeals again. “Oh, is she calling you on the other line right now?”

  “She sure is.”

  The line goes dead immediately. Why didn’t I think to say that before? I tap at the contacts list to call Cooper, but before I can hit talk, my phone is ringing again. Maybe it is Paisley—

  Oh come on. Really?

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Son, how are you?”

  “Fine.” I can’t even fake enthusiasm. Not this time.

  “I saw an interesting news article this morning.”

  Along with, apparently, everyone in America.

  “You didn’t even mention you were dating anyone,” he says.

  “That’s because we never talk.”

  “But I thought you might mention if you ever actually had a girlfriend. I sort of figured you were gay.”

  Oh, for the love.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Uh huh.

  “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations.”

  “For what?”

  “You know, that you, well, because you’re dating. . .”

  “Because I’m dating someone way better than me?” I ask.

  “That’s not what I was saying.”

  “Only because you realized it sounded horrible.”

  “Look, there were some photos in the article and you looked genuinely happy. We don’t talk much, as you mentioned, and it was a real treat to have a window into your life. Especially because I got to see you smiling.”

  “It might interest you to know that Paisley is a secretary. For one of my friends’ wives, actually. That’s how we met.”

  “Ah.”

  “I had no idea she was a princess until a few days ago. Total fluke.”

  “The story did mention that she had been hiding out in Atlanta, and I wondered how you met.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “It has been too long since we’ve talked,” he says. “I feel pretty bad about it.”

  “We have talked exactly four times since I was kicked out of Harvard for cheating.” I actually feel a pang of guilt for being so rude, which is bizarre for me. “Look, you don’t need to feel bad. I haven’t been sitting around hoping you would call, okay?”

  “I know, but I shouldn’t have been so. . . harsh. I think maybe I felt like it was my fault, and I don’t do a very good job of accepting blame for things, so I punished you. Probably in excess of the crime.”

  I am not ready to have this conversation. “Okay.”

  “I would like to see you.”

  “Mom called me right before you,” I say. “She wants me to come and meet her book club. And she’s dying to meet my princess girlfriend.”

  “I see.”

  “I told her to jump in a lake.”

  “My intention is not to try and introduce you to anyone,” my father says. “I would like to see you, on whatever terms you can accept, even if it’s a video call. And if you want me to meet this girlfriend, or any future girlfriend, I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. “Or what if I want you to meet my boyfriend?” I can’t help myself.

  He gulps. “Right. Or that.”

  Ha. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Son.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am proud of you. Your mother and I didn’t teach you how to trust anyone, but you’re figuring it out on your own. Based on your business model, I never expected it, but I am impressed.”

  Great. My father, who has never been impressed with a single thing I’ve done, is impressed by my fake relationship. “Okay.”

  “Well, tell Holly, or did you say her name is Paisley? Tell her that I say hello. If you want to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Alright. Well, goodbye.” He hangs up.

  And my dad and I win the prize for the world’s most awkward phone conversation. It’s hard not to feel like my parents ha
ve been judging me and finding me wanting all this time. They don’t call me for years. Then they hear about one relationship, a celebrity one, and they both call immediately.

  Or maybe they’re feeling guilty because they learned about my relationship from the New York Times. Serves them right. When I reach the office, a mob of cameramen are waiting in the lobby. Flashes, loud voices, the whole nine yards. I hold one hand in front of my face and shove my way past them. “Don’t let any of them inside,” I tell Mandy. “Not a single one.”

  “Yessir.” She sounds chipper, but she looks exhausted.

  “I’m glad to see you.” Cooper meets me in the hall. “What a circus.”

  “No kidding.”

  I wade my way through a pile of letters, a heap of standard legal issues, and a weighty amount of number crunching by lunch time. I’ve almost forgotten about the mob from this morning, but when I glance out front, thinking of ducking out to grab food, dozens of people are still hovering.

  “Don’t they have anything better to do?” I ask Anastasia.

  She shrugs. “It appears not.”

  “Fine. Order me a sandwich.” I run back to my office, and I understand a little more why Paisley didn’t want to tell anyone.

  Finally, I can’t keep from texting her. FAME SUCKS.

  FIGURE THAT OUT ON YOUR OWN, SHERLOCK?

  I laugh. MEDIA HOUNDING YOU?

  I’M STILL HOME, BUT WE HAD TO BRING IN THE SECURITY TEAM. OBNOXIOUS.

  I WANT A SECURITY TEAM, I text. But then I realize that’s not true. BUT I WISH I COULD JUST USE YOURS.

  I SHOULDN’T TELL YOU THIS.

  TELL ME WHAT? My fingers shake so much that it’s hard to type.

  PEOPLE TELL THEIR BOYFRIENDS THEY MISS THEM. BUT THEY DON’T TELL THEIR FAKE BOYFRIENDS THEY MISS THEM.

  DO YOU MISS ME? I’m grinning like an idiot, but no one can see me, not in here.

  MAYBE.

  I DEFINITELY MISS YOU. I’M SORRY I DIDN’T SAY GOODBYE. BUT IF I HAD, I WOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN ON THE PLANE THIS MORNING.

  YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY HAVE SAID GOODBYE, THEN.

  I’M WAY BEHIND AT WORK.