Royals

by Rachel Hawkins

  Point is, I feel like I have a good handle on dates, but this? This is my first fake date, and I can already tell it’s not going to go well.

  For one, it is early. I mean, like, insane-o early. The time when the only people awake are going fishing or possibly in the grips of an amphetamine addiction. As I follow Glynnis across the gravel courtyard, our footsteps loud and crunchy in the still morning air, I squint against the sun, shading my eyes.

  “Is anyone believably romantic at this hour?” I call to Glynnis, and she throws a grin at me over her shoulder.

  “The royal family always rides first thing,” she says, “so that’s when the photographers show up.”

  I come to such a sudden stop that a little shower of rocks sprays around my sneakers. “Ride?” I repeat. “Please tell me you mean on bikes and not horses. Bikes don’t bite last time I checked.”

  Glynnis just laughs, shaking her head. Her dark red hair glints in the sunshine. “I never imagined you’d be so funny, Daisy!”

  “Super serious here,” I say while she keeps marching. It really seems a shame that Glynnis doesn’t wear a Fitbit because she’d nail her daily steps every day, probably a thousand times over.

  Sighing, I follow her toward what I now realize are the stables. I hadn’t noticed because the building is so fancy—all heavy stone-and-slate roof—that I’d assumed it was a place where humans lived, not horses.

  Horses I’d now be expected to get on.

  “What is it with you people and horses?” I ask as we step out of the sun and into the dim, grassy-smelling stable.

  “We’re related to them,” Miles says, and my eyes adjust enough that I can see him, standing near one of the stalls. “It’s why our chins look like this.”

  I almost snort because that would be a decent joke if he hadn’t actually been blessed by the gods of bone structure, and also if I didn’t hate him, but he was, and I do, so I don’t.

  He walks over to us, hands in his pockets, and I’m relieved that he’s wearing relatively normal clothes—a white button-down, jeans, and a pair of brown leather boots. If we’d had to wear those super-tight white pants and velvet jackets, I would’ve just let the queen call off the wedding and brought shame down on my family. Nothing was worth pictures of my butt in those pants being splashed on the front of tabloids.

  I’m wearing jeans and one of the shirts Glynnis picked out for me, a hunter-green blouse that looks like something Ellie would wear. I’m also in boots, but, I can admit, way cuter ones than Miles’s. The leather encasing my calves is so soft I’ve had to resist the urge to stroke my own leg all morning.

  We all just stand there for a second, me, my fake boyfriend, and the lady putting this whole thing together.

  And then Glynnis claps her hands, smiling at both of us. “So this is easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she says, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. I risk a glance at Miles, but he’s not smiling at all. If anything, he looks bored, but then, I guess he’s used to people talking like Dr. Seuss. I remember that girl from the club with her “yar” and drawling voice.

  But then I also remember how Miles had broken the space-time continuum for a second by being cute, and that’s so weird that I shove the thought away again. I probably hallucinated it, anyway. So worried about Isa that my brain snapped—that had to be what happened.

  Besides, he was a massive jerk in the car, and that cancels out any cuteness and any potential bonding.

  “All the two of you need to do is a lap or two around the park, making sure to smile at each other, maybe laugh occasionally . . .”

  “British-people third base,” I mutter, and to my surprise, that does seem to startle some kind of reaction out of Miles. He doesn’t laugh, exactly, but he makes this kind of choked noise that he covers with a cough, and Glynnis looks between the two of us. Her eyebrows are especially intense this morning, so maybe this matters to her more than I’d thought. Those are very serious eyebrows.

  “The photographers will get a few shots, we’ll see if we can find some of the two of you the other night at Seb’s club, and Bob’s your uncle, all set!”

  “That’s it?” I ask, propping one hand on my hip. “They see us riding horses and smiling, and the entire country forgets that for one hot second, they were using the hashtag ‘Sebaisy’?”

  “That sounds like a skin condition,” Miles says, screwing up his face, and then he looks over at me, lifting his eyebrows. “Will we have a hashtag, then?”

  “‘Maisy’ or GTFO,” I reply, and this time he really smiles. With teeth and everything.

  It probably causes him physical pain, but it looks nice.

  And then Glynnis scowls, pulling her phone out. “We’d decided on ‘Diles,’ but ‘Maisy’ is better; just a tick.”

  As she types away on her screen, I look at Miles again, and our eyes meet. Just like at the club, there’s this . . . beat between us. A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.

  “There!” Glynnis says, triumphant as she puts her phone back in the pocket of her smart little Chanel jacket. “Shall we get on with it?”

  I can hear the horses in their stalls, nickering and shuffling and being horsey. Now seems like a good time to mention that I’ve never been on a horse, but I deflect a little.

  “Why are we doing this for photographers who are already there?” I ask. “Can’t we just, like, call them or something? Isn’t that what they do in Hollywood? We could go to lunch, have them take pictures there. There’s so much less potential for permanent maiming at lunch. Unless you do that thing with your face,” I add to Miles. “I can’t be responsible for maiming you if you do that thing with your face.”

  “What thing with my face?” Miles asks, doing exactly that thing. It’s this lifting of his chin and tightening of his jaw that makes him look like he’s about to oppress some peasants, and I point at him.

  “That thing.”

  Glaring at me, Miles steps a little closer. “This is just what my face looks like.”

  “That is unfortunate,” I say, and Glynnis claps her hands again.

  “All right!” she trills. “The sooner we start, the sooner this can be over.”

  As she leads me to a stall, she adds, “For something as delicate as this, it’s best if we let the photographers come to us rather than the other way around. Things feel much more . . . plausible that way. And given how sensitive this situation is, plausibility is our friend.”

  “Okay, but horses are not mine,” I say.

  Glynnis laughs, and I end up on the back of a gray mare named Livingston, which is a weird name for a girl horse, but I don’t want to point that out in case she hears me and decides to throw me off.

  Miles gets this massive black stallion because of course he does, and within just a few minutes, the two of us are in Holyrood Park behind the palace, riding on horses like people who just fell in love in a tampon commercial.

  This is ridiculous.

  But it’s also really pretty here. If I ignore how scary it is to have a thousand-pound animal underneath me, I can admit that. The sky is blue and almost cloud free, and the park is green and lovely and nearly empty except for a few people jogging and a girl walking an insanely cute little white dog.

  And, of course, the photographers. I see them there at the edge of the park, three guys who all look nearly interchangeable in pullovers, baggy jeans, and sneakers.

  To take my mind off them, I make myself smile at Miles and say, “Is this your normal first date, then?”

  He sits a lot more easily in the saddle than I do, the reins just draped in his hands while I’m clutching mine so hard my knuckles are white.

  “This is actually our fourth date if we’re counting that time I walked you bac
k to your room, the race, and the other night at the club,” he says, and I sit up taller in the saddle.

  “If we’re counting those, you’re pretty much the worst boyfriend ever.”

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he says, and I jerk my head around to look at him.

  “You’ve been a boyfriend?” I ask. “To a human girl?”

  Shaking his head, Miles moves his reins from one hand to the other. “Let’s save that for our fifth date, shall we?”

  His horse trots ahead a little, and I give mine the slightest little touch with my heels to make her catch up. To my relief, she does, and I try not to think about how much jiggling those cameras might be catching as I pull even with Miles.

  “Is there going to be a fifth one?” I ask. “Can’t we just do . . . this and be done with it?”

  Miles looks over at me, his sandy hair dipping over his brow, and his eyes are particularly green this morning. Maybe Glynnis chose the park to make him look his most handsome. Who can say?

  “I assume they’ll want us to do the ball together,” he says, smiling broadly for the photographers.

  “Ball?” I repeat, giving him the same bright grin, complete with a head tilt. This is some excellent work and better end up on at least one front page. I haven’t shown this many teeth in ages.

  “We’re headed up north day after tomorrow,” he replies, complete with a little chuckle as he reaches out to cover my hand for just a second with his own. “To Baird House. There’s going to be a ball for Eleanor and Alex, and if Glynnis doesn’t make us sell this there, I’ll eat this saddle.”

  “Oooh, you might choke, and that would be so fun to watch!” I say, tossing my hair over my shoulders.

  Another laugh, and I swear there’s genuine warmth in his eyes now. It almost makes me wonder if he’s done this kind of thing before.

  There’s a sudden flurry of barking off to my right, and I look over to see that cute little white dog I’d spotted earlier suddenly tearing across the park, filled with bloodlust for a flock of birds on the path right in front of us.

  It’s a pretty nonthreatening dog, but Livingston doesn’t see it that way. Suddenly, my previously gentle and super-chill horse shudders, hooves pawing the earth, and then, as the dog gets closer, my horse loses her mind altogether, giving a panicked whinny and lifting her front hooves off the ground.

  Shrieking, I panic, and instead of grabbing the reins I sink my fingers into her mane, holding on for dear life, my entire world becoming a panicked blur of barking, whinnying, my own shrill cries, and the vision of headlines reading, “FUTURE PRINCESS’S SISTER KILLED IN FREAK HORSEBACK ACCIDENT WHILE ON FAKE DATE!”

  And then Livingston lowers her hooves back to the ground, still pawing and shuddering, and I see a long-fingered hand shoot out and grab her reins.

  Miles.

  His horse is right next to mine, our knees bumping as he tries to bring Livingston under control, and I manage to release my death grip on the horse’s mane, my hands fumbling to hold on to the reins, the saddle, anything.

  I want off this horse now.

  And suddenly, I am off.

  A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I’m pulled onto Miles’s horse, my backside colliding painfully with the saddle.

  Startled, I stare up at him, my hands landing on his shoulders. I’m basically sprawled in front of him, the saddle horn pressing into my hip, and holy crap, did he just yank me off my horse and onto his?

  He did.

  Which is some real next-level romance novel stuff, and I have no idea how to feel about it.

  Miles still has one arm around me, his hand holding his own horse’s reins, and then he leans over to take up Livingston’s reins.

  “All right, then?” he asks, like he didn’t just pull some major pirate maneuver, and I can only nod.

  I guess that’s enough for him, because he turns both horses and leads us back toward the palace stables.

  I’m still holding on to his shoulders—clutching, really—and behind him, I can see the photographers, can practically hear the clicks as they snap shot after shot of me perched on the front of Miles’s horse, my arms wrapped around him.

  Looking up at his chin, I study the little glints of golden stubble there and try to think of something to say. My heart is still hammering against my ribs from Livingston’s freak-out, but if I’m honest, it might be a little more than that.

  “Glynnis is going to implode with joy,” I finally say, and Miles huffs out something close to a laugh.

  “One down,” he mutters, and I have to admit, as far as first—or fourth—dates go, this one is certainly memorable.

  Chapter 25

  “No one is going to expect me to shoot things, right?” I ask for what is probably the third time.

  El, sitting across from me in the back of the car, sighs and crosses her legs at the ankle. Ever since the car pulled away from Holyrood Palace, carrying us north up into the Highlands, Ellie has been giving me The Sigh, and also The Side-Eye, and just a hint of The Chin Tilt.

  All of which is ridiculous given that I am pretending to date a boy for her, so you’d think she could be a little less irritated with me. Especially since I was right—those pictures of Miles carrying me off on his horse like we were in a Regency romance had gone over really, really well. I’d seen at least five different angles of that shot, and even I had to admit they were swoony. The fakest thing ever to fake, but still.

  “No shooting, Daisy,” Alex assures me now, giving El’s knee a pat. “Season doesn’t start until August, and not even I can break that rule.”

  “What would happen if you did?” I ask, leaning forward a little. “Could they arrest you? Is there some kind of royal immunity? If—”

  “Daisy!” El snaps suddenly, turning her head to glare at me. “It’s a four-hour drive, and if you ask inane questions the entire way, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  Lifting my hands, I settle back into my seat. “Sorry,” I mutter, and Alex frowns slightly, looking back and forth between me and my sister. He must have had these kinds of little blowups with Seb and Flora growing up, and I almost ask him that before I remember that I’m not supposed to ask questions. All El wanted was for me to show an interest in all of this, and now that I am, she wants me to be quiet.

  Typical.

  Also, to be honest, I’d thought that engaging in a little friendly chatter would help dispel some of the tension that had been brewing. I’d thought going along with “the palace’s” plan would make Ellie happy, but clearly it wasn’t enough, and I have to fight the urge to start an argument with her over it. It’s just . . . I gave up the Winchester Mystery House for her, I gave up Key Con, I gave up my personal dignity after the Horse Incident, and she’s still acting like it’s all my fault somehow.

  But fighting in front of Alex would be bad, so I decide to take the high road.

  My shoulder bag is sitting on the seat next to me, and I pull it closer, still enjoying how soft the leather is underneath my fingers. This had been one of Glynnis’s things, that I needed to stop carrying my ratty backpack and have something nicer, just in case there were photographers. I’d wanted to object on principle, but then she gave me this lovely bag, all supple and expensive, lined with a gorgeous green-and-purple tartan, a thistle emblem embroidered on the front, and oh man, I’d been a goner.

  I take The Portrait of a Lady out of my bag, and Alex smiles, nodding at the paperback in my hands. “Henry James? I approve.”

  It’s for summer reading, and I would much prefer to be reading something with dragons, but I give Alex a smile in return, wiggling the book in his general direction.

  “You know we Winters fam, always seeking to better ourselves.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellie is sitting up in her seat now, hair falling over her shoulders, which are so tense you could
probably crack rocks on them.

  “I was making a joke,” I fire back at El, and I can sense Alex steeling himself for sisterly drama. But he’s a born diplomat, which I guess is a useful skill for him, because he just clears his throat and says, “Has Eleanor told you anything about where we’re going, Daisy?”

  “North,” I reply, waving a hand. “Hinterlands. Mountains. Kilts. Special cows.”

  El is still looking out the window, but one corner of her mouth lifts, and Alex chuckles. “Those are the highlights, yes. But the actual house we’re going to is rather special to our family, mostly because it’s ours.”

  I lower my book, raising my eyebrows at him. “Unlike Holyroodhouse, right?”

  Alex nods. “Exactly. Things like Holyrood and Edinburgh Castle belong to the people of Scotland. We live in them, of course, but we’re only stewards. Baird House is private property. My great-grandfather Alexander bought it back in the thirties so that he’d have a retreat for his family—somewhere they could go and feel like regular people.”

  “The Petit Trianon,” I blurt out, and now it’s Alex’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

  Ellie glances over at me, and I shrug. “I went through a Marie Antoinette phase,” I explain. “Not the ‘let them eat cake’ part—which she didn’t even say, by the way—but just . . . you know, the history of it all. The Petit Trianon was this little house Marie used near Versailles, and she could pretend to be a regular person there. Milk goats, feed sheep, do whatever it was she thought peasants did.”

  Alex chokes on a laugh, turning it into the fakest cough I have ever heard. “Well, yes, but I promise you, we don’t go up there to pretend to be peasants.”

  “Do you wear kilts?” I counter, and Alex nods.

  “Wouldn’t be allowed into the Highlands if we didn’t.”

  “Then I guess that’s good enough,” I say with a shrug, and Alex smiles at me. It’s a real smile, the kind I don’t get from him or El that often, and it’s nice. Another reminder that without all this weird royalty stuff, Alex is a good guy who makes my sister happy and seems to like me.