Royals

“It’s an easy solution,” she says, “that would make me very happy. And I’m sure it would please your sister as well.”

The words are mild, but Ellie’s eyes are pleading, and then I get it.

She’s not threatening to call off the engagement. I’m not sure she even could. Alex is a grown man, and for all that they might be shoving Seb at whichever willing aristocratic lady crosses his path, it seems clear that the queen understands Alex is marrying the woman he loves.

But between insulting a duchess and being papped with Seb, I’ve now screwed up enough for this to be my penance, and if I don’t want to make things harder for Ellie, I’ll go along with it.

Mom and Dad seem to get it, too.

“It’s just a few pictures, love,” Mom says softly, and Dad sighs on my other side.

“Like I said, get on the train or be smashed on the tracks,” he mutters in a low voice.

Ellie is watching me, her knuckles white, and I can see the violet shadows underneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks. I may not get anything about this world she’s stepping into, but she wants to be here.

A few pictures.

Pretending to date a boy I don’t like very much who also doesn’t like me or my family.

Not exactly appealing, but not the hardest thing in the world, either. And once it’s done, Ellie will be happy and secure on the road to princessdom, and I can put this whole—everything—behind me.

“Fine,” I say. “Sure. Fake date me up.”

And from behind me, I think I can actually feel Miles grimace.

* * *

• • •

I’d been on lots of dates since Mom decided I was allowed to date (Dad said he didn’t deserve to have a say in when we started dating since his rock star past was so debauched, and none of us wanted to ask any more questions about that, Mom included).

My first date had been at the outdoor shopping center just outside of Perdido. I’d gone out with Matt Rivera and also seven of Matt’s friends, plus Isabel, so I’m not actually sure that counts as a date, but I definitely treated it like one in my head, and the roughly three seconds when his hand had brushed mine as he handed me some pennies to throw in the fountain had gotten a lot of ink in my diary. Then there had been the movies with Daniel Funderburke, the seventh grade formal with Heath Levy, a whole summer of hanging out in various parking lots with Aidan Beck, plus this thing with Emily Gould that I hadn’t thought was a date at the time but had seemed kind of date-y in retrospect.

And then, of course, Michael. So many dates with Michael. School dances, movies, driving around aimlessly . . .

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.”