“What’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing much. Just wanted to touch base with you about Rose Lynn.” Braxton slows his pace, and I equally slow mine.
“Can we talk about it later?” I plead silently with Lorelai to understand. I don’t want to tell Braxton that Mama is in jail again. Or that I haven’t talked to her.
Lorelai narrows her eyes, then says, “Sure.”
“I made Braxton ride a roller coaster,” I quickly change the subject. She snickers, and I flip the screen back to Braxton who has now stopped in his tracks and is looking back at me. He wants to ask about Mama, I can tell, so I’ll just have to preoccupy him some other way.
“Did you have fun?” Lorelai asks Braxton, whom I’ve caught up with.
“I’m fixing to shove a pretzel into my mouth and down it with Sprite. What do you think?” he snaps, but a playful smile tugs at his lips.
“Point taken,” Lorelai says. “Well, you two kids have fun. I hear Lucy screaming in the background. Better go tend to her.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Braxton and I get in line for pretzels.
“Jake broke up with her like five minutes ago. She hasn’t calmed down enough to earn her phone back, so that’s why she hasn’t texted you yet.” Lorelai waves Lucy’s phone in her hand.
“Should I talk to her real quick?”
“Better not. Not if you don’t want the entire amusement park thinking you have psycho friends in your life.”
“Text me when you give her the phone back so I can call,” I state. My heart sinks like a rock thrown into water. Lucy seriously liked Jake. She thought he would propose. This isn’t going to be fun to walk through with her, but I will because she is my best friend.
“Will do.” Lorelai clicks off. Before I tuck my phone away, I see a text come through from her saying Mama is okay.
Not good. Not doing well. Just…okay.
I shake the feeling that I need to call Mama away in favor of ordering a pretzel.
Aftermunchingdownaheavenly salted pretzel smothered in hot cheese (Braxton refused the cheese, which meant Ihad double), I make my way to stand in line for Dorothy’s Cyclone.
The autumn breeze carries the smell of hamburgers and popcorn, making me hungrier than ever despite the pretzel I had just ate. I check my phone, shoot a few work emails off, and text Lucy back (she wrestled her phone away from her twin) letting her know I’ll be free to talk later. A hand taps me on the shoulder, causing me to whip around faster than the tilt-a-whirl here.
“Hadley Dawson?” the man asks. His eyes—a rich, sapphire blue—are a color I have only seen on one other human being in my life.
“Oh my gosh!” My mouth drops to the floor. “Finley Andersson?”
“Yours truly.” He bows like the prince he is. And I mean it. He is a prince. Second in line to the throne of a small European country with Swedish roots called Korsa. Only a handful of people from college know about him.
“What are you doing in North Carolina?” I look around, realizing I am standing in line for a roller coaster. “At an amusement park?”
“What? Princes cannot enjoy the amusement of carts on wheels going forty-five miles per hour?” His blonde waves ruffle in the wind. His accent has Americanized more than the fake one he sported in college.
“Who are you here with?” I wiggle my eyebrows. The man had every woman falling over their sneakers in college. We never dated because there was zero chemistry between us. But the friendship came as natural as pouring hot syrup on pancakes.
Dang, I need to get more food. That pretzel didn’t cut it.
“My baby sister, Astrid.” He motions over to a young girl—probably late teens, maybe twenty. She looks exactly what I imagine Finley to look like if he was a young female. “She came to visit me here and wanted to try a rollercoaster. I live in Charlotte now.”
“Why?” I mean it as an honest question, but it comes out in disgust. Because how can a stinkin’ prince—a man of ROYAL blood—want to live in Charlotte? Or anywhere that is not a palace in general?
“Come on, Hads. You know me.” He places a hand on my shoulder. And I do know him. He hates everything about being royal and in the spotlight. He has stayed out of it most of his life, earning a reputation in Korsa as the reclusive prince of hearts. Rumor has it that he’s been off jet-setting the world, stealing hearts and crushing them beneath his handsome, charming teeth.
Yeah, no.
As far as I know, Finley hasn’t dated a single woman while he’s been in America. Then again, I haven’t seen the man in over four years since the last time we ran into each other at a coffee shop in New Orleans.
