“Sorry, but nope,” I say.
She looks over her shoulder, giving me a dramatic pout. “Don’t mind me. I’m just blending in with history. It’s a public service.”
I laugh. “Public service was when you dressed up as Jessica Rabbit.”
She takes a deep breath. “We’re never going to get past that, are we?”
“Never,” I agree pleasantly.
We stroll toward the palace gates again, and I notice how fluid Pippa’s movements are. The sway of her hips, the easy grace of her body, the way her laughter draws attention without her even trying. It’s ridiculous how magnetic she is. It’s almost impossible to believe that I am her fake boyfriend. That I have actually offered myself up to make that loser jealous … so she can be with him.
She chews on her lower lip. “Wouldn’t it be grand if we ran into the King?”
“What would you say to him?”
“Oh, hi, Your Majesty. Fancy a scone? Jam first, of course.’”
I almost choke on a sip of my bottled water. “I’d pay to see that encounter.”
“And you must record it for posterity too,” she instructs while nodding sagely. “The world deserves to see me casually offering scones to royalty.”
We reach the front gates, and I notice the King’s mounted guards, expressionless and rigid. Pippa nudges me.
“Go on. Stand like a proper tourist next to them. And bonus points if the horse doesn’t bite you.”
“They won’t bite. These are highly-trained animals,” I say as I step into position next to the sentry, and cross my arms like a soldier.
She lifts her camera and takes several photos. “You look more like a bouncer than a tourist.”
I glance at her, and she’s laughing with delight, her cheeks pink with excitement. The way she moves, completely unselfconscious, is intoxicating.
“Done?” I ask.
“I think so.”
I go back to join her. “Your turn,” I say, taking her cellphone.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m ok.”
“What are you scared of? The man or the horse?” I tease.
“I’m not scared of either,” she denies hotly.
“So, do it then,” I prompt.
She rolls her eyes, but she goes and stands beside the guard on his horse and poses for the photo. The horse turns his head towards her and licks her face, a long lick of his big tongue. Pippa shrieks with surprise, then giggles in delight. I snap a couple of great photographs of her mid-laugh, and the horse’s pink tongue pressed against her cheek. She looks stunning, so happy and carefree that I wish I’d taken the photo on my own phone instead of hers. She bounces back towards me, still laughing.
“Let me see. Let me see,” she urges excitedly.
She looks at the photos and squeals. “These are amazing. I can’t believe that horse licked me.”
“Come on, let’s go before you charm anyone else into licking you,” I say, and we both laugh as we head away.
We move along the side of the palace, and Pippa points out little details she’s read about the windows, the statues, and the intricate railings. She’s animated and talkative, and like a moth to a flame, I fly closer and closer to her. Every so often, she pauses dramatically, turning to me with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“You make a great tour guide,” I say softly.
“I know,” she replies with mock arrogance. “I have a gift for making history entertaining. And I don’t even charge for my services.”
