She tapped her chin and squinted her eyes theatrically. “There’s a bit of Jamie Tartt in you.”
I groaned. “And I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. The media compares me to Olivier Giroud.”
“You’re about the same age, and I read that Jamie is in part based on him, so ...” She spread her hands like she’d just won an argument.
My smartwatch beeped. “I have to get Walter soon. He said an hour playing backgammon there was enough.”
“He needs to get out more.”
“So do I. Which is why I’m taking you both out to dinner tomorrow night. Deal?”
She hesitated. “Um ... sure. Deal.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, INmy suite, I pulled up Rio’s YouTube channel. It wasn’t easy to find.
“Disclaimer: if your video seems to halt, it’s not a problem with your internet connection, it’s me,” she said at the start of a tutorial titled Cinnamon and Why You Want It on Your Body.
I didn’t know about cinnamon, but I suddenly craved strawberries.
Her channel had fifty-three subscribers. Eighteen videos. A few hundred views per video. Dozens of likes. Several great comments.
And a few that made my blood boil.
“Can’t even get a sentence out properly. Maybe just type it next time. Not everyone’s meant to be on camera.”
“Painful to watch. Took you long enough to say five words. Spit it out already.”
I wasn’t a violent man, but I was fearless on the field. And right now, I had two urges—one, to kick whoever wrote this into next week. And the other, to hug Rio.
I couldn’t do the first.
And I wasn’t supposed to do the second.
“AND OUR HOMECOMINGKing is ... no surprises here: Owen Wheaton!” the announcer declared, and thehall erupted in cheers. “Please come up on stage. Your Homecoming Queen is waiting.”
Simon clapped me on the back twice—firm enough to push me forward. “Just go and be done with it. It’s not that bad. And Tiffany’s not that bad either. She’s probably over you never asking her out and preferring to go stag.” His amused grin made me scoff.
Next to him, Nicole looked less entertained. “They voted for a king who’s about to abdicate and leave the country. And don’t get me started on this queen.”
It was around the time I’d told them that I was going back to England with my newly divorced mom. “I’ll leave the crown to you, Nicole. Promise,” I said.
After the obligatory dance with the queen, I broke away and went looking for Simon and the others. I couldn’t find them, not even outside, so I headed back into the hall.
Scanning the dance floor from the sidelines, I squeezed my way through the packed crowd. I stopped to chat with a few people, asked if they’d seen Simon, and realized I’d nearly circled the entire room.
“Waiting for the Ma-Ma-Ma-Macarena?”
The voice caught my attention. A guy I recognized—a sophomore—was smirking at his friend, who was also wearing a light blue tux and a distinct look of I-couldn’t-find-a-date.
“Or maybe the Ca-Ca-Ca-Caramba?” the second tux guy said. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have a date.”
They were standing at the edge of the dance floor, and when I pushed through the crowd, I saw exactly who they were talking to.
“Idon’t repeat syllables,” Rio replied, holding her ground. The short skirt of her navy-blue halter dress swayed as she spoke. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t be an ‘M.’” She paused briefly as the sentence was strewn with velar sounds, her face tightening as she worked through the words.
I stepped forward.
“May I have this dance?” I held out my hand.
