The communications officer stalks out of the room, throwing her pages of carefully worded statements into the air.
“Take it down a couple notches,” I tell Brooke.No need to make them hate us more than they already do.
“Brooke can come,” Theo says. “Naomi too, if she wants—”
“I do!” Naomi says quickly.
I look at her in surprise. “What about school?”
“The press has already figured out that I’m your best friend. I don’t want to be stalked either!”
“Not even in the name of higher education?” I raise an eyebrow.
A slow smile spreads across her face. “If you’re running away with the royals again, I’m coming with you this time. School can wait a few days.”
I swallow thickly and look back at Theo. The last time we decided to run away together I was alone, desperate, and scared. This time, I have my sister, my best friend, and my dog.
What could go wrong?
I knock my foot against Theo’s and allow myself a small smile. “Let’s go to London.”
As we’re leaving Theo’s suite, the Firm “advises” me not to stray farther than the private elevator. (So much for the discreet staff.) Comet needs to go outside, so Brooke offers to take him for a walk around the courtyard, and Naomi and I return to our room.
“What happened to Theo’s dad?” I ask once I’ve closed thedoor firmly behind us. I can’t forget the apprehension on Henry’s face when he asked Theo if I “knew” about their father.
“He passed away a few years ago. He got really sick and was gone within a few weeks, if I remember right,” Naomi says.
“Was the press hard on him?”
“They’re hard on everyone, even the royals,” she says absently, thumbing through a room service menu. “How much room service do you think we can get away with ordering?”
“Order everything. What do you know about Henry?”
“He was the spare, but now he’s the heir, and the publicloveshim.”
“Why?”
“The curly hair? The dimple? He sticks out in a royal lineup, but people love that he’s different. He’s also authentic in a way that Theo’s not.” She winces. “No offense to your husband.”
“I thought you were mad at my husband?”
“I am!” She crosses her arms defensively. “But it’s harder now that I’ve met him. I blame the accent.” (Fair enough.)
I can only ruminate on the royal family for so long before the conversation quickly turns to the room service menu. Brooke returns with Comet, and we spend the evening eating charcuterie and cheesecake, watching our social media followings go up faster than we can hit refresh, and playing fetch with Comet in the hall.
Shortly after dinner, Victoria’s personal stylist stops by the room with a delivery of clothing for each of us, and it quickly becomes obvious that she only knows how to dress rich people.
“We look like Easter eggs,” Brooke says critically as we stand together in front of the bathroom mirror, still steamy around the edges from three showers in a row. We’re dressed in silk pajama sets in various shades of pastel.
“If Easter eggs wore matching underwear,” I say.
“Do you think this is what princesses wear when they sleep?” Brooke muses.
“Ask Wren, she’s the queen consort,” Naomi quips.
“Not that those stuffy assholes would ever admit it,” Brooke grumbles.
“Itiskind of weird that an American teenager can suddenly become their queen,” Naomi says.
