“That’s because royalty is weird. No offense to Wren’s boyfriend, but if you’re going to put a nineteen-year-old boy in charge of the country, you can’t be surprised when he makes questionable choices because he’s horny.”
“That’s unfair! Marrying Wren is a great choice.” Naomi leaps to our defense. I’m starting to feel dizzy.
“The monarchy is unfair,” Brooke counters. She begins ticking the problems off on her fingers. “Colonialism, racism, elitism—”
“That’s notTheo’sfault—”
“I need fresh air.” I grab the empty ice bucket off the bathroom counter and look at them both in the mirror. “Be done arguing by the time I get back.”
I escape to the hallway, bucket in my hand, and lean against our closed door, gulping air until my head stops spinning. I can’t believe that twenty-four hours ago Naomi and I were going to our first college party, and now I’m trapped in a Canadian hotel, unable to go outside without having my picture taken. And just in case that’s not confusing enough, I don’t know how Theo feels about any of this. A small part of me has been hoping he’d come visit my room so we could finish our conversation from earlier, but he hasn’t. Apparently, it was toomuch to call, too much to write, too much to walk three feet from his door to mine.
If I were anyone else, I’d tell me to get a grip.
When my head is no longer swimming and I think I’ve given Brooke and Naomi enough time to stop squabbling, I wander the hall until I find the ice machine. I’m filling the bucket when I hear a voice behind me.
“I’ll never understand Americans’ obsession with ice,” Theo says.
I jump, and ice goes skittering across the floor. “Shit.” I kneel down to sweep it into a pile.
“You all right?” he asks, holding out a hand to help me up. “Sorry for scaring you.”
“Hi! Hey! Yeah, I’m fine!” I stand, suddenly conscious of the thin silk of my pajamas. I hold the bucket against my stomach, an icy barrier between how good he looks in sweats and a T-shirt and the way my skin feels like it’s overheating.
He nods in the direction of our rooms, and we slowly fall into stride next to each other.
“I’m sorry again, about this,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “If there was any other way, I wouldn’t have suggested bringing you to London.”
Ouch.How does one respond to being told by their maybe-husband that spending a week together is a literal last resort? It’s unfair how our time apart has robbed me of my ability to speak to him, while it’s only made him hotter.
“I thought you’d dye your hair back” is all I can think to say. I wish he had. His blond hair had no power against me.
“I can say the same to you.” He quirks a curious eyebrow.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Apparently, you mucked up my natural shade. The palace hairdresser was furious with me.”
We reach my door, and I lean against it, unable to smother my grin as I imagine a stuffy British hairdresser yelling at Theo.
“Same question,” Theo says, his eyes tracing my vibrant locks.
I shrug, suddenly feeling defiant over my decision to keep the reddish-orange shade. “Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean other people don’t.”
“I never said I don’t like it,” he argues.
“You implied it.”
“Not once. Who are these other people who like it? Blokes?”
“Me.I like it. The entire world was so quick to move on after the comet. Sometimes it feels like everyone else has forgotten about it. But I don’t want to forget, so I kept the hair.” My chest burns with the admission.
He winces, looking down. “Well, if I didn’t say it before, I like it,” he says. “It suits you.” He reaches out and brushes a strand from my face. The smallest sliver of his finger touches my forehead, and I feel like I’m on fire.
“Thanks.” We stare at each other a beat too long. I wait for him to say something, to do something, but he doesn’t. If I stand here another second, the heat radiating off me will melt everything in this ice bucket. “I should go.”
“Okay.” He nods.
I open the door and slip into the Gold Suite. The front room is empty, TV sounds floating in from the bedroom. Brooke and Naomi seem to have called a truce.
