“I have him!” I hear Eric shout. “Release the reins.”
“No.”
“You’re going to do the horse more harm than good if you don’t let him cool down,” Eric insists.
“I know what I’m doing,” Art grunts. “Why do you think I’m walking him in circles?”
“I can walk him around the track just fine, thank you very much!” Eric counters.
“You’ve proven you can’t be trusted!”
“Yes I can! Ask Alice. You’re just the hired help. Nothing you say or do matters.”
Eric’s words are as sharp as the tip of a penknife. Did he not see that Art just risked his own life and limb to help him? I’m seething. As if it weren’t bad enough when he didn’t listen to me warning him not torace Poseidon, now he’s verbally attacking Art? I won’t stand for it. Enough is enough. Time to take out the rubbish.
I’m boiling mad. I’m like a porcupine puffing up to extend its quills toward an enemy. All I can see is red. “Art. Is. Not. Hired. Help,” I start in a deadly tone. My eyes narrow. “He is a royal protection officer. His words and actions matter agreatdeal.”
I have Eric’s and Art’s full attention. Both sets of eyes are on me. Repositioning Athena and Sefton’s reins, I walk through the gap between my horses and harden my glare. “You’ve crossed the line, Eric. You deliberately put yourself and my brother’sfavoritehorse in danger. How dare you!”
“I thought it would impress you,” he sputters.
“Impress me? Impress me?” If I were a robot, I’d be shooting lasers at him to get my point across that it did the opposite of impress me. It repulsed me. “All you’ve managed to do is show me how immature and reckless you are! This date is over. I don’t want to see or hear from you again. Get off Poseidon and get your worthless bum out of my sight!”
“You heard the princess.” Art’s tone is so icy.
“I paid for your lunch, and this is the thanks I get? How am I going to get home?”
“I’ll have my brother’s private secretary reimburse you for your expenses by the end of the day. As for getting home, you have two legs, a phone, and a brain, don’t you? Take a taxi, catch the Tube, or order a rideshare. You’ll think of something.”
To show him I mean business, I assume a power stance, lifting my chin and straightening my posture. It’s a trick I learned from my cousin David. A lot of officers in the military do it as an intimidation tactic.
“Everyone warned me not to get involved with the Ice Princess, and they were right. You’re hot, but you have zero personality. I only agreed to a blasted date as a favor to Amanda. Never again.” He dismounts from the horse. “What a waste of time.”
It takes every ounce of strength in me not to cringe and cry. I’ve had insults hurled at me before, but Ice Princess is the worst moniker of all. It’s the nickname the media gave me when I was fifteen. I’ve always been shy when I’m in public. It’s gotten much better since then, but I stilldon’t possess the same natural gift for public speaking as everyone else in my family, and prefer to avoid being photographed.
I can talk to friends and family for hours just fine, but for some reason, anytime I had to interact with the public, my mind would draw a blank, and I wouldn’t know what to say. It was like I drank a vial of water from the pool of forgetfulness.
I’d use short, clipped answers for the questions I was asked. I avoided being photographed whenever possible. The papers ran headlines like “Our Very Own Frozen Princess” and “An Icy Outing.” The one that cemented the nickname, though, was “The Ice Princess: Will Her Frosty Facade Ever Melt?”
Last year, when I disappeared from the public view while my back was healing, the media had a field day running stories about me. The nickname returned with a vengeance. The stories upset me so much that it got to the point where the palace was forced to come out and make an official statement about what had happened. It gained me public support and put a temporary end to the stories, but it still felt like I’d been scrubbed raw with how my privacy had been invaded.
Eric marches off the track, kicking dirt as he retreats.
“Good riddance,” Art mutters as he continues to walk Poseidon. “Ignore what he said.”
I’ve tried to grow a thick skin, but sometimes it’s still like ripping off a scab and exposing the raw healing skin that’s underneath. I take the back of my hand and wipe it against my eyes.
“Ma’am, use these.” Art presses a travel-sized packet of tissues into my right hand.
“Oh, thank you.”
He grunts his reply, watching me carefully as I open the pack, take one from the top, and pass it back to him. “I hope the bloke’s phone dies and he loses his wallet. He deserves to have to walk back to whatever sewer he crawled out from,” Art says.
I can’t help myself as I conjure an image of Eric wearing a cheesy rat costume, a long tail tucked between his legs, and I start to chuckle.
“Ma’am. Are you okay?” Art’s voice is soft.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been through a roller coaster of emotions over the last couple of minutes and it’s all hitting me now.” I fan myself.
