She stamps her foot, her white Adidas sneaker all but glowing in the dim hallway.
Shows of temper from Lyra aren’t new since I spend most of my time with one or more of the princes, with Lyra and my sisters tagging along. And Stella is just as temperamental as Lyra, to her mother’s annoyance.
If it wasn’t for Sophie’s sweet nature, I’d think that was just how girls behaved.
“I’m sorry, Lyra,” Dad says. And he really does sound sorry. “The girls will be staying with their mother.”
Lyra glares at me like this is all my fault. “What do you want me to do?” I ask. “I don’t have a mom to stay with.”
“It’s not that.” Lyra’s sullen expression softens. She may be a moody brat—Kalle’s words, not mine—but there is a soft side as well. I think I get to see it more than her brothers. “You can stay—I just want Sophie.”
“And she’d like nothing more than to be here with you,” Dad tells her. “But unfortunately, that’s not going to happen.”
“It’s not fair.” Another stomp, but some of the heat disappears.
Even more when Dad ruffles her hair with a rueful smile. “No, sweetheart, it’s not. But Spencer will be here. Can you help take care of Spence so he won’t miss the girls so much?”
“He won’t miss them,” Lyra grumbles. “My brothers would never miss me.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Princess. Those boys wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without you.” Dad claps a hand on my shoulder, and one on Lyra’s. I’m older, but Lyra is almost as tall as I am. Still waiting for that growth spurt. “I can count on the two of you to take care of each other, can’t I? Be friends?”
If he only knew.
Odin
(Yes, this is Lyra’s book but her big brother wanted his say!)
I smile as I open the door. “Come in.”
It’s an easy, welcoming smile, unlike the forced contortions of my mouth I use when pictures are taken of me, or during meetings, and at events that I really don’t want to be attending. Or even when people stopped me on the street of Battle Harbour to happily inform me what the royal family was doing wrong and exactly what they should do about it.
People still stop me here in Saint Pierre, but I let Camille handle their complaints and suggestions.
She likes it that way.
I like that I’m able to open my own door without dealing with fences or security or a doorman.
Things are a lot more laid back here in Saint Pierre.
I keep a firm hand on Bea Arthur’s collar, as she strains forward, tongue out. The long and lanky mutt has been known to knock over visitors in her eagerness to make friends. Tucked behind my legs, Betty White growls menacingly—or as menacinglyas one can be when she’s the size of a well-fed rat. I scoop her up in my other arm and she curls her lip at me.
“Stop,” I caution both dogs. Camille usually locks them up when people first come over, but she’s been a little flustered about all of this.
Grayson Grant steps inside. The prefect house, which Camille inherited when she took over the position from her father, is situated in the very centre of the island of Saint Pierre. While it may not be as welcoming as we’d like, Camille has been making changes, adding our own touches and personality, and removing some of her father’s old-fashioned décor and traditions, and it’s getting there.
I’m not sure if the dogs are helping. Betty White has a constant growl that vibrates her tiny body, giving Grayson the stink-eye as he offers the back of his hand as a peace offering.
He has more luck with Bea Arthur as her tongue makes contact and covers his outstretched hand with a fair bit of slobber.
“It’s good to see you, Odin,” Grayson says, discretely wiping his hand on his pants.
Grayson Grant has become the ultimate television personality. Former baseball player, Suitor celebrity, and now host and executive producer of the reality dating show. He’s the Jeff Probst of the Suitor franchise, with the innate ability to befriend contestants so they’ll confide in him, but managing to keep enough distance to ask the hard questions.
All with more variety in his wardrobe than the Survivor guy.
I can’t believe it’s been two years since my blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time on The Suitorette. Did I really think I could find a wife on a reality romance television show?
Maybe if I had been actually looking to fall in love, rather than focused on heading straight for death-do-us-part, I might have had better luck.
