Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(56)

We’re in the art classroom, and there, spread out on the desk, is a miniature Thanksgiving feast. I spot a small roast bird that’s not a turkey, but smells great, and a couple of china dishes, one heaped with macaroni and cheese, the other holding the beloved sweet potatoes with marshmallows. There’s also a pie and an ancient silver candelabra illuminating the whole thing, but my eyes are drawn to one thing and one thing only.

The girl standing behind the desk, beaming at me.

“Surprise!” Flora trills, clapping her hands together. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair loose around her face, and she’s smiling at me, a real smile, and I am surprised.

Not by the miniature Thanksgiving she’s made for me, though.

No, what surprises me is the sudden, jolting, and undeniable realization that even though I didn’t want to, I’ve fallen for an actual princess.

Flora’s smile drops slightly, her hands lowering. “Are you not pleased?” she asks, looking down at the food. “Did I get it wrong?”

I have to swallow before I’m able to speak. “No,” I reassure her, stepping forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Perry and Sakshi exchange a glance.

“No, it’s perfect,” I go on. “I mean, three actual weeks before Thanksgiving, but still. This is . . . I’m speechless.”

That smile lights up her face again, and my heart thuds so painfully in my chest I’m surprised no one can hear it. My head is spinning and my throat is so dry that I happily gulp down the can of soda Flora hands me.

I immediately regret that decision when a sort of flat bubble-gum taste hits my tongue, and I pull back the can to frown at it.

“Yeurgh.”

“That’s Irn-Bru, Scotland’s national drink, missy,” Flora says, all faux-offended as she takes the can back from me, and when our fingers brush, I swear I feel sparks.

But I make myself give her a look and say, “Didn’t you also think the stag was Scotland’s national animal? And look where that got us.”

“Look where it got us indeed,” Flora counters. “We’re friends now. We wouldn’t have been without that stupid stag.”

She has a point, but all I can think is that that must be where all this started. It wasn’t the laundry or the dance in the orangery or looking at my rocks together—it was that night up there on the hill that led to this moment, me realizing I’m into her. I should’ve seen it then, the way things changed between us.

We eat the rest of our tiny feast happily enough, Flora regaling us with the tale of how she got all this food here in the first place.

“I don’t know how Glynnis managed to find someone who could make this,” Flora added, picking up the spoon in the sweet potatoes and poking around at the dish, “but the woman is a superhero.”

And then Flora’s gaze shoots to me, her teeth dimpling her lower lip.

“Bollocks. Is that too big, too? Having a royal liaison track down food? I know you said the plane ticket was a lot—”

I reach over and touch her arm, shaking my head. “No, that was just . . . using available resources. It’s different from throwing money at something.”

Flora nearly preens at that, lifting her chin with a smug smile. “So I thought.”

Across the desk, I see Saks and Perry glance at each other, something passing between them, but I ignore it.

For now, things feel . . . homey. Nice.

Almost normal.

And then there’s a flash in the window.





Interesting (I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing) news to report out of Scotland today. Princess Flora has managed to keep her nose clean for the last six weeks or so, shocking everyone, I’m sure. Maybe that draconian school they sent her to is working? Or maybe it’s something else. Apparently there’s a mole up there in the Highlands, and not the fuzzy kind. A student has been leaking info on Flora to the press, and according to the source, Princess Flora has gotten very cosy with her new roommate, some girl from Texas named Amelia Quint. So cosy, in fact, that they are roommates no more, according to our source. A few weeks ago, the princess and her new pal were separated into different rooms. Could be they’re just friends, but the source seems to think they’re more. Anyway, here’s a blurry shot of the two of them eating . . . Thanksgiving? With some other people? Who the f*** knows.

Personally, I hope for Flora’s sake she is dating an American girl who might actually have sense, but then I wouldn’t wish Flora on my worst enemy, so it’s a real toss-up here.


(“Princess Flora Does Some Stuff, I Know You’ll All Click on It, I Need to Eat,” from Off with Their Heads)





CHAPTER 32





The photographer they fish out of the bushes is younger than I’d imagined most paparazzi to be. Maybe he’s new, which is why he made the rookie mistake of having his flash on.

Despite Dr. McKee telling all of us to clear the halls, it feels like the whole school gathers there in the foyer to watch her and Mr. McGregor talk to the local police, as the photographer sits in the back of a police car. I hear the word “trespassing,” and Mr. McGregor, red-faced and fairly bristling with anger, mentions “tarring and feathering” at least four times.

Next to me, Flora is very quiet and very still as she watches.