His Royal Highness(29)

They look handsome together, standing side by side, much closer in age than he and I are. I doubt she has ever sent anyone embarrassing emails inviting them to dinner, and if she has, they probably tripped over themselves to send back a quick reply, their fingers popping letters off the keyboard.

Thomas stands in their circle, a fact Carrie doesn’t miss.

To save us both, I head in the direction of the bar, where Cal stands behind the counter, uncorking wine for his guests. He spots me and smiles, pulling the plug on a bottle just as we join him.

“Ah, perfect timing,” he says, filling the glasses lined up in front of him. “Whitney, I barely recognize you. You look radiant.”

“Are you saying I don’t always look radiant?” I ask, knowing full well that half the time I show up for our weekly dinners wearing yesterday’s jeans and a loose t-shirt, hair knotted up on top of my head.

“I’m merely suggesting that tonight, especially, there’s an air about you.”

“Carrie dressed me. That’s probably it.”

“Well then, Carrie, you’ve done a fine job. How are you?” He greets her with warmth. I’ve brought Carrie over to Cal’s plenty of times. They get on well, and she’s an easy addition to our dinners.

Then Cal’s eyes cut to Ryan. “Ah, and you brought another guest.”

“Ryan Culver, sir,” Ryan says, extending his hand. “I work with Whitney.”

Cal nods and I’m sure he seems perfectly pleasant to everyone else, but I can tell he’s not too keen to see Ryan here. He’s made his feelings about him perfectly clear to me. Still, he tries.

“Any friend of Whitney’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to my home. We have wine and cocktails here. I used to hire a bartender, but I find people are usually adept at making their own drinks if you give them the chance. Dinner will be served at half past seven.”

With that, he shoots me another glance before moving around us to greet someone else.

“Holy shit.” Ryan exhales with a laugh once the three of us are alone. “I just talked to Charles Knightley! I’m inside his house!” He’s wiping his palms on his pant legs. “Do you think that painting over there is by someone famous?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s an original Cézanne. Instead, I hold up my wine glass for a toast.

“Here’s to an interesting night.”





Chapter Nine





Derek





Whitney is here, and she made quite an entrance. I think the entire room stopped to watch her and her friend walk in.

I’ve never thought of her as someone willing to reduce herself to arm candy, but there she stands, propped up by Ryan near the bar. He makes her smile and she leans in, her body brushing his.

Tonight especially, her hair looks like it’s on fire, burning in waves across her pale shoulders and black sweater.

I tamp down a twinge of annoyance as Nadine follows my gaze.

“Ah! Whitney’s here,” she notes pleasantly. “And she brought a date from the looks of it. I think that’s the boy who plays her prince in the castle, isn’t it?” Someone confirms he is and she sighs like she’s just been presented with a newborn baby. “Oh, that’s too sweet they’ve come together. I wonder if they’re an item.”

“No no. Haven’t you heard? Derek here is her new prince,” Thomas says, grinning.

He and I go way back. Our years at Princeton overlapped prior to him coming to work for the Knightley Company, and I consider him a friend more than a colleague.

“Unofficially,” I amend, sipping my drink.

Thomas narrows one eye playfully. “I’ve seen the getup they have you in. Seems pretty official to me.”

Nadine’s jaw drops. “No! You can’t be serious!”

I explain the situation to her using every shortcut possible. Still, she lights up with excitement.

“Please say you’ve got a photo on you. I have to see you all done up in the costume. I bet it’s too good! Are the moms all squealing over you?”

“Haven’t you heard about him rescuing a toddler?” someone else feels the need to add.

I glance back at Whitney over the top of my drink—except she’s not at the bar anymore. Ryan and Carrie chat alone. I glance across the room, toward the hall that leads toward the bathroom, but then I catch a glimpse of fire disappearing into the kitchen.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say to the group, cutting through the middle of conversation like a blunt ax without even realizing it.

I trail after Whitney, intrigued by her destination until I spot her near the sink, giving Ava a hug. The head chef and the sous chef from étoile toil away on the far side of the kitchen near the stove. Ava is supposed to be out in the living room, with us, a guest tonight. I tell her so as I step into the room.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she promises. “I just couldn’t pass up the chance to see the chef at work.”

Ava isn’t classically trained. She was a cook at a mom-and-pop diner off the highway a few miles from the turnoff for Fairytale Kingdom. She makes the best food, genuine home-cooking. Chicken fried steak, cornbread, roasted carrots. My grandfather ate at her diner once after a late flight, and to this day, he says that was the best meal of his life. He sent a runner back every day for a week, trying something different each time. The following Monday, he marched down to the diner and offered Ava a job working as his personal chef. I once saw what he pays her. It’s obscene, and she’s worth every penny.