Royals (Royals #1)(10)

“Well, he broke up with his girlfriend, so sayeth Off with Their Heads,” Isabel informs me. “Some also super hot Argentinean girl whose brother is a famous polo player. So to get over that, he and his buddies went to Monaco, but then . . .” She leans closer to the screen, squinting a little. “One of Seb’s friends noticed a dude taking pictures and decided to fight him. Threw the guy in a fountain. Then Seb pulled the photographer out and sent him a very large check the next day to cover the cost of his camera.”

“So basically, the same as one of our typical weekends,” I say, turning back to my test. “Got it.”

Giggling, Isabel takes another sip of her iced mocha. “Easy icebreaker at the wedding, at least.” Picking up her laptop, she turns it to face me. There’s a huge picture of Sebastian in a gorgeous suit, flashing a big grin, one hand up in a wave. His hair darker than Alex’s, but the camera’s flash still picks up hints of red. His eyes are just as blue as Alex’s, though, and I swear to god, even in a crappy paparazzi picture, they seem to sparkle. There is a guy on either side of him, one a good head shorter than Seb with dark curls and a scowl, the other sandy-haired and actually smiling at the cameras.

Isabel taps each guy in turn with one pink fingernail. “These guys are, like, always with Sebastian. Tabloids call them ‘the Royal Wreckers.’ Guys from crazy-posh families who went to school with Seb or something.”

“‘Seb’?” I echo, raising an eyebrow, and this time, Isabel has the grace to blush a little bit.

“I’ve been reading tons of this stuff!” she insists. “And all the papers and websites call him Seb. That’s the kind of thing you need to know, Dais. I mean, we haven’t even gotten to Princess Flora yet, and that’s where the real scandal is.”

I shake my head and click through to the next page of my test. “The less I know, the better,” I say. “I’m just going to get through the wedding, come home, and then the rest of . . . that” —I wave my hand at the screen, taking in the website, drunk Sebastian, his debauched, rich friends, all of it— “can be Ellie’s thing.”

Isabel makes a face at me, setting the computer back on the table and studying it again. “It’s a shame that proximity to boys like these is wasted on you.”

“It would be wasted on you, too,” I remind her, “what with Ben and all.”

At the mention of her boyfriend, Isabel just shrugs. “Ben would want me to fulfill my dreams, Daisy, and if one of those dreams is making out with a prince—”

“Ugh, stop!” I toss a balled-up napkin at her, and she laughs again.

But then, after a second, she rests her elbows on the table. “I’m serious, you know. Not about making out with Seb—well, I mean, I’m serious about that, too, but you really do need to look into all of this. Know what you’re getting yourself into.”

I look back to the page in front of me, chewing my lower lip. “I didn’t get myself into anything. El got us all into this, and she and Alex say nothing is going to change.”

Isabel goes quiet, and I look up from my test. She’s leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes slightly narrowed, and that means I’m about to get some serious Isabel Alonso Truthiness in my life.

“Dais,” she says, and yup, here it comes. “Why are you so resistant?”

Scooting closer to the table, she takes my wrist, shaking my arm. “A prince, Daisy. Castles. It’s a whole new world opening up to you, and you should be, like . . .” She lets go of my wrist to clench both fists in the air, opening her mouth to give a sort of silent shriek of excitement, eyes squeezed shut.

I laugh, flicking her with my pencil. “I’m not all”—I mimic her gesture, then drop my hands back to the table—“because this isn’t my thing. It’s Ellie’s. And now it’s . . .” I don’t want to get into that, not even with my best friend, but Isa is merciless.

“Oh no,” she says. “Not the wistful ‘if only . . .’ look. Spill.”

Shooting her a glare, I shrug my shoulders, wondering how even to explain it. Finally, I settle on an example.

“Okay, remember when I was in fourth grade, and my parents lost their minds and decided to do that road trip out west?”

“The Grand Canyon Incident,” Isabel says, nodding sagely, and I point my pencil at her.

“That’s the one. So on that trip, we ended in California for the last day, and I wanted to go see the Winchester Mystery House because obviously.”

“Obviously,” Isa echoes.

“But that same time we were there, this college Ellie wanted to check out in San Francisco was doing an open house, and she wanted to go to that. So my parents said we’d add an extra day—do Ellie’s college thing first, then, on that extra day, go see my thing.”

Isabel tilts her head to one side. “Fair,” she decides, and I nod.

“Problem is, we all ate these little shrimp thingies during the open house, and then got food poisoning, so there was no second day. No Winchester Mystery House. And I get that it was an Act of God—”

“An act of bacteria, but continue.”

“But the point is that it’s always been like that. Ellie’s thing, then my thing if we have time. And I can’t even be mad about it because Ellie’s thing is always, like, going to see a college, or volunteering at Habitat for Humanity, or taking a summer trip to Guatemala to teach English.”