Royals (Royals #1)(43)

I glance over at him, still remembering how genuinely cute he’d looked flirting with Missy. How bizarre that was.

Then I clue into what he’s saying and, more accurately, what he’s doing.

“Tea,” he tells me very seriously, and I nod at him.

“Absolutely tea. Murder and disappearance? Scorching Earl Grey right there.”

Pleased with himself, Miles keeps moving forward, and I keep following, trying to listen to him, process the fact that he might be cute, look for Isa, and not get accidentally sucked into an orgy.

It’s clearly a tall order.

But then, finally, the crowd parts a little bit, revealing a bar against the back wall, and standing in front of it are—

“Oh my god.”





Chapter 22


When you’ve been best friends for as long as Isabel and I have—ten years and counting—you get pretty good at reading each other’s faces. Isabel knows when I’m making my “I’m embarrassed and about to make it worse with a terrible joke” face. I know her “I’m maybe not telling the entire truth” face. And I definitely know her “I’m about to hand this stupid boy his ass” face because I’ve seen it in class about a hundred times.

And that is very much the face Isa is wearing now.

I thought we’d find them all cozied up, Isabel’s face aglow with princely attention. Or maybe they’d be kissing, which would be worse.

What I didn’t expect was to see them standing near the bar, staring each other down, with Isabel yelling over the music, “You’re a complete jackass, you know that?”

Seb is looking as stunned as I feel, and next to me, Miles pulls up short.

“This is . . . unexpected,” he mutters.

“I beg your pardon?” Seb asks. Neither he nor Isabel have noticed us yet, so intent on whatever it is they’re arguing about.

“A jackass,” Isabel repeats, not even fazed. Her shoulders are back, chin lifted, and ohhhh, this is bad. “Or whatever word you use for that here.”

“I’m familiar with the term,” Seb replies, some of his shock giving way to the icy disdain thing I’ve seen El pull. “I’m just not sure why it’s directed at me.”

Before this can get any worse, I step forward, practically dragging Miles with me. “Hey, you two!” I say, and my voice is so loud and so bright that I actually wince.

“What’s going on?”

Seb and Isa both startle a little looking over at us.

“Monters?” Seb asks, confused, and Miles goes to stand next to Seb, slapping one hand on his shoulder. I do the same on Isabel’s side—well, minus the show of testosterone—and Miles and I glance at each other, suddenly realizing all we’re doing is hemming our feuding besties in closer together.

Which is clearly an issue since not even our presence is going to stop this argument.

“It’s not sexist, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Seb says to Isabel, obviously just picking up wherever this left off. “I certainly have no problem with women, but Gregorstoun isn’t the place for them. It would be . . .” He waves one hand, looking up at the ceiling like the answer might be there. “Distracting,” he settles on, and Miles groans, tipping his head back.

“Seb,” he says, “we’ve talked about this.”

“I’m right!” Seb insists, turning to look at Miles. “You know I am. And that place is a bloody nightmare, Monters, do you think girls would like it there?”

“Wait, there really aren’t any girls at your scary boarding school?” I ask, and Miles meets my gaze again, his expression apologetic.

“There aren’t, and it’s become a bit of an issue. Some of us live in the twenty-first century and think going coed is not a bad idea. Others of us are—”

“Sensible,” Seb finishes, giving Miles a light shove. “Honestly, Monters, this has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with tradition. And . . . and safety.”

Isabel’s eyes are practically blazing. “Why wouldn’t girls be ‘safe’”—she makes air quotes before tucking her hands back under her elbows—“at your school?”

Seb looks so flummoxed that I almost feel sorry for him, and when Isabel’s meaning dawns on him, he seems genuinely horrified. “I don’t mean they wouldn’t be safe from us, Christ, what sort of person do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a spoiled, selfish, sexist jackass,” Isa says, not even hesitating, and on the other side of Seb, Miles’s eyes go big. It’s clear no one—and certainly no girl—has ever talked to Seb like this.

“I’m a prince,” he finally splutters, and Isa makes a clicking sound with her tongue like that explains it all.

Shaking his head slightly, Seb looks down at the floor. All around us, his friends—or people who’d just like to be his friends—are still dancing and drinking and probably lighting more things on fire, but we’re having a conversation about coed schools. “Gregorstoun is isolated and remote. They make us . . . sail boats in awful weather, and climb bloody mountains, and run in the freezing cold. That’s all I meant, that it’s simply too . . . too physically taxing for women.”