Royals (Royals #1)(50)

Horses I’d now be expected to get on.

“What is it with you people and horses?” I ask as we step out of the sun and into the dim, grassy-smelling stable.

“We’re related to them,” Miles says, and my eyes adjust enough that I can see him, standing near one of the stalls. “It’s why our chins look like this.”

I almost snort because that would be a decent joke if he hadn’t actually been blessed by the gods of bone structure, and also if I didn’t hate him, but he was, and I do, so I don’t.

He walks over to us, hands in his pockets, and I’m relieved that he’s wearing relatively normal clothes—a white button-down, jeans, and a pair of brown leather boots. If we’d had to wear those super-tight white pants and velvet jackets, I would’ve just let the queen call off the wedding and brought shame down on my family. Nothing was worth pictures of my butt in those pants being splashed on the front of tabloids.

I’m wearing jeans and one of the shirts Glynnis picked out for me, a hunter-green blouse that looks like something Ellie would wear. I’m also in boots, but, I can admit, way cuter ones than Miles’s. The leather encasing my calves is so soft I’ve had to resist the urge to stroke my own leg all morning.

We all just stand there for a second, me, my fake boyfriend, and the lady putting this whole thing together.

And then Glynnis claps her hands, smiling at both of us. “So this is easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she says, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. I risk a glance at Miles, but he’s not smiling at all. If anything, he looks bored, but then, I guess he’s used to people talking like Dr. Seuss. I remember that girl from the club with her “yar” and drawling voice.

But then I also remember how Miles had broken the space-time continuum for a second by being cute, and that’s so weird that I shove the thought away again. I probably hallucinated it, anyway. So worried about Isa that my brain snapped—that had to be what happened.

Besides, he was a massive jerk in the car, and that cancels out any cuteness and any potential bonding.

“All the two of you need to do is a lap or two around the park, making sure to smile at each other, maybe laugh occasionally . . .”

“British-people third base,” I mutter, and to my surprise, that does seem to startle some kind of reaction out of Miles. He doesn’t laugh, exactly, but he makes this kind of choked noise that he covers with a cough, and Glynnis looks between the two of us. Her eyebrows are especially intense this morning, so maybe this matters to her more than I’d thought. Those are very serious eyebrows.

“The photographers will get a few shots, we’ll see if we can find some of the two of you the other night at Seb’s club, and Bob’s your uncle, all set!”

“That’s it?” I ask, propping one hand on my hip. “They see us riding horses and smiling, and the entire country forgets that for one hot second, they were using the hashtag ‘Sebaisy’?”

“That sounds like a skin condition,” Miles says, screwing up his face, and then he looks over at me, lifting his eyebrows. “Will we have a hashtag, then?”

“‘Maisy’ or GTFO,” I reply, and this time he really smiles. With teeth and everything.

It probably causes him physical pain, but it looks nice.

And then Glynnis scowls, pulling her phone out. “We’d decided on ‘Diles,’ but ‘Maisy’ is better; just a tick.”

As she types away on her screen, I look at Miles again, and our eyes meet. Just like at the club, there’s this . . . beat between us. A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.

“There!” Glynnis says, triumphant as she puts her phone back in the pocket of her smart little Chanel jacket. “Shall we get on with it?”

I can hear the horses in their stalls, nickering and shuffling and being horsey. Now seems like a good time to mention that I’ve never been on a horse, but I deflect a little.

“Why are we doing this for photographers who are already there?” I ask. “Can’t we just, like, call them or something? Isn’t that what they do in Hollywood? We could go to lunch, have them take pictures there. There’s so much less potential for permanent maiming at lunch. Unless you do that thing with your face,” I add to Miles. “I can’t be responsible for maiming you if you do that thing with your face.”

“What thing with my face?” Miles asks, doing exactly that thing. It’s this lifting of his chin and tightening of his jaw that makes him look like he’s about to oppress some peasants, and I point at him.

“That thing.”

Glaring at me, Miles steps a little closer. “This is just what my face looks like.”

“That is unfortunate,” I say, and Glynnis claps her hands again.

“All right!” she trills. “The sooner we start, the sooner this can be over.”

As she leads me to a stall, she adds, “For something as delicate as this, it’s best if we let the photographers come to us rather than the other way around. Things feel much more . . . plausible that way. And given how sensitive this situation is, plausibility is our friend.”

“Okay, but horses are not mine,” I say.