Royals (Royals #1)(63)

It’s still pouring outside, the wind blowing the rain nearly sideways.

“We’ll stay here until it clears up,” he says. “Then I’ll walk back up to the house, either get a new car or get someone to drive me down here.”

“Um, yeah, when it clears up, I’ll be walking with you,” I tell him, fluffing my hair. Most of the time I’m glad I’d decided to grow it out, but right now the hair cape seems like a bad idea. At this rate, I’m going to have a damp head for the rest of my life.

“It’s a bit of a hike,” Miles says, still looking out the door, hands thrust in his back pockets. He’s got one knee cocked, and he looks like a Scottish farmer surveying his land. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is, and I bite back a sigh as I turn to the fireplace.

Off-limits, I remind myself. And snobby and basically a fancy servant, 1,000% devoted to the palace. You want nothing to do with this entire thing, and Miles has a permanent residence in Royal Land. Don’t even think about it.

Maybe if I keep repeating that, it’ll be easier to ignore how my pulse is racing.

I can hear the door shut behind me, and even though the wind and rain are still blowing outside, the bothy seems a lot quieter now. My face is hot, and I’m not sure it has anything to do with the smoky fire I’m crouching next to.

Miles goes to the pile of quilts stacked near the fire, taking one and fluffing it out. I’m relieved when a cloud of dust and dead insects doesn’t come billowing out, but that relief is short-lived because he suddenly crouches down near me, draping the blanket over my shoulders.

“You’ll freeze,” he tells me, ducking his head. His hair is hanging over his forehead, the rain and the dim light making it look darker than normal, and a fat raindrop slides down and splashes my collarbone.

The rain isn’t that cold, but my skin feels too hot, and I jolt, scooting back a little, one hand coming up to clutch the blanket closed in front of me.

Miles lifts his head, his eyes very green and very close to mine.

Tea cozy. Shoe trees. The absolute opposite of your type.

Clearing his throat, Miles straightens up, dusting off his hands on his jeans again.

“It won’t last long,” he says, then waves at the door. “The rain, I mean. It . . . these things usually burn themselves out in a few minutes.”

He drops his arm to his side, fingers flexing, and is . . . is he nervous?

That’s almost weirder than me thinking he was cute, so I turn back to look at the fire, ironically hoping to find some chill there.

The rain keeps hammering down, the fire crackles and smokes, and for a moment, I wonder if we’re going to sit here in total silence until people eventually find us, dead, smothered by the weight of our own awkwardness.

Then Miles says, “Flora dated my sister.”

Surprised, I twist to look at him. “What?”

He’s standing near the door again, his hat in one hand, and he thumps it against his thigh a few times. “You asked about me and Flora. That’s ‘the deal’ with us. She was dating Amelia, the palace wasn’t ready for that, so they put it out that it was me. That Flora and I were . . .”

He looks over to the window, his hat still tapping against one long leg. “Anyway, that’s what happened.”

Turning back to me, he tilts his head down, probably because looking down his nose at people makes him feel more comfortable. “I’m obviously entrusting you with something important in telling you that.”

I hold up a hand. “Got it,” I say. “And I appreciate it.”

I’m not going to tell him I already knew Flora was into girls, since I can’t tell him about Flora and Tamsin, so I shift against the floor, pulling the quilt in around me.

“So this isn’t your first Fake Boyfriend Rodeo,” I say, and he glances over at me, brow wrinkled.

“You’ve done this before,” I clarify. “Pretended to date someone for the palace.”

In the dim light, it’s hard to tell, but I think he might blush as he suddenly becomes really interested in his shoes. “I told you,” he says. “The Montgomery family are courtiers. It’s what we do. My great-great-great-grandfather actually fought in a duel for Seb’s great-great-great-grandfather. Took a sword to the eye.”

I wince. “Gross.”

That actually makes Miles smile, though, and I’m reminded again that smiling is a good look on him. It takes some of the hardness out of that aristocratic face, makes him look softer and nicer. More boy, less jerk.

“The point is, there are certainly worse things I could be asked to do than spend time with pretty girls.”

I am not turning red.

I am not.

I turn away to poke at the fire with the iron rod Miles left lying by the hearth. “Are you saying I’m better than a sword to the eye?” I ask, and he chuckles.

The sound is warm and soft, and I swear I can feel it, dancing over the knobs of my spine. Oh my god, this rain needs to end soon.

“Maybe not better, but certainly not worse,” he says, and then I look at him, which is a mistake.

There’s no fighting it this time. Miles is not just cute. He’s hot.

And he’s looking at me in a way I don’t understand, or don’t want to understand because no, no, no, this is not a complication I need right now. Besides, I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway. Why start something that has such a fast expiration date?