Royally Matched (Royally #2)(11)

My mother’s estate.

Castlebrook is a tiny, beautiful town—one of the smallest in Wessco—an old fishing village that’s never thrived, but is just successful enough to keep the inhabitants from leaving in search of greener pastures. We’re about a five-hour drive from the capital, and while most of the folks here don’t venture too far, we often get visitors from the city looking for a quiet weekend at the seaside.

St. Aldwyn’s, where all the local children attend, is just a ten-minute walk away, but I bet Timmy could make it in five.

“Is there a reason you’re not in school, Timmy Frazier?”

He smiles crookedly, but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen or stop typing. “I’m goin’ back but had to ditch fourth and fifth periods to finish this paper due in sixth.”

“Have you ever considered completing your assignment the day—or, God forbid, a few days—before it was actually due?”

Timmy shrugs. “Better last moment than never, Sarah.”

I chuckle, give his fiery head a rub, and continue up the steps to the third floor.

I’m comfortable with people I know—I can be sociable, even funny with them. It’s the new ones and unpredictable situations that tie me up in knots. And I’m about to be bound in a big one.

Damn it to hell.

I stand outside Mr. Haverstrom’s door, staring at the black letters of his name stenciled on the frosted glass, listening to the murmur of voices inside. It’s not that Mr. Haverstrom is a mean boss—he’s a bit like Mr. Earnshaw from Wuthering Heights. Even though he doesn’t get much page time, his presence is strong and consequential.

I take a breath, straighten my spine, and knock on the door firmly and decisively—the way Elizabeth Bennet would. Because she didn’t give a single shit about anything. Then Mr. Haverstrom opens the door, his eyes narrow, his hair and skin pale, his face lined and grouchy—like a squished marshmallow.

On the outside, I nod and breeze into the office, but inside, I cringe and wilt.

Mr. Haverstrom closes the door behind me and I stop short when I see Patrick Nolan in the chair across from Mr. Haverstrom’s desk. Pat is the co-head of the Literature and Fiction department with me. He doesn’t look like the stereotypical librarian—he looks more like an Olympic triathlete, all taut muscles and broad shoulders and hungry competition in his eyes.

Pat isn’t as big of a douche-canoe as Elliot, but close.

I sit down in the unoccupied chair beside Pat while Mr. Haverstrom takes his place behind the desk. “Lady Sarah, I was just explaining to Pat the reason I’ve asked you both for this meeting.”

Don’t mistake the “Lady” before my name as a symbol of respect. It’s just tradition, the equivalent of “Miss” for the daughter of a countess. There’s no real power behind it.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid—that happens—but there’s that tight, heavy feeling in my stomach, as if at any moment the thread that’s holding it in place is going to snap, sending my vital organ to the floor.

I force myself to speak. “Yes?”

“We have been selected to host this year’s Northern District Library Symposium.”

This isn’t just not good—it’s bad. Very, very bad.

“As the host facility, each department is required to give a presentation, and given the size and scope of our Fiction and Literature department, I see no reason why you and Patrick can’t give separate but complementary presentations.”

And splat goes my stomach. And my spleen. I’m fairly certain the liver’s in there somewhere too.

“I’ll need your topic and outline by the end of the week to ensure there’s no overlap.”

My lips open and close, like the mouth of a fish, but there aren’t any words. Breathe! I need to breathe to talk. Idiot.

“Mr. Haverstrom, I’m not sure that I—”

“I’m aware you’re not comfortable with public speaking,” Mr. Haverstrom says, talking right over me.

That happens. A lot.

“But you’re going to have to overcome it. This is an honor and a requirement of your position. Barring an act of God, you will not be excused. If you’re unable to fulfill all of your duties, I will unfortunately be forced to replace you with someone who can.”

Shit. Damn, damn, shit, shit.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good.” He nods. “I’ll let you get to it, then.”

We all stand, and Pat and I head for the door.

“Lady Sarah,” Mr. Haverstrom says, “I’ll be happy to go over your presentation with you once it’s complete, if that will be helpful to you. I do want you to succeed.”

I smile tightly. “Thank you, sir.”

Then he shakes Patrick’s hand. “Pat, we’re still on for racquetball this Saturday?”

“Count on it, Douglas.”

Internally, I sigh. More disappointed with myself than anything else. Because I play racquetball—I’m actually quite good at it. And if I had a shred of Miranda Priestly in me, from The Devil Wears Prada, I’d tell them—invite myself along, throw in with the big boys.

But, I don’t.

Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It’s uncomfortable—but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I’ve practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he’s in for a very painful surprise.