Royally Matched (Royally #2)(70)

But it hasn’t all been regret and self-pity.

I stopped crying after four days.

I stopped checking my mobile for a text or missed call after ten.

After sixteen, I stopped looking up and down the street when I stepped out of the library, searching for a black SUV and wild green eyes.

After eighteen, I accepted that Henry wasn’t coming for me.

I still dream of him, though. Every night, in bed, I hear his voice and imagine his long fingers plucking at the strings of that old guitar. I see his smile in my mind and can swear I smell him on the bedsheets. And then the dreams come, but there’s not much I can do about that.

Because sometimes, life is very much like a book—we don’t get to write our own ending; we have to accept the one that’s already on the page.

Slipping back into my life was easy, because it was ready-made, like a child’s bin of LEGOs—the pieces designed to seamlessly interlock. Organized and scheduled.

But at the end of the first week, day seven, something strange happened. Something that turned out to be not so bad.

I began to look for ways to deviate from my routine. To move away from the consistency I’d once craved. I went into work early and left after sunset—not just to keep busy, although that played a part, but more because I was yearning for something . . . different. Something new. I satisfied the itch with small things at first: rearranging the furniture, hanging new drapes, walking a different route home each day, offering to sit with baby Barnaby from upstairs so my neighbors could grab a bite, popping over to Mother’s for dinner randomly instead of the staid Wednesdays and Sundays.

One night, Annie took me to a pub two towns over, to meet her new boyfriend, Wade, who thankfully isn’t at all a douche-canoe. The place was a bit rowdy, crowded, and loud. But I didn’t mind so much.

Another time, it was dinner and dancing with Willard. The funny part was, I kept glancing at the band while they played, because there was a pushing, pulling sensation inside me—and I had the maddest urge to pop up on the stage and grab the microphone for a song or two. I didn’t actually do it, but I thought about it.

And I wasn’t afraid.

Because once a shell is broken, it can’t be put back together again—not really, not in the same way it was. The cracks will always be there.

That’s the Henry Effect.

And it’s miraculous. Freeing. And despite how it all shook out in the end, I will always love him for that. I will always be grateful. And I will always remember the sweet, teasing prince who changed me for the better.





The symposium. My Waterloo.

The second week I was back at work, Mr. Haverstrom asked me if I would be presenting after all, now that my Palace business had concluded early. He told me he understood if I declined, because I hadn’t had the time to prepare a presentation.

He gave me an easy out. And I could’ve taken it.

But I didn’t.

So here I am. In the largest conference room in Concordia Library, facing a packed room, over two hundred filled chairs and more attendees standing along the back wall. All eyes on me.

Willard and Annie are in the front, as close as they can be for moral support . . . and to catch me if I pass out. I know my cheeks are bright, flaming red. My knees are trembling and my stomach spins like a top. As I step up to the microphone, the panic surges right up to my throat, threatening to swamp me.

So, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and then . . . I picture Henry Pembrook naked.

And I laugh. Because he was right, the wanker. It does work.

An hour later, I’m wrapping up my presentation on the importance of promoting child literacy, especially among young girls. I’ve kept my head down, eyes on my notes, so while it probably hasn’t been the most engaging of talks, I didn’t pass out or Davey on any of them, so I consider it a grand victory.

I just have to get through these last few lines and the Q&A.

“In conclusion, I’d like to end with these final thoughts: Reading brings knowledge and knowledge is power; therefore reading is power. The power to know and learn and understand . . . but also the power to dream. Stories inspire us to reach high, love deep, change the world and be more than we ever thought we could. Every book allows us to dream a new dream. Thank you.”

They clap.

And I close my eyes and sigh, deflating with relief. I did it, I really did it. Willard blows an obnoxious whistle while Annie fist-pumps, and it’s wonderful. I only wish . . .

A yearning ache begins in the center of my chest, then spider-webs outward like a crack in a windshield.

Because I wish Henry were here. He would love this—it would blow his mind. And then he’d make a teasing comment that there are others things I could blow. Or maybe I’d say it—he always did bring out the dirty in me.

I shake my head, trying to dust off the melancholy. And I look out over the sea of clapping hands and nodding heads . . . and then my heart stops mid-beat.

My first thought is: he’s cut his hair.

It was almost down to his shoulders the last time I saw him. Thick and soft, wavy and wild. But this is nice too. Short and clean, professional and powerful-looking, with just the right length in front, with a few strands falling over his forehead in a roguish sort of way.

His suit is beige, his tie light green, his shirt crisp white—so sharp and handsome—like a broker on Silver Street.