Author: R. S. Grey
Date: 2019-11-13T20:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary; Adult; Humour
Description: A full-length STANDALONE romantic comedy from USA TODAY bestselling author R.S. Grey. I’ve spent eight years wishing I’d fall out of love with Derek Knightley. Blowing out birthday candles, chasing after shooting stars, making it rain spare change into mall fountains—every time it’s the same wish: forget about Derek. But the day he walks back into my life, I realize there are two things time has yet to soften: my feelings for him and his chiseled jawline. It’s infuriating that my heart still races when he walks into a room. I refuse to fall prey to old unrequited love, so I decide the less I’m

His Royal Highness

R.S. Grey

His Royal Highness

Copyright © 2019 R.S. Grey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published: R.S. Grey 2019
authorrsgrey@gmail.com Editing: Editing by C. Marie Proofreading: JaVa Editing, Red Leaf Proofing Cover Design: R.S. Grey

Contents

Copyright

Author’s Note

His Royal Highness

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Excerpt

Not So Nice Guy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Stay Connected

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note:

His Royal Highness is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my bestselling romantic comedy Not So Nice Guy.

His Royal Highness concludes at around 90% on your device.

Happy Reading!

XO, RS Grey

Chapter One

Whitney

My life is a fairytale. Or rather…it takes place inside of one. Smack-dab along Georgia’s southern coast is the largest theme park in the world. When guests turn off the highway, they drive beneath a colorful two-story welcome sign and leave all vestiges of the outside world behind them. A winding road cuts through patchy pine forests and sprawling grasslands. Long minutes pass. The trek continues, seemingly endless. Children grow restless in the back seat of a rented minivan. Tiny shoes and crackers start to fly. The leader in the driver’s seat fears he took a wrong turn and wonders to himself if—nay, when he should admit he has no idea where he’s going.

This is all intentional.

That drive is a black hole, transporting theme-park-goers from their mundane 9-to-5 lives and plopping them down into a world filled with magic and wonder.

At the precise moment in which a U-turn seems all but inevitable, a sight appears on the horizon: a medieval French castle with purple-roofed spires jutting toward the sky, so large and imposing, there’s no way to miss it.

The driver is unsure if his vision is failing him. He convinces himself it’s just a mirage right up until his children start to scream with glee. “We’re here! We’re here!”

Both parents wipe beads of sweat from their brows. The driver can now admit, with a relieved laugh, that he was near tears there for a second.

Welcome to Fairytale Kingdom.

I work inside that castle on the horizon, on the bottom floor inside a room designed to mimic a great hall. It has stone floors and tapestry-covered walls. A spiral staircase leads guests up to a restaurant that requires reservations one year in advance. I stand across from the staircase, in front of an oversized hearth wearing a pale green iridescent gown. Soft music plays from a harp in the corner and several hundred children stand in line waiting for their turn to meet me.

“IT’S HER! MOM! IT’S THE REAL PRINCESS ELENA!”

A toddler stares at me starry-eyed. Another girl cries with excitement when I glance in her direction then she quickly shoves her face into her mom’s dress, overcome with shyness. I smile and wave gracefully and continue to act my part.

All the while, security tries to extricate a little boy who has wiggled his way up underneath my dress.

It’s not the first time this has happened.

My tulle skirt is a sparkling poof of temptation, a fabric cloud begging to be repurposed as a hiding spot. I knew the little boy was trouble as soon as I laid eyes on him. He wiped snot from his nose with the back of his hand while he scanned my dress, eyes alight with possibilities. Beside him, his older sister waited patiently with her autograph book clutched to her chest, shaking with excitement. When it was finally her turn to meet me, her brother didn’t miss a beat. He bypassed her and nosedived for my dress, too quick for his mom to grab.

Now I laugh lightheartedly, all the while trying to signal to Ryan to hurry it up down there. Under my dress, the boy wraps his skinny arms around my leg and shifts my center of gravity a smidge to the right. For the first time, my mask crumples. Oh no—I’m going down. In a second, I’ll be lying face down in a heap of fabric and this carefully constructed idyllic scene inside Elena’s Castle will be ruined as paramedics rush in to tend to my broken nose. Hundreds of children will be scarred for life by the image of blood raining down across my gown.

There’s protocol for this situation. Under no circumstances should I break character. Under no circumstances should I put my hands on the child and forcibly remove him myself. The Knightley Company doesn’t want photos circulating on the internet of one of their princesses manhandling a little boy. That’s Ryan’s job.

Ryan is the man cast as His Royal Highness, Princess Elena’s love interest. On top of playing his part, he’s supposed to function as a form of first-level security. He should have this situation under control, but he doesn’t. He’s too gallant and sweet. He kneels down and tries to goad the boy out from under my dress with promises of candy—“You like Skittles? Yeah? How ’bout I buy you a pack? Ten packs?”—but the boy just giggles with glee and clings to me tighter. I waver on my heels, wide eyes finding Ryan’s.

“Please hurry!” I whisper.

With gathered courage, Ryan flips up the bottom of my skirt, sticks his upper body underneath, and tries to grab ahold of the little boy. Oh dear god. Ryan’s hand accidentally glides against my bare calf—the one I forgot to shave this morning—and the boy wiggles away like a little snake. My face turns the same shade as my hair: blazing red.

Children and parents start to worry. I try hard to spontaneously combust but am still fully intact when Ryan shouts, “Gotcha!”

He rips the little boy out from under my dress. The boy cries with rage. His mom apologizes profusely. More park security rushes into the great hall, brushing past the boy’s sister with her autograph book still clutched to her chest. She stands in mortified shock, her mouth agape. This was her moment. She traveled from somewhere far away, waited her turn for hours, and now it’s ruined. She won’t get to meet me.

Security wants to check that I’m okay, but I brush past them and, without hesitating, crouch down in front of the girl, my hands clasped daintily. I tilt my head and smile. My cheeks are still stained red with embarrassment, but other than that, I’m Princess Elena.

“Hello there. What’s your name?” I ask, tone soft and sweet, just a pinch higher than my normal voice.

“Mc-McKenna,” she stutters.

I smile. “McKenna, it’s a pleasure to meet you. That’s a pretty book you have there. May I see it?”

She nods and hands it over, and just like that, the situation is salvaged. Five minutes later, McKenna has a shiny new autograph and three photos with Princess Elena ready for her mom to purchase in the gift shop. Her smile is permanently affixed to her cheeks—or it will be until her brother does something else to annoy her.

For the remainder of my shift, I smile and chat and pose with children, but inside, I am dead. Not only did I bypass my razor this morning, I also said, Eh, screw it, and decided to leave on my cotton granny panties—y’know, the droopy ones that cover your entire butt and then some—and I know Ryan saw them.

I know.

They’re an ugly, faded pair the color of eggplants, but I can’t bear to part with them.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. His vision is undoubtedly clouded by a shabby purple hue.

Wonderful.

I’ve had a crush on Ryan ever since he first assumed his post as His Royal Highness ten months ago. He walked into the training room, sheathed in the requisite emerald green coat and tan pants, and my heart pitter-pattered in my chest. His light brown hair is infused with the shine of a thousand diamonds. His eyes are the color of a summer sky. He smiles and the moms waiting in line sag in defeat. We chat before every shift, and sometimes, he walks me back to my locker when we’re done. Through our exchanges, I’ve started to gather intel on him, and I hoard the facts close to my heart. He likes country music. He’s never seen Armageddon. He went to college for two and a half years to pursue a theater arts degree before dropping out to work at Fairytale Kingdom full-time. He is, in short, the love of my life.

Of course, I also have a small crush on a guy who works in the bakery across the street from the castle. He sometimes gives me free coffee or fudge samples. For simplicity’s sake, and because he never wears his name tag, I call him Fudge Guy, and I’ve had a crush on him almost as long as I have on Ryan.

There’s also Jake from accounting. He’s older. Quiet. He passes out staff paychecks, and my feelings for him wax and wane every two weeks.

This might seem confusing, but I have it all organized in my fictional Rolodex of love interests. Though they never seem to amount to much of anything, I don’t let that deter me. I love love. The butterflies, the hopeful promise of what tomorrow might bring. I fell in love for the first time when I was eighteen. It was unrequited and silly, wrapped up in teen angst. Still, none of my crushes hold a candle to that one. To this day, that crush eclipses all the ones that have come after it. An annoying but enduring fact.

I’ve been hopeful about Ryan, though. A simple creature, he would be good for me. He could introduce me to the world of honky-tonk. We could watch Armageddon and I could cry on his shoulder when Bruce Willis sacrifices himself. Well, I could have…before he saw my saggy eggplant underwear.

I’m still despairing over the morning’s turn of events when I join Cal for an early dinner. We have a standing date every Wednesday. Like clockwork, I wrap up my shift, replace my gown with street clothes, and head back toward his penthouse, which overlooks the theme park. Yes, he lives inside Elena’s Castle. Lucky jerk.

In short, Charles Knightley, AKA “Cal”, is the intrepid brain behind the Knightley Company. He is to Fairytale Kingdom as Elon Musk is to Tesla. Without him, none of us would be here.

He’s a legend around these parts, and not many people have much interaction with him, especially if not on an executive team. But, for the last eight years, Cal has been my mentor, and more than that, a friend. It might seem like an odd pairing considering he’s nearly 60 years my senior, but it works.

I take the spiral staircase past the second-floor restaurant until I reach the third-floor elevator. I scan my employee ID and step inside. The doors sweep closed behind me and up I go.

Cal’s penthouse is concocted from pure fantasy. Ornate, opulent, over the top, and filled with everything the king of the Knightley Company needs to run his kingdom, it’s never quiet. Even now, when I step off the elevator into his foyer, I hear voices filtering down from the living room. He uses the main part of the penthouse to run day-to-day operations. There are always executives and managers running in and out.

The walls of the long, wide foyer are covered in renderings and early architectural blueprints of the park. There are framed chicken-scratch notes of would-be roller coasters and hastily drawn character concepts that all eventually came to life in one way or another. These little pieces of Fairytale Kingdom’s past would sell at auction for millions of dollars, and yet, here they hang, right at my fingertips.

Cal’s booming voice carries to where I stand and I smile and move along, finally spotting him at the large bank of windows that face directly down Castle Drive—his usual spot. It’s a view few in the world have been lucky enough to see.

I nod to the other people in the room—all of whom I know by face, if not by name—and walk over to Cal. He tips his head in greeting and continues his discussion with the Head of Food and Beverage. I know better than to interrupt while he’s putting out a fire. Instead, I glance out the window and take in the park. In the area around Elena’s Castle, everything is designed to look like a medieval French village transformed in colorful pastel hues. Red cobblestone paths lead past small cottages housing gift shops. A smithery churns out toy swords. An apothecary shop sells fruit juice disguised as various tinctures and potions. Restaurants fill to capacity while barmaids and singers spill out onto the street. The manicured lawns are green and dotted with topiaries carefully carved into lifelike knights and their steeds. The street itself is lined with black lanterns and hanging planters. Vendors sell hot dogs and balloons and ice cream and handheld bubble machines. Though the sounds don’t carry, I can imagine the hum of the park. Even this late in the evening, Fairytale Kingdom is alive, and every square inch seems to be filled by guests. From where I stand, they look like ants.

Cal’s hand hits my shoulder and I glance back.

His loose white shirt is rolled neatly to his elbows underneath a purple cotton vest. His green army pants should clash with the thin French scarf tied around his neck, but they don’t. That’s just Cal. I’ve never once seen him shy away from color or pattern or texture. His clothing is as outlandish and eccentric as he is.

“I heard about the incident today,” he says, removing his glasses and letting them dangle on their blue lanyard.

I blush, though I shouldn’t be surprised he found out about the little boy. If anything out of the ordinary happens in his park, he knows about it.

“It wasn’t a big deal. Ryan sorted it out eventually.”

He narrows his eyes, not pleased with that answer. Cal doesn’t think much of Ryan. He’s late for his shifts every now and then. He doesn’t go the extra mile for guests the way some of us do.

“I think we’ll have to change things up a bit with personnel.”

My eyes widen. “You won’t fire Ryan, will you?”

He strokes his neat white beard for a moment as he thinks. “No, not yet. I’ll keep him posted there for now, but I’d like an auxiliary employee stationed with you as well, someone In Character.”

In Character is how we refer to employees who are in costume and an active part of the Fairytale Kingdom world. Guests are meant to interact with them. By comparison, a Non-Character—such as a maintenance person—though dressed in a themed uniform, isn’t in costume and is therefore meant to blend into the surroundings so as to not detract from the overall experience for guests. Cal believes in full immersion and we’re all meant to take that task to heart.

“What do you mean? Last I checked there’s only Princess Elena and His Royal Highness posted inside Elena’s Castle.”

That’s how the story goes, at least. Cal should know. He created it.

He nods, no doubt already working through a solution in his mind. Then he checks his watch before glancing back at the foyer. He’s more distracted than usual this evening.

The executives have filtered out. It’s just us now.

He catches me watching him and smiles. “Come. Let’s go eat. I asked Ava to make your favorite meal tonight.”

Yeast rolls, fried chicken, buttered green beans, and homestyle mashed potatoes fill my plate as I update Cal about my life. He asks me if I’ve heard from my parents and I promise him I’ll call them sometime this week.

“I know they miss you.”

I swallow past a lump in my throat and reach for my water.

Across from me, a crisp navy charger, dinner plate, crystal glass, and folded linen napkin sit untouched, all meant for a guest who never showed up.

“Were you expecting someone else to join us?”

Cal checks his watch again. “Yes. Apparently, he’s been delayed.”

He sounds down about that fact, but he doesn’t care to elaborate so I don’t force it. It’s not unusual to have other people join us for our Wednesday night dinners. Cal is an important man. We occasionally share the meal with other staff from the park, traveling board members, or investors, but even then, Cal always keeps my place at the table right beside him and somehow, we carve out time to talk. Even during livelier gatherings, when the guest list grows out of hand and I seem to be the odd one out in a room full of creative geniuses, I’m still happy to be there sitting by Cal, taking it all in. He’s been a mentor to me for so long, at some point he turned into family.

I know he feels the same.

“There’s going to be a lot of change in the company over the next few months,” he tells me now, his voice sounding grave.

My gaze immediately locks onto his chest as if I’ll be able to see his heart beating through his clothes. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.

He chuckles. “It’s not because of my ticker.”

Cal’s recent stint in the hospital for a heart attack has been at the forefront of my mind recently. We’d all be rudderless without him.

“That being said, it is time I start preparing for a retirement that is hopefully still many years down the line. I’ll be shifting people around, delegating more.” When he catches my not-so-subtle smirk, he amends his statement. “Trying to delegate. My doctors insist on it. Any hopes I can talk you into accepting a position with me?”

I narrow my eyes and shake my head. “Really? Using your health to get your way? I’d expect better from you.”

He laughs good-naturedly and tears a bite off his roll. His dinner doesn’t quite stack up against mine. His chicken is un-fried, his beans are un-buttered, and his potatoes have been swapped for quinoa, but he yanked a roll out of the basket in the center of the table when we first sat down. A man has to live, he said, and I didn’t argue.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” He tips his head, an amused smile peeking through his beard. “Not unless you think it would work.” I roll my eyes and he chuckles. “I just think your talent is wasted down there In Character. I should have insisted on promoting you years ago.”

This is an old shtick. Cal likes to think I have loads of business savvy buried deep down inside me just burning to be set free, but I’m happy right where I am. “You know I like my job. Shift around all the personnel you want, but leave me be.”

And that’s that. No more business talk.

As our food disappears from our plates, our discussion turns to the murder mystery podcast we’ve been following for the last few weeks. I got him addicted and now we both love playing armchair detective.

After dinner, he walks me to the elevator with a doggy bag filled with enough food to keep me fed for a week. Ava always does this, and I’ve learned not to fight it. I know when I get home, I’ll find that the bag is filled not only with leftovers from our meal tonight, but with other previously prepared food as well.

She just can’t help herself.

“Same time next week?” he asks, pressing the elevator button for me.

“Same time.” I nod.

The doors slide open and I take a step in before realizing there’s a man trying to exit. Cal’s guest must have finally arrived. For a split second, we do the awkward elevator tango. Left. Right. Left. How can two humans possibly be so in sync? We’ll be dancing around each other for all of eternity, I think, before he chuckles and gives me a wide berth, stepping around me. I step onto the elevator and turn back, eyes chancing a quick glance up at his face. I expect to see a board member or close confidant of Cal’s, someone who frequents his penthouse. Instead, I’m punched in the gut by the sight of a man I haven’t seen in eight years.

Our gazes catch and my knees give way. A second before I crumple, I catch myself against the elevator wall, just above the control panel.

He doesn’t speak.

I don’t either.

Has it been five seconds or five years since we first locked eyes?

His mouth opens. I know he’s about to say something, but before he can, I slam my hand on the Close door button, and for once the damn thing decides to work. Surely it’s the first time in recorded history. The elevator doors glide shut, blocking him from my view, and I slide down to the floor, lost for words, lost for air.

It’s been eight years and now he’s back.

Cal’s grandson.

My first crush.

Chapter Two

Derek

I’ve had a hell of a day. Delayed flight from London. Chatty seatmate. Traffic piled up on the highway. I could use a change of clothes, a warm meal, and a bed, though if I could only pick one, I’d take the bed. I’d planned to arrive this afternoon and get settled into my apartment at exec housing before dinner with Cal, but I had to come straight here from the airport instead. He told me it was urgent.

I blame sleep deprivation and a long travel day for my poor manners just now. I didn’t expect to walk off the elevator and nearly trip over another person. I was so concerned with keeping us both on our feet that I didn’t think to stop and look at her.

It wasn’t until she’d fully stepped onto the elevator that my fatigue-addled brain finally put two and two together.

Whitney.

My old friend.

All grown up…

“You’re late,” Cal says, his tone hard.

I glance over my shoulder and take in my grandfather, hands stuffed in his pants pockets, white beard longer than when I last saw him. He and I used to be the same height, but it seems old age has stolen an inch or two.

I drag a hand across my chin and nod. “Plane had mechanical issues. I only got in an hour ago.”

“I was hoping you would be here for dinner.”

The mention of a meal has my stomach grumbling so loudly Cal can’t miss it.

His reproachful eyes soften as he shakes his head. “C’mon, I’ll have Ava fix you a plate.”

He waits for me to catch up to him and we walk side by side to the dining room. He slings his arm around my shoulders—never one to shy away from showing affection. “It’s good to have you home.”

It’s good to be home.

I’ve been away for too long, longer than I originally intended.

London has been my home base for eight years. Cal wanted me to oversee the construction of our sister theme park, but now that it’s up and running, I belong back here, with him.

“How are you feeling?”

His arm leaves my shoulders. “If you think we’re going to spend the whole night talking about my health, you can just turn right back around and find somewhere else to eat.”

“I think it’s a fair question. You owe me a little information after the stunt you pulled.”

I don’t know whose idea it was to keep his health issues from me, but when I found out he’d been in the hospital a few months after the fact, I was more than a little pissed. I know Cal. I know he likes to downplay the severity of his health issues—especially when said issues could potentially take his focus away from his work—but had I known, I would have been on the first flight back to Georgia. I would have come home sooner.

He dips his head into the kitchen and asks Ava to fix me a plate. Then he turns and takes his place at the head of the table. “All I’m going to say is that I have a team of doctors chirping around me nonstop. A nurse comes up here every day to take my blood pressure and hound Ava about what my diet looks like. I have her lie, of course. There’s no one more loyal than Ava, but like I told Whitney, a man has to live. A little salt here, some wine there—it won’t kill me, and if it does, I’ll die a happy man.”

“I’m happy to hear you’re taking your health seriously.”

My dry tone makes him roll his eyes to the ceiling. “I tell you what, when you get to be my age, you tell me if life is worth living without a nice glass of wine at the end of the day.”

On cue, Ava walks in with two half-filled glasses of merlot and sets them down on the table. She’s an older woman with an attractive face and shy nature. More often than not, she wears floral dresses and a stained apron. I’ve always had a soft spot for her.

Cal thanks her and she smiles warmly in my direction. I round the table to embrace her. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her. I invite her to stay and eat with us, but she assures me she has too much to do.

Once she’s back in the kitchen, preparing my food, there’s a silent standoff between my grandfather and me as he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a long sip. I know he has a point. It’s not my place to hound him. It sounds like there are enough people doing that already.

With a sigh, I pull back the chair beside him and take a seat. I sat in this spot for dinner nearly every night growing up. Nothing about the dining room has changed since I’ve been away. Glossy dark blue paneled walls. Artwork neatly arranged beneath brass library lights. The antique French dining table is still inlaid with scrolling vines in maple and walnut interrupted by the water marks I left as a kid that Cal never cared much about.

Ava returns a few minutes later with a spread worthy of a king, and I waste no time digging in.

I eat while Cal inquires about the London park. There’s not a single detail too small. He wants to know it all.

A few of the board members have tried unsuccessfully to seize control of the Knightley Company from Cal over the years, but their efforts are always in vain. The majority of our board and executive team know there is no way Cal will walk away from the Knightley Company as long as he lives. There is no retirement in his future. He built all of this. In the ’70s, Cal was running his family’s theme park in New York. It was small and they wanted to expand, but the surrounding land was too expensive to purchase. When his father passed away, Cal sold the park and headed down to Georgia, bringing every dime to his name with him. He wanted to build the largest theme park in the world, and to do that he needed a lot of cheap land. He took a big risk. This region was known for its low coastal grasslands and swamps, and even though there were deep pockets of pine forests, loggers were more interested in harvesting timber in north Georgia. The area was officially declared wasteland by the state. Cal jumped on the opportunity. He started to buy up property for $80 an acre through small private transactions, keeping suspicion and costs down. He’d amassed 18,000 acres before an enterprising journalist put the clues together and outed him in a local paper.

New York Businessman Set to Build Theme Park in the Marsh

He was the laughing stock of the state, but even still, land prices soared and the last 2,000 acres ultimately cost him the same amount as the first 18,000.

You could say Cal got the last laugh.

With an annual attendance of 60 million people, Fairytale Kingdom is not only the world’s most visited theme park, it’s also the most profitable.

We offer every amenity a guest could hope to find outside of the park itself: themed resorts, shopping centers, golf courses, private communities, and restaurants, all done through a careful balance of preservation and innovation. In 50 years, Cal has only developed a fourth of the land he originally purchased. The grasslands and forests still surround Fairytale Kingdom as a means of preserving the local ecology.

We’ve mimicked this practice in London as well, though on a smaller scale.

“I’ve enjoyed my time there, but I’m glad to be home. I’d like to take over as the Director of Operations for the U.S. park. I think it’s well past time.”

It’s been the plan since day one, me working directly under Cal. He won’t retire officially, but I could help take most of the load off him.

“I’ve been thinking about that…”

He takes another sip of wine and my fork stalls midway to my mouth.

“I’ve had a little pushback from the board.”

I find that a little hard to believe.

“Some of them are whispering concerns about nepotism,” he finishes.

I rear back in my seat. My fork clinks against my dinner plate. “That’s absurd. It’s a family-run business. You’ve been grooming me for this job my entire life. There’s a statue of you and me down there in the middle of the park for God’s sake. What do they expect? That I’d happily step aside and make room for an outside hire? I won’t.”

“And I don’t expect you to. But, Derek, I think there’s a way to make everyone happy. I’ve been thinking on it, and this fall, we ought to have you prove your dedication to the company in a way no one can refute.”

“I think I’ve more than proven my dedication to this company.”

I spent my early teen years working in Non-Character roles in the park, only leaving to pursue an undergrad degree at Princeton with a focus on economics and management and then a graduate degree in global hospitality at Yale. When I graduated, I moved home and worked as Director of Entertainment for the Knightley Company. Four years later, when Cal’s vision for a sister theme park in London finally got the green light, I moved there and oversaw the project. No questions asked. Move here. Work there. Build this. Every facet of my life has revolved around this company and its needs.

The board can go fuck themselves.

We sit in silence for a long stretch, and I know he’s giving me time to cool down. I finish my wine off in one gulp and push my glass away.

“I want you to take over this company more than anyone,” he clarifies.

I clear my throat.

“That being said, I think a little shakeup would be good for you.”

I interlock my fingers on the table and stare at where my hands meet. “Just tell me what you have in mind. It’s been a long day.”

“A few months working In Character down in the park.” His words have the same effect as a winning poker hand, flipped over and fanned across the table. It’s like he knows he’s already won this battle.

“Absolutely not.”

He’s out of his mind.

I stand to leave. “Give Ava my thanks for dinner.”

He calls after me as I walk away. “What is our base-level employees’ number one concern right now?”

The question is out of left field, and yet, without hesitating, I rattle off the answer I know to be correct. “Hourly wage, followed closely by job security.”

“Wrong.”

I jerk to a stop.

“We’re just coming off of a scorching summer,” he continues. “Their main concern is the heat. When they’re in costume with the sun beating down overhead, they don’t give a damn about job security. They want shorter shift times, more frequent breaks, and effective cooling systems built into wardrobe.”

Though I want to argue, I stay completely silent.

“You know the broad scope of managing the company better than anyone, but I’m afraid you’ve forgotten about the minutia. Working In Character for a few months will bring you out of the clouds and give the board a shining example of the lengths you’re willing to go to for this company. No one will be able to argue when I name you as my successor once and for all.”

I haven’t agreed to it. I think it’s an absolutely ridiculous idea. Still, I ask a simple question I know he has the answer to. Cal is always ten steps ahead of the rest of us.

“Where?”

“Elena’s Castle. You’ll work alongside Whitney, the girl who was here with me when you first arrived.”

“You forget I already know her.”

“That’s right.” He chuckles. “I’d forgotten. I’m sure she’ll be happy to have her old mentor back.”

Chapter Three

Whitney

I am the product of a unique childhood. My family and I moved from Idaho to Georgia when I was six. My older sister was sick, and according to all the specialists, her prognosis was bleak enough to be measured in months, not years. My parents wanted her life to be as happy as it could be for as long as she had, and well…there’s no place on earth more happy-inducing than Fairytale Kingdom. As a six-year-old, I thought this was the best decision they could have made. Living next to a theme park!? Genius. But I was six.

The reality of our situation was less than perfect. We squeezed into a crumbling two-bedroom apartment right next door to the children’s hospital. Both were so close to Fairytale Kingdom that we could see the purple spires of Elena’s Castle from Avery’s hospital room. On Fridays, we’d perch at the window and watch the firework show with our faces pressed against the glass.

In some ways, life in Georgia seemed more fun. My parents worked at the park as base-level employees. Their uniforms looked more like Halloween costumes. My mom got to wear a cute little hat, and my dad pretended to smith toy axes. In my head, they’d both won the job jackpot.

On good days, when my parents could take off work and Avery was feeling up to it, we’d all go to Fairytale Kingdom together. The park was always accommodating. Avery would get special treats and toys. The employees always paid her special attention and we’d get front-row seats for the afternoon parade.

In other ways, life in Georgia was just the same as it’d been in Idaho. Avery was still sick, and this was extremely frustrating to me. In my six-year-old mind, Georgia was supposed to heal Avery, as if all she’d been missing before was Southern cooking. Get her more peach cobbler, stat!

The other part of life in Idaho that got dragged with us to Georgia was my role as Avery’s donor. I don’t remember the first time I donated blood or bone marrow to Avery. It was a part of my life as far back as my memory can stretch. Don’t you want to help your sister? Yes. This will hurt, but Avery needs it. Okay. No one ever forced me to help; they didn’t need to. Being her donor made me feel important, and my parents and Avery’s care team were always so appreciative. Those were the few times I felt truly noticed.

Over time, our roles became set in stone. Avery was the patient, and I was the caregiver. I didn’t change her IVs or dole out medication, but every day after school, I’d race to her hospital room with new artwork. Her walls were soon covered. I’d bring her stories of the outside world: what our cafeteria food tasted like, what new shoes Cara Sims wore to school that day. I’d check out books from the library for the two of us to read together. Most importantly, at the most basic level, I made sure to be my most smiling, happy self whenever I was with her because Avery needed happiness.

However, as the years passed and my parents’ focus remained on Avery’s health, I started to slowly see my position as something to resent. I know it’s a terrible thing, but there were times I used to wish I were the sick one. Avery seemed to get so much love and attention, not because she demanded it, but because she needed it. It probably wasn’t even intentional, but the fact is, when one child is sick, everyone else goes on the back burner. It’s the only way for the family unit to survive. I understood that, but my hope was that once Avery got better and left the hospital, life would balance itself out again. We could turn into a normal family.

It didn’t work that way.

Avery did kick cancer’s butt, and eventually she got to come home to cram into the two-bedroom apartment with us. Still, that didn’t mean she was “normal” the way I was—heavy emphasis on the air quotes. Avery always needed more. She was behind in school. She was fragile and small for her age. She needed a special diet, tutors, routine checkups.

My parents continued to provide for her the best way they could, and I found a place to survive all on my own: Fairytale Kingdom. I started working there the summer I turned fifteen. My job wasn’t all that important—I sold balloons on Castle Drive—but I loved every minute of it. I was playing the same role I’d played for years: making people happy and providing for others, but this time it was on my own terms. Children would squeal with delight when I’d hand over a balloon, and after that first summer, I knew I wanted to work in the park full-time one day.

My senior year in high school, my parents started discussing the idea of moving to New York for Avery so she could pursue a real acting career. She’d been bit with the acting bug when she was still in the hospital. Her pediatric unit had put on a Christmas play, and each child was assigned a part. Avery played the sugarplum queen, and on that makeshift stage in the hospital cafeteria, she found her calling.

After that, she was cast in local theater productions. My parents would drive her to auditions and practices all over the state, gone most nights of the week. She’d recently come home, beaming from ear to ear, eager to inform me that she had an agent! She showed me his business card while I sat in our shared bedroom, reading my history textbook on my bed.

“It’s real! Touch it.”

I held the cardstock in my hands. It was thick and embossed with black, bold letters. Real, indeed.

“He wants me to fly to New York and audition for an off-Broadway play.”

I had no idea what “off-Broadway” meant, but I acted like I did.

“You should do it,” I said, holding the business card back out to her.

Her eyes were bright with hope. “You could come too!”

No. I couldn’t. I had school and shifts at Fairytale Kingdom.

Soon after that, the move to New York felt all but inevitable, so I looked into my options for ways I could stay in Georgia without them.

The Knightley Company has a special college program for incoming freshmen. If accepted, participants split their time between working in the theme park and taking college courses through South Georgia University. The goal is to graduate with a degree in hospitality management while gaining real-world experience. In addition to a small wage, the program pays for college tuition and provides room and board.

I sent in my application the first day the enrollment period opened, and when my acceptance letter came in the mail, I screamed so loud Avery came rushing into our room, assuming murder.

A part of me held out a tiny bit of hope that my parents would put up a fight about me staying behind in Georgia without them. The plan was for us all to move to New York, but when I showed them the acceptance letter and explained how competitive the program was, they wrapped me up in a hug and told me how proud they were. No tears of sadness over the fact that they were going to leave me behind, just nails in the coffin of our relationship.

The day they packed up their moving truck, I settled into my fully furnished on-site dorm at Fairytale Kingdom. Though the halls were noisy and filling with other new interns just like me, I sat alone in my room, sad in a way I couldn’t easily explain. I was at my desk, glancing over my course schedule and trying to conjure up excitement for my new life, when an email popped up on my computer.

*

From: Info@Knightley.com

To: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

Subject: Mentor Program

Hi students,

All incoming freshman interns are required to take part in our mentorship program. Each student has been placed with an executive-level staff member who will act as a resource and adviser over the coming year. Mentors will offer shadowing opportunities as well as program-approved assignments. Each student will earn one credit hour for participation in the program.

Mentors have been notified of their assignments and will be in contact soon. Please establish a consistent time and place for meetings conducive to your schedule. (Minimum of four meetings required per semester.)

Whitney Atwood has been placed with Derek Knightley, Head of Entertainment.

*

His phone number and email were provided below that, but I didn’t make it that far. As a longtime employee and lover of Fairytale Kingdom, I knew about the Knightley family. They were royalty. Cal Knightley was the man behind it all, someone rarely seen at the park. I thought I might have caught a glimpse of him once, from afar. His grandson worked at the park as well, but as Head of Entertainment, he was someone I’d never once come close to interacting with either. Oddly enough, my post as a balloon vendor didn’t require much face time with the higher-ups, and yet, here I sat as Derek Knightley’s new mentee.

I couldn’t believe it.

I received an email from his assistant that same day requesting a schedule of my classes and park shifts. I responded right away, fingers flying, and then hovered near my computer the rest of the night, waiting for directions for where and when I should expect my first meeting with Derek.

It was planned for one week later at a coffee shop on Castle Drive inside the park.

I knew next to nothing about Derek outside of his role in the park. Not his age, not his appearance—nothing. Though there were whispers that he was handsome, it seemed more like an urban legend than anything else. How could one human have that much luck? There were also whispers that Cal lived inside the castle, but no one had confirmed or denied that either. There was so much secrecy surrounding the Knightley family, and any rumor could catch fire, from the innocuous (Cal drinks his coffee with five teaspoons of sugar!) to the absurd (He acquired the capital to build the park from the Russian mob. Don’t cross him.).

The day of my meeting with Derek, I showed up at the coffee shop right on time in clothes I’d grabbed from a resale shop the week before. I was drowning in a navy pantsuit, and though I’d convinced myself I looked professional back in my dorm room, out there in the Georgia sun, I just felt like a sweaty mess. It didn’t help that my flats were half a size too big as well—Avery’s hand-me-downs. They kept sliding off when I walked, and I already had a nice fat blister developing on the back of my right heel.

My appearance came into sharp clarity when I caught my reflection in the coffee shop window. My too-long auburn hair hung in loose waves. My skin had a healthy glow—thank you, brisk walk in 90-degree weather—but the shade of red lipstick I’d bought at a drugstore the night before wasn’t doing me any favors. It brought out the pink undertones in my skin, resulting in me too closely resembling a cherry tomato. I wiped it off with the back of my hand as quickly as I could, but as I pulled open the door of the coffee shop, I was still conscious of the stain across my lips.

It was early morning—one hour before the park officially opened—so the coffee shop was empty except for other employees.

One man sat alone at a table with his attention focused on a laptop. He typed away furiously then paused, picked up a pencil, and scribbled quickly in a notebook.

He wasn’t just casually attractive. The sight of him grabbed me by the collar, as if to say, Look, you fool. Look!

He wore navy slacks, cool tennis shoes, and a white button-down tucked in and rolled to the elbows. No tie. He had brown hair, thick and trimmed shorter on the sides. There was minimal product in it, just enough to give it a sophisticated look.

His face was clean shaven. He had a strong jaw and dark lashes that fanned across his cheeks as his attention stayed down on his notebook. His concentration was unwavering. So was mine. I stared for so long I lost track of why I was there in the first place.

Ah yes, mentorship.

I jerked my gaze away from him and scanned the shop, looking for stereotypical signs of an executive: paunchy, suited, arrogant. There was a male barista and a man dressed up in a medieval jester’s costume, but everyone else was female. Unless Derek was late, my mentor was the man at the table.

My stomach squeezed tight as I gave in to the urge to take another look.

A man in a league of his own.

So the rumors about him were actually true then. I wondered if Cal was really in the Russian mob.

“Excuse me,” someone said, cutting around me to get inside the coffee shop.

I’d been blocking the door since my arrival, and it was high time I made a move.

There was no chance of Derek looking up at me, no chance of me getting to halfway commit to making a fool of myself before jumping in the deep end. He was too engrossed in his work to notice me until I was at his table, standing a foot away.

I cleared my throat and was about to speak when a feminine voice spoke up behind me.

“Iced Americano, no cream. If there’s too much ice, I’ll have them remake it.”

Derek’s hand shot out for the coffee but instead brushed my arm.

He jerked back. I jerked back. His assistant, however, did not get the memo, so we collided. Iced Americano spilled down the back of my pantsuit and a cascade of ice made my spine tingle. I yelped and danced around, shaking the coffee out of my clothes. The ensuing minutes after that were confusing for everyone. To Derek, it appeared as if I’d just sprung up from a hole in the ground beside his table. I’m sure he wondered how long I’d been there, quietly stalking him. I hadn’t had time to introduce myself, but we did that in the middle of the apologies and napkins and fresh drinks on the house, but it didn’t help much. When I finally took a seat across from him, I felt and looked like a wet slob someone had plucked from the dumpster out back.

“So you’re Ms. Atwood,” he said, using a napkin to wipe up the last drops of coffee from the table.

I nodded as I gathered my damp hair—soaked with coffee—and tried to knot it at my nape.

As soon as I let go, it fell like a sad lump down my back.

Perfect.

“I’m Derek. This is my assistant, Heather.”

The three of us sat at the table together, the two of them an odd coupling. Heather looked a few years older than Derek with thick-framed glasses, a small tablet, and a baby bump hidden carefully beneath a black sheath dress.

“I think you have…” Heather’s sentence trailed off as she pointed to the corner of her lips, trying to inform me gently that I had something on my face.

I swiped aggressively and came away with red lipstick. No doubt it was now even more smeared across my chin.

In hindsight, I should have excused myself to use the restroom, gathered my wits, and fixed my appearance, but at the time, I was too intimidated. I didn’t want to waste their time, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could perform the simple task of walking without my legs buckling underneath me. I’d have looked like a freshly born baby giraffe.

Derek was a lot for my teenage brain to take in.

Break him apart piece by piece and it was still a lot to process: heir to an empire, much older, drop-dead handsome, confident, assessing me from across the table in a way that made me want to fidget.

A ping sounded from Heather’s tablet and she swiped her finger across the screen.

“Mika wants to move your 11 to 10:15. I’ll see if we can accommodate her. You have twenty more minutes here and then you need to meet Food and Beverage at the north gate for an all-hands.”

While she spoke, Derek focused on me, conducting a careful study, like I was some rare bird he’d never encountered. Ah yes, this female’s mating habits include smeared lipstick and the stench of coffee grounds.

I shifted in my chair, slightly uncomfortable, but even still, I didn’t get the sense that he was being judgmental. Just…curious.

“Thank you, Heather. I’ll meet you outside in twenty,” he said, effectively dismissing her.

“But you asked me to take notes.”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

Without another word, she stood and left.

I nearly asked her to stay. We were an awkward trio, but without her, I didn’t have the courage to pull my gaze off the table.

“I’m sorry again about the coffee,” he said, his voice sure and resolute, confident even while apologizing. “Rest assured, we’ll get you set up with a new suit.”

My cheeks flamed. Please God, don’t ask where this one is from. He’d assume Goodwill was some kind of nice boutique. Is it pronounced Güdwíll?

“I had originally asked Heather to sit in on our meeting, but I think I might serve you better one on one. Today especially, we can just chat. No business.”

I swallowed, the task proving more difficult than usual.

“Should we start with names?” he continued. “I assume it’s fine to call you Whitney. Or would you prefer Ms. Atwood?”

The fact that he of all people knew not only my last name but also my first was completely mind-boggling. I’d been in the dorms for a week now. Classes hadn’t started yet. I’d barely ventured out of my room. I was supposed to have a roommate, but she’d forfeited her spot in the program last minute and they hadn’t assigned anyone to take her place yet. I’d spent the last seven days mostly by myself, reading ahead in my textbooks, finishing assignments, listening to voices carrying out into the hallway, homesick for a home that didn’t exist anymore.

I hadn’t introduced myself to one person, but Derek knew me.

“Whitney is fine,” I said, my voice shaky. I tried to clear my throat but was unsuccessful.

“Good. You can call me Derek. I don’t want these meetings to feel formal. The point is for us to develop a personal relationship.”

The blush on my cheeks doubled down. I wanted to cover my face with my hands to hide the effect he had on me. It was silly. I was being silly, but I couldn’t stop myself.

If Derek noticed, he didn’t let on. “So you’ve been getting settled in at the dorms. There’s quite a few of you in the program. Have you met any of your classmates?”

Shame washed over me. “I’ve met a few people.” Met as in passed in the communal bathroom on the way to brush my teeth.

At this point in our meeting, I still hadn’t made eye contact with him. It seemed like a Herculean task just to glance at his hands, cupping his drink. They were large, tanned, handsome if ever hands could be.

“All right,” he continued, almost amused. “I think we need to break the ice. I know the last few weeks have probably been difficult for you. I still remember when I first arrived at college. I didn’t think I’d be overwhelmed, but I was. Why don’t we turn the tables? You ask me questions. Anything you want.”

My eyes finally jerked up as a small laugh escaped me.

The idea of me interviewing him was hilarious.

His dimples popped as he leaned back, completely serious.

“I mean it. Shoot.”

I tried to think of questions that would make me sound educated and informed, on his level. I didn’t want him to think of me as a silly teenager. So, I sat and I thought. I knew I was smart. I’d excelled in high school and graduated at the top of my class. I’d worked at Fairytale Kingdom for three years already. There were questions I wanted to ask…but my brain went blank.

He leaned forward. “Nothing too intense. It’s early and I haven’t finished this coffee. Something simple.”

“How old are you?” I asked, the question flying out of me on impulse.

He hid a smirk. “28.”

Ten years my senior. He seemed even older.

“Does your grandfather live inside the park?”

His smirk spread wider. “Yes.”

“Inside Elena’s Castle?”

He took a sip of his coffee before answering in a tone dripping with mock severity. “That’s classified information. Ask something else.”

I was grinning then. Enjoying myself.

“Did you work here when you were my age?”

He nodded. “My very first job inside the park was selling balloons.”

I lit up with excitement. “That’s my job! Well…it was. Now that I’m in the internship program, I’ve been stationed inside the castle. I’ll help control the lines for the meet-and-greet sessions with Princess Elena.”

He seemed impressed. “That’s a great place to be. You’ll get experience with In Character employees, and come to think of it, managing that line might be one of the toughest jobs in the park.” He tilted his head. “It’s funny, you kind of look like her.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. It was my hair mainly, and the feline shape of my pale green eyes. While stationed at my balloon stand, a few kids in the park had mistaken me for her, but Princess Elena was always played by someone older. Beautiful. Poised. I could have played Princess Elena’s kid sister with my rounded cheeks and the constellation of freckles across my nose.

I think he confused my silence as a sign of offense because he changed the subject. “You and I will have to figure out this mentorship together. I’ve never had a mentee, and to be honest, I don’t have a lot of time in my schedule, but I’d like to try to be a resource for you if you need one.”

“I’d like that,” I said, feeling shy again all of sudden.

“We’ll meet here again in a month. Your task before then is to make a friend in the program. You’ll need someone to lean on through the next four years.”

I nibbled on my lip before asking what I thought was a simple question.

“And you don’t count?”

The question was meant in innocence. What is a mentor if not a friend? But his brows furrowed slightly as he studied me quietly. Then Heather walked back in, interrupting our meeting. Derek never answered me one way or the other, but the truth is, he was the very first friend I made that fall.

*

For the next month, Derek and I exchanged emails a few times a week. In each one, he’d assign me a small task: read through this article on economics and management, listen to this podcast on hospitality trends in the US, skim through and take to heart The New Gold Standard: 5 Leadership Principles for Creating a Legendary Customer Experience Courtesy of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company. None of the assignments were graded or anything and Derek knew the mentorship program was mostly meant to be an easy one-hour blow-off credit, but I’d complete his tasks soon after he sent them, digesting the concepts and themes as best as possible and composing thoughtful emails back to him. In some ways, I felt like Derek’s equal, which was laughable considering the cavernous gap between my position in the company and his.

His emails were always time-stamped at odd hours. 4:30 AM. 9:20 PM. 1:23 AM. I wondered if he ever slept.

All of his subsequent tasks proved easier to accomplish than the first one he’d issued.

Making friends didn’t come naturally to me, but I could be outgoing in my job. Talking to strangers while dressed up in my Fairytale Kingdom uniform never seemed all that hard. Outside of work, though, I’d slink right back into my shell. I’d never thought of myself as a loner, but before college, I always had Avery. After school and on weekends, life always seemed to revolve around her. I’d never had time to notice my lack of friends.

Now, it was at the forefront of my mind every day when I’d walk into the dorm cafeteria and realize I had no one to sit with. I had noticed another girl sitting by herself, her head bent low over a book every time I passed her by. I fantasized about waltzing up to her and introducing myself, but I never did. The idea of it nearly made me sick.

I told Derek about her in an email once. He encouraged me to talk to her; in fact, he said, “If she likes to read that much, she’d make a great friend.”

I didn’t work up the courage until a week later. Hopped up on an extra cup of caffeine, tired of spending lunch holed up in my dorm room alone, and aware that I was only a few days away from my second meeting with Derek (and wanting to make him proud), I gathered my food from the buffet line and walked directly toward the booth where the girl sat reading.

“Hi. Is this seat taken?”

Her head jerked up in surprise. Her black hair, trimmed short at the base of her chin, was set off by her fair skin. She had long front bangs straight from the ’60s and startling blue eyes—blue eyes that were staring up at me in shock.

Abort.

Run!

Like a trapped animal, I searched around me for an exit. Though the cafeteria doors were yards away, a row of windows were near enough for me to dive through at my own peril.

Then she finally spoke.

“Oh, um, no, it’s not taken.” She dragged her backpack off the table and set it down on the seat beside her. “Go for it.”

I sat down. She closed her book. There was silence so loud I started to sweat. I knew I needed to conjure up small talk, but the part of my brain capable of that function was currently screaming at me to stop being weird.

“Were you reading ahead for class?” I finally asked, nodding toward her textbook.

She seemed hesitant to admit she was.

“I have been too. Honestly, with the semester in full swing, I’m so nervous about getting behind. I’ve tried to stay on top of our assignments.”

She nodded, unveiling a small smile. “Where are you stationed in the park?”

“Elena’s Castle.”

Her brows perked up. “Really? That sounds cool. I wanted to work in the Costuming Department, but I got placed in València over near the Enchanted Forest instead. I’ve had a few shifts where I shadowed the chef or maître d', but most of the time, I’m just bussing tables.”

“No way! That’s still awesome. I’ve never even been inside.”

She smiled, viewing her position with new enthusiasm now that I had deemed it cool. “Sometimes at the end of my shifts, they let me take home leftover food.”

My jaw dropped. The restaurant was Michelin-starred. Reservations were based on a lottery system. There were news stories all the time of celebrities getting turned away.

We stayed there talking through the remainder of lunch. Small talk gave way to frenzied chatter, each of us talking over the other in a rush to get out all the words we’d been swallowing the last few weeks.

In the middle of that chaos, I found out Carrie wasn’t living in the dorms.

“They were booked up by the time I sent in my housing request. I’m staying with a family friend about twenty minutes from the park.”

I nearly leapt across the table with excitement. “I don’t have a roommate! They never showed up, and to be honest, I’m not even sure administration realizes I’m living by myself.”

“Really?”

I nodded, wheels spinning.

Neither one of us thought it was weird to suggest rooming together within thirty minutes of meeting. In fact, we were both on board. We left the cafeteria side by side and marched to the admin office together. My first task from Derek was officially complete.

*

For my second meeting with Derek, I wore an emerald green wrap dress similar to the one I’d seen Heather wear the month before. It was brand new and courtesy of the Knightley Company. An electronic gift card had hit my inbox three weeks prior, sent from Heather to make up for the coffee incident. $200 to Nordstrom. I’d stretched every penny of it so it would cover a new dress, a fitted blazer off the clearance rack, and a pair of comfortable yet stylish flats that actually fit. I’d purchased the same pair for Carrie. When I surprised her with them later back in our dorm, her jaw dropped.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

I gave her a pointed look. “I think I tried on just about every piece of clothing inside Nordstrom while you sat inside that cramped dressing room. It’s the least I can do.” I push the shoes toward her. “Besides, now we match.”

The dress was professional and pretty, fitted with a tie at my waist. I felt like a woman about to charge into a boardroom and bark orders to cowering underlings.

However, my confidence drained as soon as I took a step inside the coffee shop. Derek was at the same table as before, though this time, he stood surrounded by a group of people. He was the sun, and they were planets orbiting, shuffling, vying to be the closest one to him. They listened as he spoke. If possible, they would have snatched his words out of thin air and stuffed them down their throats. I wondered if I looked that desperate when I was near him.

Of course I did.

I couldn’t work up the courage to infiltrate the group. Tap tap. Hello, mind if I cut in?

Instead, I started to head for the counter so I could order a coffee and ask them to glue the lid in place so there could be no danger of me meeting Derek with coffee spilled across my clothes for a second time.

I was halfway to the counter when Derek’s authoritative tone cut through the hum of conversation.

“Whitney.”

Heads turned in my direction.

I was slow to look over my shoulder, as if even after a month of near-constant emails, I wasn’t absolutely certain I was the Whitney he was calling out to.

When our eyes met, he nodded for me to join him.

“Heather already got your coffee.”

Short of feigning a bathroom emergency, I had no choice but to pivot and head straight for them. Oh goodie. Strolling toward that group of young professionals, I felt the weight of a hundred judgmental stares. It’s a wonder I kept my footing. Their thoughts were projected on scrolling marquees. Who is she? Why is Heather buying her coffee?

Then I reached the table and Derek made it clear he and I had a meeting. They scattered quickly, but not before desperately throwing out final parting words: “I’ll shoot you an email about that request!” “I’d love to hear more of your thoughts on the expansion.” “I’ll get in contact with Heather about setting up a meeting!”

Once they were gone, Derek tugged my chair out for me, an act of chivalry I’d never before experienced. For a moment, we stood a smidge too close. His size threw me off. You see a man that tall and toned in an action film and you think, Run. But Derek was no tough guy, at least not that I’d seen.

He pointed to my coffee, sitting before me on the table.

“Heather made me promise I wouldn’t spill it on you before she left.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes when I smiled. Instead, I watched him from beneath my lashes as he rounded the table. The chair that made me feel small looked almost diminutive under him.

“We have twenty minutes,” he told me, sounding nearly apologetic.

I wanted to lean forward and start speaking at a rapid-fire pace. Twenty minutes wasn’t enough. It was hardly anything.

Derek didn’t waste a second.

“I brought that book for you,” he said, reaching down into his beaten leather messenger bag.

Without Reservations by J.W. Marriott, Jr., slid across the table.

I noticed the yellow tabs stuck between the pages.

“Those are the sections I think you could learn the most from,” he explained. “They’ll help with your profile.”

“I’ll read the whole thing,” I assured him, knowing I would.

I wanted nothing more than to impress him, to soak up every small piece of information he felt compelled to offer. He nodded and I noticed a glint of respect in his gaze. He admired my work ethic the same way I did his.

The book was for a class assignment. I had to profile an entrepreneur in the hospitality industry, and Derek had been the one to suggest I write about J.W. Marriott, Jr. He’d first been assigned the book by a professor at Princeton.

“How are things going with your new roommate?” he asked after I slid the book onto my lap. Both hands wrapped around it like it was a prized possession.

“Good. She helped me pick out this dress.” I glanced down at it then shot him a crooked smile. “Thank you, by the way.” His brows furrowed in confusion and I hurried to explain, “Heather sent over a gift card to make up for the coffee-stained suit.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned on his perfectly honed features. “I’m glad.”

Then, for some reason, silence clung to us. He glanced at the dress for only a moment before reaching for his coffee.

I turned red and tried desperately to come up with another subject for conversation. It felt like I was waiting for him to give his opinion of the dress, but that would be inappropriate. He was my mentor. As long as I was professionally dressed, it was irrelevant what I wore.

Oh god, does he think I’m waiting for a compliment? Speak! Say something.

I held up the book. “Thank you for this, by the way. Everyone else in the class is still floundering for who they’ll choose.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one of them profiled him as well.”

“Well, I’ll just have to do it better.”

We jumped into a discussion about my assignment and how I should approach it. There was no mention of what he thought about the dress, which I thought was for the best. I wasn’t sure I’d survive a compliment from Derek.

Over the following weeks, Derek and I communicated often, but the topics always stayed professional. We discussed my internship and coursework at school, how I was doing in my classes, what his role as Head of Entertainment looked like. Once, I shadowed him for an entire day. In the morning, we met outside of the coffee shop, and much to my annoyance, Heather remained by our side all day. He barely noticed I was there, too focused on his work. He met with the Head of Casting and discussed the planned performances for the holiday season, ensuring staff was hired and properly trained. We ran from there to another meeting, this one conducted in an office overlooking Castle Drive. Heather told me to sit quietly in the corner, and I did, watching Derek command the room. I doubt I even remembered to blink. I doubt I could have repeated a single sentence uttered. I was too infatuated. I understood that day why Derek paired his slacks with stylish tennis shoes instead of loafers. Though my new flats were comfortable, we covered the entire area of the park at least three times over, and when I made it back to my dorm that night, my feet were killing me.

I looked forward to our next monthly meeting at the coffee shop like it was something special. I marked the date on my calendar with little red stars. Sleep was out of the question on the night before we met. I lay awake, imagining him sitting at our table, waiting for me, agonizing over how I would greet him. Hi Derek! Heya Derek! Hey there, bud.

I was lucky. Carrie simply tolerated her mentor. She was an executive in the legal department, a mom of five with barely enough time in her day to use the restroom on a regular basis. “Once, she made me go with her and talked to me through the stall!” Carrie lamented.

She only met with Carrie when it was absolutely necessary to fulfill the course requirement. Beyond that, they never spoke. Carrie would see me lying in bed in our dorm room, reading the books Derek had lent me and moan about how much she wished Derek was her mentor too. The idea of having to share him made my stomach ache so hard I’d nearly double over.

I told myself I was only territorial of our time together because I was wringing invaluable knowledge from him, but in truth, it was more pitiful than that. From our very first encounter, my head and my heart were on two different pages when it came to Derek Knightley. Ten years my senior, a full-grown man in a position of power in the company I worked for—logic told me to crush my burgeoning romantic feelings for him. My heart thought logic could go to hell.

*

My heart caught a break the week before Thanksgiving. On my way to my fourth monthly meeting with Derek, I received a phone call from my parents. We spoke every now and then, but always at night, when they knew I was home from class and work. A call in the middle of the day had me worried. My mind immediately jumped to worst-case scenarios about Avery, but my alarm bells weren’t necessary. She was still fit as a fiddle, but they weren’t going to be able to make it down to Georgia for Thanksgiving.

The news devastated me.

I hadn’t seen them since they left for New York at the end of summer. I’d been using Thanksgiving as a lifeline in my head, though I didn’t realize how profoundly until they yanked it away.

I knew Avery hadn’t landed the role in the off-Broadway play she’d auditioned for months ago, and her agent had her auditioning for any role he could find. He was hopeful she’d land one soon. “He says your sister has the potential to be a real star!” My parents told me it wasn’t a good time to travel. They needed to focus—on Avery. I would have just suggested I fly up to visit them instead, but I couldn’t. The holiday season is a busy time for Fairytale Kingdom with so many children on break from school. Upon accepting my position in the internship program, I’d agreed I would be able to work through the holidays.

I hurried off the phone, both worried that I was late for my meeting with Derek and too upset to effectively articulate how disappointed I was that they weren’t coming down to Georgia. There was no mention of Christmas plans, but my gut knew the odds weren’t in my favor there either.

After a steadying breath, I tucked my phone into my bag and rushed into the coffee shop just as Heather was leaving. We nodded to one another, but I didn’t meet her eyes. I barely had a hold on my emotions. I was already sitting down in the chair across from Derek before he even looked up. My hair shielded one side of my face as I busied myself with getting a book out of my backpack to give back to him.

“Hey Whitney.”

His voice, though husky and masculine, had such a polite edge to it, an edge that easily pierced my defenseless heart.

I didn’t speak—couldn’t speak, not with my throat so tight.

“What’s wrong?”

I immediately tried to rearrange my features to better conceal my mood. “What? Oh. It’s nothing.” I slid the book across the table and maintained eye contact with its spine. “Thank you for letting me borrow this,” I said, trying to push the conversation into neutral territory.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Fine. It’s a silly family thing. Nothing worth sharing. I really liked that book, by the way.”

I wiped viciously at my cheeks, angry with the few tears for giving me away. There was already such a distinct age difference between us, and crying would undo all the weeks of work I’d done to present myself in a mature light.

“I have silly family stuff too. You’re not alone in that respect.”

He was trying to lighten my load, but I didn’t need him doing that. Nothing good would come from me crying on his shoulder.

“I bet it might even be sillier than yours,” he goaded. I could hear the teasing smile in his words, but I knew better than to look up. His face was still altogether too much to handle at times, especially in that moment.

“It’s not a competition,” I chided.

“Says the person who might lose.”

I couldn’t believe we were joking about something this serious. I was upset about my family. Wounded. I didn’t want him making light of it. I wanted to feel sorry for myself.

He began anyway, ignoring my plans to mope. “My mom passed away when I was young and last year, my father remarried for the fourth time. I haven’t met his new wife, though I hear she’s lovely. About my age. She’s French and doesn’t speak a lick of English. Of course, my father doesn’t speak a word of French, so you can imagine how well they get on at dinner.”

I bit down on a smile trying to creep up.

“He wants nothing to do with the Knightley Company, though he’s happy to cash in on my grandfather’s hard work. He and my new stepmom”—he shuddered when he said the word—“live in the Bahamas. I haven’t seen him in a few years. The last time we spoke, he told me he was taking a spiritual journey to cut ties with earthly constructs and distance himself from harmful energy.”

“That’s…” I failed to come up with the right thing to say. Then it hit me. I cracked a smile. “Silly.”

He smiled then, a full, megawatt, steal-your-heart-and-keep-it-forever smile.

I had to look away.

“My parents don’t live here either,” I volunteered. “They moved away right when I started school.”

“That must have been difficult. A lot of change all at once.”

I nodded, wondering if he remembered how quiet I had been the first time we met. With Carrie by my side, I didn’t feel so alone anymore, but I still found it hard to come out of my shell at times.

“They’re in New York City.”

“For work?”

“For my sister, Avery.” I was playing with my nail, picking at invisible polish to avoid meeting his eyes. “It’s not the first time they’ve moved for her.”

“When was the first time?”

I couldn’t believe he cared, couldn’t believe he wanted to know more about me. In the minutes that followed inside that coffee shop, I shared with Derek the defining pieces of my childhood. Avery’s illness. The way my parents uprooted us and dashed off to Georgia for her. The unintentional imbalance of our family dynamic. My role as her donor. I even told him about the few times I’d wanted to be the sick child instead of the healthy one, the raw shame that went along with that. Then, finally, I capped it off with the phone call I’d gotten right before meeting with him, the news that none of them were coming down for Thanksgiving, though compared to everything that came before it, that issue seemed miniscule.

I don’t remember exactly how Derek responded, if he was taken aback or not by the amount of personal information I’d dumped onto his lap, but I do remember his attention never wavered as I spoke. Once, he glanced over my shoulder—presumably at Heather—and held up a finger. A signal that he and I weren’t quite done. I know I threw his entire schedule off that day. We talked for two hours. Or rather, I did.

I don’t know why I felt comfortable enough with Derek to open up to him about my most private demons when I hadn’t even discussed them with Carrie yet. Maybe it’s because he was my mentor, someone I already looked to as an adviser and confidant. Or maybe it’s because even then, my heart loved him in ways my head hadn’t caught on to.

*

A week later, the head of the intern program sent me an email informing me that I’d been granted time off for the week of Thanksgiving. I hadn’t requested it, but I knew who had, and the gesture, though small in his eyes, meant everything to me.

I carried my feelings for Derek with me all the way to New York City, spending the week with my family, thinking mostly of him. I told Avery about my crush, though I kept the details of his identity a secret. She assumed it was another boy in my intern class, and I didn’t feel the need to correct her. She encouraged me to take a chance.

“That whole ‘love is patient’ nonsense? It’s bullshit! There is no room for patience when it comes to love! If you want this guy, you need to tell him!”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I. Like. You.” She ticked off the words on her fingers. “Explain to me why that’s difficult.”

“The circumstances—”

“Circumstances? Oh my god. You’re eighteen! Circumstances shouldn’t matter!” Avery was always like this. Growing up, the future was never definite for her. In her opinion, we were all taking advantage of tomorrow. You get today, that’s it, she’d tell me, her pale green eyes flaying me open.

We were back at the apartment she shared with my parents, a shoebox disguised as an efficiency. My mom and sister slept on the bed. My dad slept on the couch. While I was in town, I took the floor. My parents were out picking up groceries for Thanksgiving dinner, and I sat on the bed watching Avery. I couldn’t help it. When we were together, our old roles always fell into place. She would always be the star.

She sat on the windowsill, one leg bent against her chest. Her head leaned against the glass pane. The city sat at her fingertips. Warm light flooded past her blonde curls.

“Is he married?” she asked, her gaze on the street below.

“No.”

“A criminal?”

“No.”

“Then kid”—we’re only a year apart—“you gotta go for it.”

Before I could come up with a solid rebuttal, she’d hopped down from the windowsill like a graceful cat and snatched my laptop from where it lay on top of my duffle bag.

“What’s your password?”

“Avery!”

She was already typing in her first guess. “Huh. AverySucks seemed like a sure thing.”

I tried in vain to snatch the computer away from her, but she spun away and ran for the restroom, squealing with terror as I chased her. The door slammed. I slapped my hand against it, shouting.

“Avery. This isn’t funny.”

“You’re right. It’s very un-funny how you’re willing to let life just slip right by you. I’m trying to help you. Now tell me, what’s your password?”

I let my forehead smack against the door. “Avery…”

“ILoveAvery didn’t work either. This would be a lot easier if we worked together. If you swear you won’t steal the laptop back, I’ll come out there and we can sit on the bed and behave like adults.”

I seized the opportunity. “Fine! Okay.”

The door cracked an inch. One of her eyes scanned the perimeter. “Show me your hands.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have a weapon if that’s what you’re thinking.”

When she didn’t make a move to open the door any wider, I backed up so she’d see I was empty-handed then turned and splayed my body out on the bed. She came to sit beside me and asked me again for my password. I stared at the peeling popcorn ceiling, my heart a thundering racehorse in my chest.

“Derek.”

“His name is your password?! Oh wow.”

I squeezed my eyes closed in embarrassment. It’d been an impulse thing. My computer required I have a password for log-in. I wanted it to be easy, something that was always at the forefront of my thoughts.

I listened to her clicking and scrolling.

“You guys email a lot.”

I kept my eyes closed.

“Oh…what an interesting development. Little miss perfect has a crush on an older man. Her mentor, in fact. This just got so much juicier.”

I rolled over and stuffed my face into a pillow.

She must have sensed I’d hit my breaking point. She put the laptop down and threw herself over me like a steamroller. Her weight crushed me against the bed. Her hand tugged my hair away from my face and she leaned down, her lips in my hair, right by my ear.

“Do you want me to drop it?”

I thought for a long second, debating. Then I shook my head no.

It felt good to share my crush with someone else. I’d been wanting to tell Carrie for weeks, but I was too scared of her reaction. She and I were too similar—cautious, smart. Avery was the person I needed now—someone who’d give me a little nudge in the wrong direction.

“Let’s just send him an email. Since that’s your preferred form of communication, it won’t seem weird.”

I rolled her off me and sat up. Eyes blinking. Contemplating her idea.

“What would it say?”

Her lips turned into a devious smirk. “Dear Derek, I want to suck your dick.”

I tried to smack her with a pillow but she dodged it, laughing diabolically. “I’m kidding! Relax! We can write the email together.”

It took forty minutes to pen and was an endeavor akin to pulling teeth. Avery would suggest a word, I’d shoot it down and spend five minutes trying to come up with something better. In the end, it read like this:

Dear Derek,

Thank you for giving me time off this week. I didn’t realize how badly I needed it. New York City has been a blast, but I’m anxious to be home. This is my favorite time of year at Fairytale Kingdom—there’s nothing like seeing the castle decorated for the holidays.

I know we don’t have another meeting set until next month, but I was hoping you’d join me for dinner on Saturday night, after I get back in town? Maybe we could even drop the mentor/mentee labels just for one night.

Until then,

Whitney

XO

*

Avery talked me into the “XO” and the sentence about dropping labels, because in her opinion, without them, I wasn’t making my feelings known.

“It’s still subtle. Don’t worry.”

I did worry. I worried through the remainder of that day and the next.

I worried myself out of enjoying Thanksgiving dinner and the rest of my time in New York. I flew home to Georgia in a cold sweat, wondering what fate would greet me once I touched the ground. I should have immediately followed the first email with a second.

Ha! Oh my god. Sorry. My account got hacked.

Maybe I would have had I not received an auto-response from him right away.

*

I’m out of the office for the Thanksgiving holiday and won’t have regular access to email.

I’ll try to respond in as timely a manner as possible.

If it’s something urgent, please email HeatherLewis@Knightley.com.

Sincerely,

Derek Knightley

*

I couldn’t bear the idea of emailing him a second time. I wanted the first one to disappear, but it sat in my sent folder, festering.

The Sunday before classes started back up, an email finally hit my inbox.

*

From: Info@Knightley.com

To: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

Subject: Mentor Program

This email is to inform you that your mentor is no longer a participant in our program. This will not jeopardize your credit hour. All previous meetings will be counted toward your requirement.

You’ve been placed with a new mentor: Charles Knightley, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of the Knightley Company.

His assistant will contact you within the next week to establish a time frame for your first meeting. As a reminder, each mentee is required to meet with their mentor at least four times per semester.

Do not respond to this email. Please direct questions to Help@Knightley.com

*

I kept it together as I snatched my phone off my bed and headed for the door. Carrie asked me where I was going, but I shook my head and scurried out into the hall, trying desperately to make it outside before losing it. Avery was the only person I wanted to talk to, and she answered on the second ring, listening as I told her what had happened.

It made no sense. Had I offended him so badly he didn’t even want to be my mentor anymore? Had I crossed a line in a way we couldn’t come back from?

Avery was enraged on my behalf, calling Derek every name under the sun and spouting off a sharp, confident “You can do better” pep talk that only made me feel worse.

For the next few days, I was a mess. I typed out five different emails to Derek and deleted every single one. I entered his work number into my phone—the one at the bottom of his email signature—and then wavered, ultimately chickening out every time.

Carrie knew something was wrong with me, so I lied and said I had the flu. It bought me freedom to wallow.

I’d waver between despair over the fact that I’d ruined a good thing and hope that maybe Derek had asked to be removed as my official mentor because of his complicated feelings for me. That hope only spawned in the dead of night, when my brain was too sleepy to notice the obvious naivety of it.

A week after I was informed of my new mentor assignment, I came back from class and found a bold unread email at the top of my inbox. Derek’s name shocked my heart back to life. I leapt for my chair and quadruple-clicked. It sprang up across the screen, but when I read his words the first time, they seemed nonsensical.

*

Whitney,

Work has taken me to London.

Don’t worry, I haven’t dropped the ball as your mentor. My grandfather will advise you much better than I ever could. Take advantage of everything he’s willing to teach you.

Best,

Derek

*

I read it again, eyes focused on the first sentence.

Derek was going to London. London, England? For how long? He didn’t say.

He hadn’t addressed my proposal of dinner. No raincheck or promises to make it up to me when he returned. Worse, he hadn’t even suggested we stay in communication while he was gone. No mention of a continued friendship. No clues hinting that he might have felt the same way I did.

I hadn’t even known London was on the horizon for him. That was the first blow. I hadn’t known because he never told me. It was an irrefutable sign that I’d spun our encounters into something more meaningful than they had been. He hadn’t even thought to say goodbye to me in person.

I felt…crushed.

My feelings for Derek were not platonic. They never had been. I had souvenirs of him littered across my life. His name was my computer password. His lent paperbacks were stacked up beside my bed. His emails were carefully categorized in their own folder in my inbox. If they’d been letters, the sheets of paper would have been threadbare and disintegrating.

Looking back, I wonder if Derek ever realized how much his friendship meant to me that fall. How long it took me to get over him. How much I beat myself up over my feelings for a man I never should have fallen for in the first place. I don’t know how a soul finds its mate, why it seemed like mine had latched onto someone who was the least logical choice. All I know is it’s been eight years and I’m still not over my silly crush on Derek Knightley.

But hopefully, I will be soon.

Chapter Four

Whitney

It’s the morning after my dinner with Cal—the morning after I spotted Derek getting off the elevator—and curiosity has me rereading my old emails to him. It’s worse than I remember. My eagerness bleeds off the screen. So! Many! Exclamation! Marks! There are too many exaggerated attempts at sounding more intelligent than I was. I must have consulted a thesaurus each time I typed up a reply. Words like laborious and esoteric were stuffed into sentences with a heavy hand. The result is a sad, obvious attempt at looking wise beyond my years. There’s no way he thought of me as anything more than a silly teenage girl.

“Oh no. What happened?”

Carrie’s voice startles me and I glance up to see the reflection of my friend in the wall-to-wall mirror in front of my makeup chair. She’s at the door, holding up Princess Elena’s dress, a sweet gesture she didn’t have to make. Normally, a runner brings it over from the Costuming Department—their warehouse is a few minutes away by golf cart, longer by foot—but she brought it herself, and I have a feeling I know why.

“Nothing happened,” I say, locking my phone and tossing it down into my purse. Looking at those emails was a bad idea.

“Your face was telling a different story.”

I hum and lean forward, returning to the task at hand. My shift will start soon, which means I need to finish getting ready. During training, a professional taught me how to glam myself up to mimic our characters to a T. Some of the other In Character employees in the park have makeup much more difficult to apply than mine. I know a girl who plays a pink-skinned fairy. Before every shift, she has to cover her face and arms in paint. I don’t envy her.

As the original princess in the Knightley storybook, Elena is simpler and more understated. Bronzer and blush enhance my features, mascara and warm eyeshadow ensuring I look more done up than on a normal day. My lips are coated in a dark coral pink shade, just a hairsbreadth away from nude.

My hair is curled and long, half of it wrapped up behind my head with a twinkling diamond and emerald tiara.

“Sure nothing is bothering you? Is it your parents?”

“Parents? What are those?”

She laughs and shakes her head.

I reassure her. “No, really. Everything is good. Promise.”

Carrie steps forward and unzips the garment bag.

The pale green costume is an updated version of the timeless dress half the little girls in the country own, and as a Senior Designer, Carrie had a hand in its creation. The bodice is so delicately embroidered, it looks like the material might split with the slightest tug. A built-in bra ensures no straps interrupt the deep, square neckline. The long, sheer sleeves fit my arms tightly and end with a V at my wrists. The waist is cinched tight and the tulle skirt billows down to the floor. The material itself is contemporary and light, but the cut and style is an amalgamation of renaissance and medieval costuming. In short, it’s the best, most beautiful item of clothing I’ve ever worn.

In lieu of a corset, the dress zips up the back, fitted perfectly. Carrie straightens my skirt, stands, and spins me around.

“Okay, enough,” she says. “I know you’ve heard the news.”

I scrunch my nose and play dumb. News? I know not of what you speak.

“Derek’s back from London. Word is, he’s here to take over for Cal once and for all.”

My features give nothing away. “Cal didn’t mention anything last night.”

She smiles conspiratorially. “I assumed it was just a rumor too, that he’s not really back—but I know for a fact he is.”

My heart hammers against my tight bodice. I can’t catch a full breath no matter how hard I try.

When I don’t immediately demand more information, she gets cocky, dangling what she knows over my head like bait.

“Costuming has a special fitting today. Can you guess who it’s for?”

“The Queen of England.”

She ignores my dry sarcasm. “Derek.”

Carrie knows the truth about Derek. Years ago, I eventually opened up to her about all the sad details. She’d already guessed what was going on even before I told her. Apparently, people don’t have the flu for months on end.

I’d sit if I could, but the dress won’t allow it. Or rather, Carrie won’t allow it. If I wrinkled the tulle before my shift, she’d have my head.

“That makes no sense. Since when does he need a costume?”

I think of him as he was eight years ago. His crisp button-downs, fitted slacks, cool sneakers. His clothes could have been bespoke, but I don’t think Costuming had a hand in them. Maybe I’m wrong.

She’s looking at her nails now, examining them coolly. “Wish I could say more, but it’s confidential.”

I resist the urge to shake her senseless. My hands fist at my sides in an effort to restrain myself.

“Tell me!”

She laughs and finally looks up at me. “I’m sorry. I can’t let the secret out. You know how tight-lipped this company is.”

My glare says, Who do you think I am? “This is different. We don’t keep secrets.”

Her dark brow arches. “Are you sure about that?”

We both know she’s referring to my feelings for my old mentor. I might have copped to my love for him back then, but I’ve assured her that’s all in the past. He means nothing to me now.

“Carrie!” I say, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Ow! Jeez!”

“Whitney,” a soft voice calls from the hall just before a hand knocks on the door. “We’re a few minutes behind. Are you almost done in there?”

My eyes dart to Carrie. HURRY. Tell me!

She interprets my wide-eyed gaze as fear. She thinks I don’t want to be late for my shift. I’ve forgotten I even have a shift. I want info. Now.

She finds my high heels and bends low to help me strap them on.

“Carrie,” I demand, voice low.

Another knock sounds on the door.

“This isn’t funny,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Okay,” she says, done taunting me. She starts talking fast. “I don’t know all the details, but I think for the next few months—”

The door is whipped open and the time for secrets is over. The hustle and bustle of the Underground has infiltrated my dressing room. My handler, Julie, is waiting for me with her headset and clipboard in place. A walkie talkie hangs on her hip. Her cotton dress and emerald green apron fit with the theme for Elena’s Castle. She’s meant to be a washerwoman or handmaid, but really, she’s the person who ensures my meet-and-greets run smoothly. She makes sure I’m at my post on time and meeting my quota of children, all the while managing the line. It’s the same position I filled eight years ago.

A small thing, more mouse than human, Julie scurries in and nods hello to Carrie before checking my appearance. It’s part of her job, and she takes it seriously. A quick loop around me and then a checkmark on her clipboard assure me I look the part.

Carrie aims apologetic eyes at me as Julie ushers me out. She feels bad.

“Call me later!” she shouts.

To get to my post at Elena’s Castle, we use the tunnel below the theme park, unofficially referred to by all of us as the Underground. It is, without a doubt, the best-kept secret at Fairytale Kingdom. The Underground is essentially a city beneath the theme park accessed only by employees. It’s where we arrive for our shifts, clock in and out, and change into costume. There are training rooms, stock rooms, conference centers, break rooms, and offices for the electrical and engineering teams. In the very center, under the castle, there’s a cafeteria with a Subway and a McDonald’s.

The tunnels in the Underground are wide enough to allow for pedestrians and golf carts. Sprinkled throughout these passageways, there are 35 stairwells that lead to hidden entrances to the park. The secret gateways are necessary because the park is made up of several different themed zones, like Elena’s Village, Enchanted Forest, and Safari Island, to name a few. Elena’s Village is designed as a medieval French village with the grand castle in its center. However, head due north and those bright, friendly cottages gradually give way to a dark and mysterious forest. That section of the park is meant for teenagers and adults. Employees there dress as fairies and huntsmen, nymphs and elves. If a guest saw an Enchanted Forest elf walking along Castle Drive, it would jar them out of the carefully crafted setting. So, the execs don’t allow it. We have to leave our zones via the Underground if we want to go from one area to another.

If a little kid ever accidentally stumbled into the Underground, it would shatter her world. It’s a gritty underbelly compared to the land of make-believe that exists atop Castle Drive. Down here, fairies walk around in hairnets. Bears walk around in their jumpsuits with their headpieces tucked under their arms. Maintenance men honk the horns on their golf carts, angry if anyone happens to stray into their path. I once stumbled upon a huntsman from the Enchanted Forest getting it on with a smith’s apprentice from Castle Drive. So yeah, no one is allowed down here without an employee badge or a microchipped costume.

Julie swipes her badge and we gain entrance to a shallow set of stairs that open up directly into the hearth of the great room inside Elena’s Castle.

On a normal day, I’m excited for my shift.

Today, the hours stretch out before me in a never-ending sea of children. I’m counting down the minutes until I can leave here and hunt down Carrie for more information. She might as well have thrown a grenade at me in that dressing room. Even now, it’s sitting on the ground near my feet…

Ticking.

Chapter Five

Derek

Accepting my new role as His Royal Highness feels a lot like walking through the five stages of grief. Denial comes first, and it lasts exactly the length of time it takes me to get from Cal’s penthouse to my new apartment in exec housing. I smile to myself and think, That Cal, what a trip. He really pulled one over on me this time. Working In Character in the park? Hilarious. Then I realize, no. Cal is sincere.

He expects me to agree.

That realization gives way to anger—a healthy dose of it. It’s not that I think I’m above the task. Work is work. It’s an honest job just like everything else. Coming from the board, though, it feels like a slap in the face. They know how hard I’ve worked the last decade. They know it’s insulting to suggest I might not have earned the position as Director of Operations.

I go to sleep fuming and wake up only a few hours later, kicking off my sheets. My run is so abusive, the treadmill sighs with relief when I step off of it. Over coffee, I fantasize about forwarding my CV to our board members—a way of throwing my experience in their faces—and then creating a middle finger out of keyboard characters to go along with it. Once my coffee kicks in, I realize that option lacks tact. I can do better.

Leaving the Knightley Company is another possibility. Going to work for a competitor would certainly sting, but there’s no way I could go through with it. I don’t have the heart for revenge and I would never do that to Cal.

Bargaining blends with depression as I drag myself to the Costuming Department later in the morning. I’ve been here thousands of times before, but never under these circumstances—never for a fitting.

I barely smile at Patty, the receptionist. She’s been here so long, she knew my late grandmother. On another day, I’d stop and hug her, ask her how she’s doing. Today, I keep walking down the hall after a polite nod.

My grandfather is nuts, the kook everyone assumes he is. My entire life, I’ve looked up to him as a genius, but now that he thinks I should take a role as His Royal Highness, I actually think he might just be insane.

The thought sours.

He’s not insane.

Just…wrong.

I’m greeted by the Head of Costuming, who ushers me into a room where a tailor and his assistant are waiting.

While measurements are taken, the tailor only speaks to call out numbers, but his assistant fills in the gaps for him with answers to questions I didn’t ask.

“You’ll love working in Elena’s Castle. You’ll be with Whitney. God, she’s been in that role for years, hasn’t she, Hank?”

The tailor nods, reports the length from my hip to my ankle, and then separates my legs so he can get my inseam. It’s a pleasant experience for no one.

“I don’t think anyone is more dedicated to their post than Whitney. You know she’s won employee of the month more than anyone else here?” I didn’t know, but the assistant doesn’t give me time to respond. “Some people think she’s a little over the top, like we get it, you love working here, but Whitney sees the real magic in this place.”

I’ll admit, Whitney hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind in the last twelve hours. I’ve been a little preoccupied with the grieving process.

“You two will make a perfect pair. Ryan’s working alongside her now, but you were born to play His Royal Highness. You have the exact right coloring. The build too.”

It’s not a coincidence. Cal imagined the character with my father in mind. I’m his spitting image. I have a bone to pick with Cal, though, because His Royal Highness deserves a name. In the original story, Elena’s love interest is just His Royal Highness. I never cared much about that before. Now, it grates my nerves. It’s like he’s completely auxiliary to the main plot of the story. He’s just some guy. Y’know, the prince or whatever. Who cares?

I care…because apparently, I’m going to go through with this farce.

The tailor finishes up his work near my crotch—awesome—and then turns me around like I’m a mannequin. With my back to them, I can finally let my features relax into a mask of annoyance.

“Anyway, you’ll like working with her. Some of those princesses can be snobby, but not Whitney.”

“Are you two friends?” I ask, curious. If not, she might be the president of Whitney’s fan club.

The girl laughs shyly. “Oh, um, kind of. I don’t know. Whitney’s sort of friends with everyone.”

Interesting. My old mentee seems to be a lot more popular than when I first met her. I remember that first assignment I gave her years ago to make a friend. I guess it stuck.

I know she and Cal have grown close, moving past their mentoring relationship and forming a tighter bond. He’s mentioned her on the phone to me every now and then, and his tone always carries an air of affection, something rare for Cal.

I was happy to hear she was getting on well at the Knightley Company. She crossed my mind a time or two since I moved to London, but in my head, she was permanently eighteen.

The first time I met Whitney, she had red lipstick smeared across her chin and had just been doused in iced coffee. Her clothes swallowed her up. She might have been eighteen, but she looked fourteen. Those big eyes were full of vulnerability, unable to even meet my gaze.

The image of her then stands in sharp contrast with the woman I saw at Cal’s last night.

Whitney All Grown Up.

I nearly smile at the idea then realize I’m disappointed she left so quickly. I barely had a chance to take in the changes, to catch up with my old friend before she disappeared behind the elevator doors.

It’s that thought that has me swinging my Tesla into the executive parking lot right behind a row of shops on Castle Drive after I’m finished at Costuming.

If Cal is going to insist on having me do this, I want to know what I’m getting myself into. It’s been years since I’ve seen the insanity that takes place inside Elena’s Castle during the meet-and-greet sessions.

I pass through the gates, swipe my employee badge, and tug open the door that leads onto Castle Drive. The door itself is tucked behind a bank of restrooms, and no one even notices the fact that I’ve just popped up out of thin air. It’s a magic trick of epic proportions. With sights (Castle Drive), sounds (happy music), and smells (funnel cakes and hot dogs and popcorn), we draw guests’ attention to the parts of the park carefully curated for their entertainment and away from the back alleys and secret entrances.

I join the crowd of people heading north up Castle Drive and spot the windows in Cal’s penthouse. I wonder if he’s standing up there now, watching me accept my fate.

It’s not my curiosity about Whitney that has me agreeing to Cal’s plan. That has nothing to do with it. It’s the fact that deep down, I know Cal’s right. Not about me proving myself to the board—they can go fuck themselves. It has to do with our employees. I can see the value in stepping out of the boardroom and getting reacquainted with day-to-day life at the park. Our company only exists because of our base-level employees. It’s imperative that we take care of their needs and maintain a work environment they’re not only comfortable with, but proud of.

It’s been twenty years since I sold balloons for minimum wage. I’ve amassed degrees and climbed the corporate ladder one rung at a time, and now that I’m on the top, Cal’s right—I’m in the clouds. Maybe I do need to work alongside our employees and familiarize myself with their struggles once again.

Through the back entrance to the great hall, I’m able to bypass the line and take up a spot in the corner of the room, overlooking the crowd. A red rope guides guests around the perimeter of the room, winding them up into a spiral toward their final destination: Whitney.

The sight of her strikes me like a well-aimed arrow. My stomach clenches and my hand covers it reflexively, expecting blood.

I didn’t get a good look at her last night, the elevator doors sliding closed before I connected the dots of who she was. Now, those glimpses come together to form an image I can’t quite reconcile. In the years I’ve been away, Whitney has blossomed. For every year I grew older, she did too.

It’s hard to merge the girl I once knew with the beautiful woman standing before me. She’s centered in the room, framed by the hearth and the crowd huddled around her. Her sweet, round face has given way to a more feminine, alluring heart shape. She has high, apple cheeks and a breathtaking smile made all the more adorable when it’s accented by her dimples.

She’s changed so much since I’ve been gone, another inch or two taller and filling out her dress with tempting curves. I’m glad to see her jade green eyes—the exact shade of her dress—are unchanged. I take comfort in that. I wish I were looking at them up close. I wish we were alone now, getting reacquainted.

She bends low to chat with a girl sitting in a wheelchair, whispering in her ear and making her giggle. I smile reflexively and then laugh under my breath when I catch myself.

She talks to the young girl for longer than necessary. Whitney’s line coordinator tries to catch her attention—no doubt to speed her along—but Whitney ignores her and lets the child feel her dress then her hair. The children are especially in love with her hair. Dark red, nearly auburn, it looks barely tamed.

I stand there through the remainder of her shift, watching her interact with the guests. The tailor’s assistant wasn’t exaggerating. Whitney goes the extra mile with each and every child who steps forward to meet her. Her smile never wavers, her enthusiasm just as strong with the one hundredth family as it was with the first.

By her side, through the entirety of her shift, is the man currently playing His Royal Highness. The guy looks fresh out of college with a cocky smirk and enough gel in his hair to groom the entire cast of Grease. He’s not the main attraction, but even still, some of the children are eager to meet him. A few of them insist that he and Whitney both crowd in for a photo. When she’s busy with children, he watches her, interest heavy in his gaze. When one child pleads with him to kiss her on the cheek, Whitney laughs, but he’s all too happy to oblige. He wraps his hands around her waist and tugs her toward him. The crowd goes wild. His mouth presses against her cheek and cameras flash. After, he murmurs something against the shell of her ear and Whitney’s cheeks redden. My eyes narrow.

When the line finally clears and the last child is whisked out of the room, Whitney releases her smile and sighs in relief, stretching out her cheeks and mouth like she’s trying to regain feeling in her face. The gesture makes me smile. It reminds me of the girl I used to know.

I give her a brief respite before I step away from my vantage point and walk past the red rope.

She’s doesn’t notice me right away, not until her line manager spots me and blinks three times in quick succession. Her recognition is unexpected. I’ve been away from the US park for a long time.

“Oh. Hi. Sir, hi.” Her manager repeats the greeting twice, and I’m worried a third will follow before she nods in reverence. “I didn’t know you were here observing the meet-and-greet.”

I smile to ease her worry. “Unofficially.”

When I speak, Whitney’s spine stiffens before she slowly turns and glances at me over her shoulder. Her jade eyes narrow on first impulse before she catches herself and smooths her features.

“Whitney, I was hoping to speak with you for a moment if that’s all right.”

She frowns at the idea, and I realize I could have found a more appropriate time to reunite with her. She’s just ended an exhausting shift. She’s probably dead on her feet.

“I won’t keep you long,” I assure her.

“Yes, of course. No problem,” her line manager answers for her, ushering the last few employees out of the room—everyone except her co-star, the cheek-kisser. He hovers annoyingly close until I smile in his direction. My mouth says I’m a polite guy. My eyes say, Get the fuck out.

“Want me to wait for you?” he asks Whitney.

“I should be fine, Ryan. Thanks.”

Ryan aims a careful glare in my direction—a warning, if I’m not mistaken.

I ignore him and step closer, extending my hand to Whitney. It seems appropriate given the circumstances, but she stares down at it like I’m offering her a piranha. I realize my misstep. Just because her line manager recognized me doesn’t mean she will.

“Ah, right—you might not remember me. I’m Derek, Cal’s grandson.” I tip my head. “I mentored you for a few months, years ago, back when you were a participant in our college internship program.”

“I remember you,” she says, making no move to accept my handshake.

This is going…oddly.

I withdraw my hand and stuff it in my front pocket, untroubled.

“Right. Well, it’s good to see you again. I watched the last half of your shift and this role fits you to a T. I doubt there’s anyone on earth more suited for the position of Princess Elena than you.”

The smile she aims at me is tight. Then she glances pointedly over her shoulder. “Mr. Knightley, it’s nice to see you again, but it’s been a long shift and…”

Wait, wait, wait—this makes absolutely no sense. The Whitney I remember was so eager for my time she would have followed me home had I let her. This new version seems to want nothing to do with me.

I don’t like it, but I convince myself she’s just tired. When I speak again, my tone is cool and professional. I get right to the point. “Right. Well, I’m sure by now Cal has informed you of his plan.”

Her brows furrow, her eyes finally locking with mine. Their full impact take me by surprise. “Plan?”

“For me to work here with you for a while.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” She looks horrified. “Don’t you belong in boardrooms? Running the show? Not participating in it.”

“Well, I’ve spent the last few years in London, as you might remember.” I search her face, trying to determine if she really remembers me or if she was lying before. “Let’s just say it’s a good way for me to get reacquainted with the US park.”

“Why here, specifically? You didn’t request it, did you?”

“It was my grandfather’s decision.”

She lifts her chin, a proud little thing. Call me crazy, but I think she would’ve preferred if I had requested it, which makes no sense given her current attitude. The plot thickens.

“What is there for you to do?” she asks, still sounding bothered by the entire idea. “Julie already manages my line and she does a great job. I’m sure you noticed.”

I smirk. “She’ll continue in that position.” Then, having convinced myself there’s definitely heat behind her curt tone, I narrow my eyes, deciding to cut the shit and broach the subject I’m curious about. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you and I leave things on a good note all those years ago? You seem agitated with me for some reason.”

A blush creeps up her chest and neck. It barely reaches her cheeks, which is a pity. I’ve decided I’d like to see her blush there.

She blinks and looks away, finding a spot to focus on just over my shoulder. “Sorry, Mr. Knightley—”

“Derek,” I amend. “We dropped the formalities eight years ago.”

She swallows whatever memory flashes across her green gaze, and when she speaks again, her tone is ice. “You’re right, we did drop them. So, I’ll just be honest. I’m tired after my shift, and seeing you here…well, it’s unexpected to say the least. Why don’t you just tell me what role you’ll be taking and then you can hurry back to that executive office of yours and I can finally have a bathroom break.”

I laugh because I can’t help it. I’ve always loved assertive women, ones with tenacity and a strong backbone.

“I tell you what, why don’t we just wait until Monday and we’ll pick up this conversation again then. I don’t want to keep you from the restroom.”

I’m already stepping backward.

Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”

“I never kid around about these matters. We don’t want you tarnishing that custom gown on account of me.”

“Mr. Knightley! You’re not going to tell me? There are only so many roles for employees that aren’t In Character. Unless—” Her eyes widen at the thought. “Surely you wouldn’t.”

I cock a brow, silent. I pause before turning, only because I want to see her face as realization dawns.

“Cal said he was going to place someone here In Character. I assumed it would be someone like Ryan. Someone less”—her hand sweeps down my body and then back up—“important.”

I’m not sure if important is the adjective I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.

“See you Monday, Whitney.”

I don’t turn around again to see if she’s still standing there staring at me. I know she is.

A laugh escapes me once I’m back outside.

This whole thing is utter lunacy and yet I’m going through with it. I’m going to accept my fate as Fairytale Kingdom’s new prince, and Whitney will be my princess. We’ll work on the happily ever after part come Monday.

Chapter Six

Whitney

Employees don’t have to live on-site at Fairytale Kingdom. In fact, most don’t. However, there are housing options for those of us who prefer it. Everything from modest one-bedroom efficiencies to luxury four-bedroom condos can be ours for a price. The twelve housing complexes are open to the Knightley Company staff only, and discounts are available when employees hit milestones. Lasted two years? Congrats, here’s a 5% decrease in your monthly rent. Carrie loves it. She moved into a small apartment near the Costuming Department right after college. Because of its location, all of her neighbors are also her coworkers—artists, designers, seamstresses. I imagine in the evenings they lounge in the common room smoking, sipping kombucha, sketching nudes. Sufjan Stevens plays on vinyl as someone reads their newest slam poetry entry. I don’t know. My nights are very different.

After college, I opted to stay in the dorms—an unusual choice by anyone’s standards. I tell everyone I stayed because there was a part-time position as a residence hall manager that I couldn’t pass up. The real reason is less clear.

Along with a small monthly stipend, I get to live for free while I help incoming freshman girls navigate the complicated world of dorm life.

Best of all, I didn’t even have to leave the dorm room I used in college. I live in the same cube I shared with Carrie. It’s charming, said no one ever.

I’ve retrofitted the place somewhat since I live alone. Instead of a second twin bed, I have a long desk. Half of it is used for normal desk functions. It houses pens, books, and a desk calendar I thought I needed but never use. The other half contains a state-of-the-art kitchen…if you squint your eyes a little. I have a coffee pot and a drying rack. A shelf, hung at eye level, stores two plates, two bowls, and two mugs—two of each just in case I have company in the form of Carrie. There’s a small sink, a mini fridge, and a microwave, and instead of one minuscule closet, I have two.

The rug (thrifted) and art (also thrifted) on the walls try hard to dress up the dwelling but mostly function like lipstick on a pig.

I would move out, and I will, eventually. Just…not right now.

Right now, this room is a safe haven, a place where problems don’t exist outside of “Jessica stole my Pringles!” and “Candace used my towel again!”

This morning especially, I don’t want to leave the safe confines of my dorm, but I have work. With a woe-is-me sigh, I grab my bag and make for the door, walking right past a photo of my family. I glance at it wistfully, like I would if they were all deceased and I was staring in a Hallmark movie. But nope, they are alive and well in New York City with Avery.

I spoke to them last night.

“Your sister is busier than ever, rehearsing nonstop!”

Eight years of hard work has paid off. Avery has managed to land a starring role in a Broadway musical. (I now know the difference between “on” and “off” Broadway, thank you very much.) Opening night is only three months away, and I’ve agreed to take time off and fly up to see her perform. It should go the way of all my other visits. I will suppress my deep-seated resentment toward my parents while putting on a brave face for Avery, who most of the time isn’t there anyway because of her demanding schedule. After a few days of strained family time, I’ll fly back to Georgia with a bad taste in my mouth and a stomachache that lingers for a few days.

But now’s not the time to worry about that.

I have bigger, hunkier issues to deal with today.

Derek Knightley and his grotesquely perfect features await me at Elena’s Castle.

It’s cruel the way time decides to play favorites. Before, he was so handsome I could barely look at him. In the eight years since, time has decided to bestow even more genetic gifts unto him. Cheekbones? Yup, let’s go ahead and hone ’em even more. Jawline? Sharper! Smirk? We want panties dropping, boys!

It’s why I behaved like a perfect asshole on Friday. Well, part of the reason. I was actually tired and I did, in fact, need to use the restroom. But, I was also shocked he’d come to see me, shocked he was there in all his glory. I didn’t have time to prepare myself for the battery of emotions that assaulted me upon seeing him again up close, smiling at me.

“You might not remember me.”

That line was a shot to my heart. Him suggesting I wouldn’t remember him is a projection of his own feelings toward me back then. Of course I remember you, you fool! I LOVED YOU!

Wrong!

No!

I take a pencil eraser to my thoughts. It was not love. I had feelings for him the way all teenagers do. It was just a silly crush. This over-the-top reaction I’m having to his return from London is completely uncalled for. I was rude to him and he didn’t deserve it. He must think I’m deranged after the way I treated him.

So today, I’m going to fix it.

I walk through the Underground on my way to my dressing room, waving to everyone I pass, saying hello, stopping to talk as time allows. It’s the same way I’ve started all my shifts in the last few years. The shy girl Derek once knew is long gone. After almost a decade of working at the Knightley Company, I know just about every face I pass in the tunnels.

It’s not as if one day I just decided to jump out from the shadows and greet the world with jazz hands. It was a gradual change. Everyone in the college internship program grew pretty close over the four years we took classes together, bonding over tyrannical professors and piles of homework. After we graduated, a good chunk of them continued working for the Knightley Company. On top of that, my second job as a residence hall manager means a handful of the employees here were once freshmen on my floor. Homesick, worried, out of tampons—I was their mother hen.

I think there’s also a healthy dose of awe concerning the fact that Cal and I are friends. He’s still rarely seen around the park, and his celebrity has rubbed off on me to some extent. For better or for worse, I’m oddly popular. Middle School Whitney would be very happy about this turn of events.

The familiar faces I pass give me the confidence boost I need. By the time I’m done with makeup and hair and have been zipped into Princess Elena’s dress, I feel ready to tackle the situation with Derek. I won’t come close to reacting the way I did on Friday. No siree.

Then Julie ushers me into the great hall for my shift and I spot Derek and stop on a dime.

The sight of him dressed as His Royal Highness is arresting. Slam-you-down-on-the-hood-of-a-squad-car, You have the right to remain silent kind of arresting.

It actually infuriates me that he looks so good dressed up in costume. He’s supposed to look absurd and unsure of himself, like Ryan. Instead, he’s a king among peasants. Knee-high black leather riding boots give way to snug khaki-colored breeches, carefully cut to accentuate his legs. An emerald green coat is tailored to perfection and hides most of a long-sleeved white cotton shirt tucked in at the waist. A muslin cravat is folded crosswise into a band and knotted around his tan neck.

His chin and jaw are clean-shaven. His hair is recently trimmed and styled with swoon-worthy perfection. His straight, white smile is aimed at a girl dressed up as a lady’s maid. I think she’s the hostess upstairs in the restaurant and what is she even doing down here and why is Julie trying to get my attention?

“Are you okay?” Julie says, leaping into the air in front of me.

“Fine. I was just thinking about how I might have left my stove on.”

“You don’t have a stove.” Julie used to live in my residence hall. “You look pale. You’re not going to pass out are you?”

Her assessment is a slap in the face. Get it together, Atwood! I came to work with a goal, and that goal is staring me in the face.

I smile and assure her all is well before I beeline straight for Derek.

He spots me as I approach, a dark brow lifting in obvious amusement. A knowing smile follows suit. It appears we’re going to pick up right where we left off on Friday. I don’t get it. He never used to act this way toward me. Old Derek was courteous and respectful, chivalrous even. New Derek would sooner back me into a dark corner than save me from one.

“It was really nice to meet you. And thanks for the picture!” the girl says to Derek before turning to head for her post. Her cheeks are flushed with color. Excitement bubbles from every pore.

“Enjoying the spotlight already?”

Bad Whitney!

“Ignore that. Let’s start over. Hello, Derek. Nice to see you. You look well. Have a nice weekend? That’s great. Listen, I’d like to apologize for my behavior on Friday. It likely confused you, and seeing as how we’ll be working together for the time being, I’d like to set the record straight. The truth is, when I was a teenager, I had a harmless schoolgirl crush on you.”

His brows rise with an intrigued air.

“You probably don’t remember, but I even sent you an email asking you out to dinner—”

His smile is disarming. “I remember.”

Residual embarrassment fills my veins, no doubt coloring my cheeks for his amusement. “Oh. Well. There you have it. Your presence caught me off guard, and well, there’s no reason we can’t be cordial, right? All of that is in the past. Though honestly, would it have been so hard to address the dinner invitation? To decline my offer politely rather than let it dangle there forever unanswered?”

He’s studying me carefully. “Are you still upset about it?”

I rear back. “Upset? No. Merely…curious. Call it unfinished business.”

He’s completely unperturbed. In fact, he seems delighted by this turn of events. “I’m happy to discuss this with you another time. Say, over coffee?”

I’m aware that we’re starting to gather an audience. Ryan just entered the room and is heading our way. In a few moments, the area will be swarming with families.

“I don’t drink coffee anymore.”

I had three cups just this morning while pacing in my dorm room, shooting the dark liquid back like an alcoholic chugging Listerine. Maybe that’s why I’m acting so crazy now.

A whisper of a smirk transforms his face into something entirely too pleasing. Every nerve ending inside me sighs in bliss.

“Lunch then?”

“I don’t have time…this century.”

He laughs, a rich sound sourced from his broad muscled chest. “I’m confused. You’re upset with me because I turned you down for a date a decade ago, but just now, you declined me twice. Maybe I should be the one upset with you.”

My jaw drops, but before I can utter a response, Ryan steps up beside me, touching my arm.

“Morning, Whit.”

Derek and I are still staring each other down, our eyes locked in battle.

He mouths, “Whit?”

My nostrils flare, and through a superhuman feat, I yank my attention away from him and greet Ryan with a warm smile.

“Good morning, Ryan.”

He grins at me before letting his gaze shift to Derek. He nods in greeting. “Hey man, what’s up? I think I’m supposed to be training you today.”

I want to look at Derek so badly, to see his reaction to all of this, but I refuse on principle.

“That’s the plan,” Derek says with a slight hint of indignation coloring his otherwise polite tone.

“Cool. So you can just watch me and see how I interact with the guests and stuff.”

Ryan, you bumbling fool! Don’t you realize who you’re talking to?

“Sounds easy enough.”

“Yeah. It’ll be kind of funny though, to have two of us down here.”

“It won’t be for long,” Derek assures him.

That information is too tempting to let die.

“Oh?” I perk up. “How long exactly? In minutes, please.”

They both ignore me.

Ryan reaches out to greet Derek. “I’m Ryan, by the way. I’ve been working here for a few months now. If you need help figuring out the Underground or parking validation or whatever, let me know.”

A groan bursts out of me. I can’t let this continue. “Don’t you know who this is, Ryan? Derek Knightley. He’s the real prince around here.”

I slap a hand over my mouth like I’m trying to plug a leak. The catty low blows just keep on coming. This isn’t like me. I’m pleasant. Generally kind!

Derek should fire me on the spot for insolence, but I swear each one of my remarks makes him happier than the last.

He’s studying me, a real smirk on his lips, when Ryan jumps into our otherwise private moment.

“Wait, you’re Derek Knightley? No shit? That’s awesome! Can we get a picture?”

Oh dear god.

This is where the phrase surviving not thriving originated, surely. As they usher the first round of children into the room and their laughter echoes off the stone walls, I take my place with Ryan at my left and Derek on my right. He stands a few feet behind me—more in the shadows than Ryan—so it’s impossible to see him without turning around. I swear I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze hot on my back. I imagine him following the delicate fabric of my bodice down my spine. My body reacts like he’s touching me—goose bumps bloom down my arms—and on a whim, just before the first child runs toward me for a hug, I chance a shy glance over my shoulder.

Sure enough, his brown eyes lock with mine. My hands fist at my sides.

His smile is gone and his dark brows are furrowed in thought.

Ryan’s hand hits the base of my spine and Derek’s eyes follow it, narrowing.

“You’re up, princess,” Ryan says, his words a whisper against my ear.

I shiver and Derek sees. He thinks I’m reacting to Ryan.

I should be reacting to Ryan. He’s the one I wanted up until a few days ago. Him and Fudge Guy and Mr. Paycheck Man. They were all names scribbled on an imaginary list of potential love interests, men I thought I could eventually fall for…given enough time. Yet now it feels like Derek is coming in à la Miley and taking a wrecking ball to all those preconceived feelings. Every single conversation I’ve had with Ryan pales in comparison to this short-lived, no-words-needed standoff with Derek. I know I’ll go to sleep tonight thinking of him. I know I’ll dread making it through another shift with him standing behind me. I haven’t even made it through the first one.

Mostly, it sucks knowing that in eight years, I’ve never succeeded in stealing my heart back from Derek.

Maybe it’s time I try a little harder.

Chapter Seven

Derek

“Mommy, why is that man scowling?” the little girl asks, pointing straight at me.

“He’s in character, sweetie. He must be a villain in the story. Don’t be frightened.”

Whitney’s sputtering-laugh-turned-cough draws my attention to the back of her head. I want her to turn around, but she won’t. She hasn’t since her shift started. I think she’s too chicken. Or maybe she’s just too busy working.

Wish I could say the same. I’m bored shitless, and apparently, I’m doing a poor job of schooling my features through my first shift. There’s nothing that can be done. Lurking behind the happy couple, half cast in shadow, I probably do look creepy as hell. A smile would help, but unfortunately, my bad mood feels insurmountable.

Standing behind Whitney and Ryan while guests fawn all over them isn’t exactly my ideal way to spend a morning. Their shifts will stretch on into the afternoon, but as soon as that clock up on the wall strikes 10 AM, my training will be done for the day.

No one is forcing me to be here. Cal knows better than to try. However, part of accepting my position as His Royal Highness is suffering through the training. It’s good for me to get an inside scoop on what it feels like to be one of our employees. So far, I think they all deserve a raise. Except Ryan.

I don’t need to be trained. I helped develop the training programs, yet here I stand, staring at the back of Whitney’s head and scaring small children.

I know what my tasks will include. I know on top of being In Character, I’ll need to provide a safety net for Whitney. As our most popular character, she draws a lot of attention, both good and bad. Plopping down a gruff, tattooed security guard behind her wouldn’t quite fit with the fairytale vibe, so Cal has come up with this method of protection. I wonder how well Ryan has managed thus far.

While Whitney is taking photos and signing autographs with a large family, Ryan wanders over to me, looking to chat. He laughs under his breath recounting an incident last week where he had to crawl under Whitney’s dress to catch a toddler who’d run underneath it. I don’t act the least bit interested in his story, so he shifts gears, trying to give me more information about the job.

“Yeah, so it’ll depend on the season. Like right now, I only do meet-and-greets, but the holiday parades will start up soon and I’ll have to rehearse for that I guess. Wait…will you be taking my spot?”

Good question.

I haven’t decided.

There’s a short intermission in the middle of Whitney’s shift. It allows the restaurant time to bus and clean tables and gives our actors the chance to drop character, use the restroom, and relax for 15 minutes. It’s also my cue to leave.

As soon as the room empties, Whitney makes a mad dash for the stairs that lead down to her dressing room. I’m not usually one for the cat and mouse game, but then again, Whitney’s not your average mouse. Unfortunately, we’ll have to play another time. I have a meeting with Cal.

Heather meets me in the Underground with my clothes so I can change out of my costume. Dressed in slacks, a white button-down, and brown boots, I strap my leather watch onto my wrist as she updates me about my itinerary for the rest of the day. Heather didn’t move to London with me. She has a husband and three kids now, maybe even another one on the way if I’m not mistaken, but I know better than to ask. After I moved, she transferred to another department and split her time assisting two executives. When I emailed her last week, requesting she come back and work for me, I also included a substantial increase in her employee benefit package.

Seems we’re both happy to be working together again.

“Do you think it’s crazy that I’m going through with this?” I ask as we walk together toward Cal’s penthouse.

She frowns and straightens her glasses. “Going through with what exactly?”

“The role as His Royal Highness. Working In Character. All of it.”

“I think it shows your willingness to go the extra mile for this company. I’ve already heard murmurs about it from staff. The tone seems to be admiring. Most people in your position wouldn’t deign to humble themselves. You’re the heir to the Knightley Company, and we all know you’ll run this place one day. You don’t have to do this, and yet you are. It might not be your main reason for going down this road, but you’ll end up gaining the respect of your employees regardless. Showing them you care enough to see what their working conditions are like, to get down on their level—it does you credit.”

I nod. “I’ll admit, I have other intentions as well.”

She chuckles. “I find it interesting that Cal placed you with Whitney. There are other open positions in the park.”

I peer over at her, realizing for the first time that Heather knew Whitney way back then too. “What do you make of her transformation?”

She shrugs. “She was beautiful even when she was a teenager, though it was subtler. You had to pay attention to notice. Now, anyone with a pair of eyes is half in love with her.”

I frown. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

I hadn’t even considered the possibility.

Heather looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “I have no idea. She and I don’t see each other all that often.” Then she pauses, considering something. “Do you want me to find out?”

To say this is outside the bounds of our normal work-related conversations is an understatement.

“No.”

I can do my own dirty work.

*

Cal is waiting for me inside his office back at the penthouse. It’s my favorite gem in the entire park. A messy artist’s studio. A villain’s lair. A hobbit hole. The walls are painted a rich dark blue and covered with memorabilia—sketches, signed photographs, newspaper clippings. Heavy drapes frame the windows. A row of bookshelves stretches from floor to ceiling, complete with a library ladder. As a kid, I fell off that thing more times than I can count. I might still have a scar or two to prove it. Books fill every available spot on those shelves and spill out onto the floor too, stacked like skyscrapers.

Cal’s sitting behind his desk in a purple vest layered over a blue shirt. A silk tie is knotted at his neck. His leather watch—a match for mine—reflects the sunlight as he reaches up and tugs off his glasses.

“My boy.”

He stands and circles the desk, grasping my face so he can kiss my cheek. This is the greeting I expected from him the other night, but he was upset I was late for dinner. Now, he looks proud of me, no doubt because I’m going through with his plan.

“Did you have training this morning?” he asks, patting my back before pointing to the worn leather chair across from his.

“If you want to call it that.”

I take a seat and breathe it in: fifty years’ worth of life lived. Worn leather, old books, the dredges of his morning coffee. The scents settle somewhere deep.

“And was it informative?”

A part of me wants to tell him no, but that’s a lie.

“I’ve already started compiling a list of changes I’d like to implement, new hires. I think there should be a photographer’s assistant, to cut down on delays. Small tweaks in the flow of the meet-and-greet itself.”

He grins. Apple, tree. He and I are cut from the same cloth.

Work discussion bleeds into other topics. He asks if I miss London.

“Some. Not the weather. It’s already cold and rainy there.”

“And your townhouse?”

“I decided not to sell it. The rental market near Hyde Park is doing well. I’ll lease it for the time being.”

“I supposed there’s no sense in discussing Laurie?”

Though it should, the name doesn’t move me.

“Not really, though I think she’s doing well.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear you’re getting settled in. I’m considering having a dinner party on Friday to celebrate your return. Nothing big. There’s a new chef at Étoile. I thought we could have him come here and do a tasting menu.”

I know “nothing big” means at least twenty people, and not just park executives. Cal surrounds himself with other creatives. Art inspires art, and Cal believes that more than anyone.

“Fine, but I’d like you to invite Whitney.”

Chapter Eight

Whitney

“How do you feel about Derek being back?” Carrie asks me at lunch.

“Must we?”

“Fine. Bury your feelings. That’s served you well for eight years.”

“Oh?” I lean forward and continue in an angry whisper. “And how’s Thomas? Confessed your undying love for him yet?”

A French fry smacks against my open eye. Salt burns my retina.

“Hey!”

“Could you keep it down? Someone might hear you!”

God forbid.

Carrie is the pot calling the kettle black. She’s had a crush on Thomas—a manager in the Entertainment Department—for years and has never done a damn thing about it. Together, we suffer, though now I wonder if it’s been unhealthy. Without me, Carrie might have acted on her feelings ages ago.

“I’ll have you know we rode an elevator together just last week.”

My brows arch. “Oh? Did you speak to him?”

“No. There were several people between us and I don’t think he knew I was in there.”

“Wow. I expect a proposal will come any day now.”

A second fry hits my face, and now she’s just wasting perfectly good food.

“How about you just keep your dirty little secret and I’ll keep mine?” she suggests.

I smile. “Is it a secret if we both know the truth?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know the truth about me, but I have no idea what’s going on in that brain of yours. Are you freaking out that Derek is back? And what about Ryan? And that guy who gives you the free fudge?”

“It’s difficult, let me tell you—basking in all these potential lovers. How can I possibly choose?”

My blasé attitude doesn’t fool her. “You might have thought you were interested in other guys over the years, but we both know who you’re really in love with.”

“Love?!”

The word doesn’t belong in this conversation. It needs to be snatched up and punted clear across the cafeteria.

My apathy has been replaced by wide-eyed panic.

“Love is the last thing on my mind.”

“Oh? Because there he is, the man you love.”

I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, across the cafeteria, Derek stands with a coffee cup in hand, talking to the Head of Maintenance. He’s no longer in costume, but he’s no less handsome. My stomach twists at the sight of his profile and I fear I’m about to throw up the first half of my lunch. Please God no. Deli turkey with aioli mayonnaise will not reemerge pleasantly.

Derek laughs and my attention stays on him like he’s got me reeled in on a line. Under the fluorescent lights, he should look sickly like the rest of us. Instead, his olive skin glows warm and hearty. Can a man look hearty or is that adjective meant only for cans of soup? Here I am, considering that very thing, when Derek glances over and catches me watching him. A good spy I am not.

His eyes crinkle at the edges and he tips his coffee cup in my direction—a pointed gesture after his gaze flits down to my table, to the matching coffee cup sitting before me. Only a few hours earlier I told him I no longer consume the beverage.

He finds the fact that he’s caught me in a lie extremely amusing, I’m sure.

I reach for my cup and gulp down a long sip. It burns, but I don’t let up.

He smiles and turns back to finish his conversation.

It feels like I just survived a third world war. I push my tray of food away from me and drop my chin into my hands.

“Tell me when he leaves,” I tell Carrie, moping.

“He’s walking toward the exit…oh! Wait. Now he’s talking to a girl.”

My head whips around so fast, it takes my body with it. I nearly slip off the plastic chair and eat the ground before I catch myself.

She laughs. “Ha. Made ya look.”

So yeah, Carrie and I aren’t friends anymore, which is a pity given our history, but I’m confident I can survive this cruel world on my own.

That night, I walk into my dorm room and step directly onto a Starbucks gift card. The plastic crunches under my foot before I realize it’s there. There’s no accompanying note or signature. I look around to see if anything else was slid under my door with it, but I find nothing. No hint as to who it’s from. Deep down, I have a pretty good idea.

By the way, it’s for $15. I don’t know why I find that fact charming. Maybe it’s because I know Derek and his family are worth a trillion and one dollars. I’d half-expect him to be so out of touch with reality that he’d mistakenly gift me a card loaded with a thousand bucks. Isn’t that the cost of a cup of joe these days?

The gift card comes with a hundred questions. How did he find out where I live? What does he think of the fact that I still live in a dorm?! Did he hand-deliver it?

I drop it on my nightstand and vow not to use it.

When I awake the next morning, I blink my eyes open and stare directly at it. It’s blinding.

At work, Derek is back for another shift. He and Ryan stand together in front of the hearth. There is no competition. There is only a very obvious, very confident winner with a knowing glint in his eyes when I step up to take my position.

“Sleep well, Whitney?” he asks, the emerald green in his jacket setting off his eyes.

He’s wonderful.

WHAT?!

I clear my throat.

“Wonderfully,” I say, voice strained.

“Get your caffeine fix this morning?”

So there it is, a definitive answer.

I should thank him for the gift card, but something tells me that’s the wrong move. It ends the game right here and now.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” My tone is dipped in sugar. “Thank you for asking. I have a little coffee pot in my dorm room. I used an extra dark roast this morning. Drank two cups while I listened to the birds chirping outside my window. Aren’t mornings so peaceful?” Without pausing, I turn to Ryan and smile. “Ryan, you look handsome. Did you get a haircut?”

His eyes widen in shock that I’ve given his appearance any thought at all.

“What?” He touches his hair. “No, uh…but I did get some new hair gel last week.”

“Well whatever you’re doing, it looks great.”

My dimples pop with the compliment.

His cheeks are rosy red and Derek hasn’t uttered a word in minutes and maybe I’m better at this game than I thought I was.

A quick glance back at him proves that theory wrong.

His smirk is in place. He sees right through me.

An hour later, a girl who looks to be around ten asks me why I have “two princes”.

“Oh my. Two princes? Surely not. His Royal Highness is right here.” I place my hand delicately on Ryan’s arm.

She narrows her eyes suspiciously then inflates a bubble out of her pink gum and makes it POP.

“Well then who’s that?” she asks, pointing back at Derek.

Yes. Who is that? No one has given me a script for how to handle this scenario. She’s not the first child to ask me about my two princes, she’s just the boldest.

“That’s a friend of His Royal Highness,” I assure her, bending low. “I love your blouse. Is that a butterfly?”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks. Yeah. Anyway, he must be a prince too because he’s dressed just like this guy. And if they’re both princes, is this like The Bachelorette? My mom lets me watch it with her sometimes—”

At this point, her horrified mother is dragging her away while she continues, now shouting.

“I just want to know which one you’re going to choose?! I think the other one is cuter! He looks like a real prince! Mom, let me go! You’re hurting me!”

The next day, I’m down in the Underground walking with Julie on the way to my shift. I pass an open door and find Derek alone inside a dressing room with a member of Costuming. A tall, lithe woman has her hands on his throat, fixing his cravat so it lays perfect beneath his sharp jaw.

She’s giggling and chattering on.

He turns and notices me paused there, transfixed.

I realize, a moment too late, that my jealousy is written across my face, plain as day.

I turn quickly and flee after Julie.

Later the next day, I meet Cal for dinner. I have half a mind to cancel, worried sick over the idea that Derek might join us, but when I arrive, the table is only set for two and Cal assures Ava no one else will be joining us. I discreetly wipe the bead of sweat from my brow. It’s only midweek and already I’m starting to doubt my ability to be around Derek without making a misstep. I try hard to completely ignore his presence altogether, but I never fully succeed. I end up finding excuses to turn around and look at him during my meet-and-greet shifts, or I cave during lunch and scan the perimeter of the cafeteria like a hawk, ignoring my food and waiting for him to make an appearance.

Cal usually offers me a glass of expensive wine with dinner, and I always accept. Tonight, though, I’m tempted to ask Ava to leave the bottle. Better yet, waterfall it into my open mouth, will you? Cal takes his wine very seriously. His selections are always thoughtful. This vintage was grown during the rainy season in Tuscany. I don’t tell him it could be gas station wine for all the difference I taste.

Tonight, especially, he’s raving about the bottle he’s selected, and I nod and hum when it seems appropriate, but my mind is not present. It seems to be completely absent this week.

He mumbles something.

I nod again. Yes, grapes. I taste them.

Then he catches my attention with his next comment.

“I’m so happy you’ll be there.”

Wait. What?

“Sorry, I spaced out. Did I just agree to something?”

He smiles, unperturbed by my lack of focus.

“I’m hosting a dinner party on Friday. I’d like you to come. You can bring Carrie.”

I open my mouth, scrolling through potential rejections in my head. Women in the ’50s didn’t know how good they had it. That hair-washing excuse? Brilliant.

“It’s settled then,” he says, refilling my glass. “You’ll be there.”

*

I can’t go on. This week has lasted four hundred years. I’m barely sleeping. Caffeine has lost its effect on me. Every time I walk into my dorm room, that gift card taunts me. Eventually, I pass it off to one of the freshman girls, the first one I see out in the hallway.

“You. Here. Take this.”

I shove it into her hand, hard.

“Are you serious?” she asks, eyes wide. “Did I win some kind of sweepstakes?”

“Yes. Go.”

Get it out of my sight.

I feel better with it gone. I walk back into my room and am glad to find there’s one less thing to remind me of my old crush. I barely think of him at all as I slip into my pajamas and grab my book. I’ve forgotten he even exists as I reread one page three times before slamming the book shut and staring up at my ceiling, angry.

On Thursday, Derek rescues a toddler. I wish I were kidding.

Somehow, a little boy with rosy cheeks and chunky I-wanna-eat-’em-up thighs gets loose underneath the red rope that separates us from the crowd. Unaware of the potential danger, he beelines straight for the one death trap in the entire great hall: a decorative poker resting in front of the hearth.

“Ben! Benjamin!” His mom’s shouts are piercing as they echo off the walls.

Derek steps forward and scoops the boy up, inciting a wave of audible sighs—because duh, the whole image is peak adorableness.

The toddler’s mom comes barreling through the crowd, crying as she thanks Derek—who, by the way, didn’t really do all that much except confidently hold a child in his arms and look good while doing it.

It doesn’t matter. The story gets inflated. Did you hear Derek rescued some kid who fell from the second story of the castle? is the iteration I hear back at the dorm later, during the ice cream social I organized for my floor. I stand behind a table, doling out scoops while the freshman girls twitter on about the story as if it’s breaking news. They’re supposed to be bonding, I think, before realizing they are…over Derek and how “He’s not just handsome, he’s a hero!”

The next day, it gets worse.

After I finish taking a photo with a family, I step back and catch the bottom of my dress on my heel. The tulle gets stuck. I lose my balance and flinch in anticipation of my collision with the ground. Then, suddenly, arms swoop out to catch me, stopping my momentum so I end up horizontal in someone’s arms rather than on the floor.

Derek has a confident hold on me while he leans over, mouth inches from mine.

“Steady.”

His deep voice is a whisper that steals my breath.

A thousand volts of energy surge from where his hand lingers at my waist.

“Whit! Er…Princess Elena, are you okay?” Ryan asks, rushing over to help right me. His reflexes are as slow as molasses. If it were up to him, I’d be nursing a concussion right now.

I swallow in lieu of answering. It was nothing. Not even a trip, just a stumble. And yet my heart is pounding like I fell. Hard.

“Let’s take five.”

Derek’s suggestion isn’t meant to be questioned, but I do anyway.

“Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly fine.”

Perfectly fine might be a slight exaggeration.

After all, Cal’s dinner party is tonight and I have no idea how I’m going to survive it. I’ve spent all week running from one activity to another, keeping myself busy—on purpose. The few moments I’ve been alone, I’ve immediately defaulted to thinking of Derek. Carrie keeps asking me how I feel now that he’s back, and there’s no simple answer for it. My emotions can’t seem to agree. Part of me is still angry with him for how he left things eight years ago. It wants retribution. Part of me is elated that he’s finally come home. I feared he never would. Another, smaller part—the part I wish I could ignore—is still embarrassed by how I behaved back then. Like an overeager puppy.

Proof of this is found in an email I pull up while I’m waiting for Carrie to arrive at my dorm that evening.

*

From: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

To: DerekKnightley@Knightley.com

Subject: RE: Assignments

Good morning Derek!

I hope this email doesn’t wake you up. It probably won’t considering you seem to never sleep. Haha. I set my alarm an hour early so I could read the article you sent over before I have to go to class. I know we don’t meet until next week and you said we could discuss it then, but I thought I’d go ahead and email you!

*

I can’t read the rest. My true feelings must have leapt off the screen and slapped him across the face. I AM HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH YOU! CAN’T YOU SEE?

With a shudder, I close my laptop, grab my phone, and walk over to my closet. I balk at everything my hands touch. Jeans? Not. Good. Enough.

I have Ryan’s number, though I’ve never used it. While I rifle through dresses, I send him a text.

Whitney: Busy tonight?

Then I text Carrie too.

Whitney: If you haven’t left your apartment yet, would you mind bringing me an outfit I can borrow for the dinner party? Something you’ve always wanted to put me in but I’ve never let you.

I get two texts back right away.

Ryan: No. Want to hang?

Carrie: YES. Be right there.

Two hours later, I’m in the elevator heading up to Cal’s penthouse flanked by Carrie and Ryan.

My makeup has been painstakingly applied. My hair hangs in intentionally loose waves. I’m wearing a thin black V-neck sweater that hangs off my shoulders, paired with a black silk skirt that falls to midcalf. My heels give me an inch on Carrie.

It’s an outfit that should be adorning an A-list celebrity whose main goal is to look ridiculously hot without looking like they tried at all. I’m not so sure I’m capable of pulling it off. I want to reach up and adjust the sweater so it doesn’t reveal so much skin, but Carrie assures me it’s tasteful and fitted perfectly. According to her, it won’t slip down even though it feels like it will. As it is, there’s only a hint of cleavage below my bare décolletage.

Back in my dorm, I suggested a necklace, and Carrie laughed.

“Your accessories are your collarbones and the shadows just beneath, the slope of your neck and smooth shoulders. Believe me—you don’t need a thing. Women underestimate how sexy this area of their body is.”

I took her word for it. After all, she’s the costume designer.

To her credit, Ryan did do a double take when he first saw me. That has to count for something.

“Are you sure Charles won’t mind that you’re bringing me along?” Ryan asks, tugging on his tie. He’s dressed up in a black suit. The boxy fit and the way the pants hang a little past his ankles kind of make it look as if he’s on his way to prom. I half expect him to whip out a corsage. Still, I find it charming that he’s put in so much effort. I think he’s nervous to meet Cal, and I understand how he feels. I would be nervous too.

“It’ll be fine. I promise.”

And if not, well, it’s too late now.

Carrie and I exchange a quick glance before I reach for the lipstick in my purse. The color is “Pucker Up”, a coral red subtle enough to draw attention to my lips without screaming for it.

Carrie’s taken just as much care with her appearance tonight as I have. Her dark red dress has billowing long sleeves and a short hemline. She saw it in hanging on a mannequin in the window at Free People two months ago and since she couldn’t afford it, she went home and mimicked the design herself. Tonight is her first time wearing it, and I wonder if she’s hoping Thomas will be in attendance. I’ve seen him at these things before.

Of course, I could just ask her, but it seems tonight there’s a silent understanding that it’s best to tiptoe around each other’s hearts.

She fusses with her short black hair, and I tell her she looks great just before the elevator doors slide open and voices swoop in to greet us.

We’ve arrived.

Ryan steps out of the elevator first, extending both of his elbows to us. There’s a crooked grin in place when he explains, “Seems like if I’m going to crash a dinner party, I might as well do it with two beautiful women on my arms.”

It’s smooth, especially coming from Ryan, and I find myself genuinely glad to have him here with me. I might have originally invited him on a whim as some juvenile attempt to prove to Derek that I’ve grown up and turned into a woman men want, but there’s another layer to it, something innocent and pure. Ryan truly was someone I saw myself dating. For months, I had a crush on him. In the two weeks since Derek has returned to town, he’s been thrown onto the back burner, but that’s not quite fair. I owe it to myself to see if I really do have feelings for him. In fact, I desperately want to have feelings for him because when we step into the living room, where guests have already started to amass, I find Derek engrossed in conversation with a group of people, a beautiful woman by his side.

She’s no stranger. Nadine has been a manager in the Entertainment Department for the better half of a decade. She helped train me for my role as Princess Elena. Tall, dark-skinned, British. There’s not one bad word you could say about her unless it’s that she’s too polite. You know those type of people. Their entire existence is one big apology. Oh, am I in your way? Oh, here, you go first. Oh, please, take mine.

They look handsome together, standing side by side, much closer in age than he and I are. I doubt she has ever sent anyone embarrassing emails inviting them to dinner, and if she has, they probably tripped over themselves to send back a quick reply, their fingers popping letters off the keyboard.

Thomas stands in their circle, a fact Carrie doesn’t miss.

To save us both, I head in the direction of the bar, where Cal stands behind the counter, uncorking wine for his guests. He spots me and smiles, pulling the plug on a bottle just as we join him.

“Ah, perfect timing,” he says, filling the glasses lined up in front of him. “Whitney, I barely recognize you. You look radiant.”

“Are you saying I don’t always look radiant?” I ask, knowing full well that half the time I show up for our weekly dinners wearing yesterday’s jeans and a loose t-shirt, hair knotted up on top of my head.

“I’m merely suggesting that tonight, especially, there’s an air about you.”

“Carrie dressed me. That’s probably it.”

“Well then, Carrie, you’ve done a fine job. How are you?” He greets her with warmth. I’ve brought Carrie over to Cal’s plenty of times. They get on well, and she’s an easy addition to our dinners.

Then Cal’s eyes cut to Ryan. “Ah, and you brought another guest.”

“Ryan Culver, sir,” Ryan says, extending his hand. “I work with Whitney.”

Cal nods and I’m sure he seems perfectly pleasant to everyone else, but I can tell he’s not too keen to see Ryan here. He’s made his feelings about him perfectly clear to me. Still, he tries.

“Any friend of Whitney’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to my home. We have wine and cocktails here. I used to hire a bartender, but I find people are usually adept at making their own drinks if you give them the chance. Dinner will be served at half past seven.”

With that, he shoots me another glance before moving around us to greet someone else.

“Holy shit.” Ryan exhales with a laugh once the three of us are alone. “I just talked to Charles Knightley! I’m inside his house!” He’s wiping his palms on his pant legs. “Do you think that painting over there is by someone famous?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s an original Cézanne. Instead, I hold up my wine glass for a toast.

“Here’s to an interesting night.”

Chapter Nine

Derek

Whitney is here, and she made quite an entrance. I think the entire room stopped to watch her and her friend walk in.

I’ve never thought of her as someone willing to reduce herself to arm candy, but there she stands, propped up by Ryan near the bar. He makes her smile and she leans in, her body brushing his.

Tonight especially, her hair looks like it’s on fire, burning in waves across her pale shoulders and black sweater.

I tamp down a twinge of annoyance as Nadine follows my gaze.

“Ah! Whitney’s here,” she notes pleasantly. “And she brought a date from the looks of it. I think that’s the boy who plays her prince in the castle, isn’t it?” Someone confirms he is and she sighs like she’s just been presented with a newborn baby. “Oh, that’s too sweet they’ve come together. I wonder if they’re an item.”

“No no. Haven’t you heard? Derek here is her new prince,” Thomas says, grinning.

He and I go way back. Our years at Princeton overlapped prior to him coming to work for the Knightley Company, and I consider him a friend more than a colleague.

“Unofficially,” I amend, sipping my drink.

Thomas narrows one eye playfully. “I’ve seen the getup they have you in. Seems pretty official to me.”

Nadine’s jaw drops. “No! You can’t be serious!”

I explain the situation to her using every shortcut possible. Still, she lights up with excitement.

“Please say you’ve got a photo on you. I have to see you all done up in the costume. I bet it’s too good! Are the moms all squealing over you?”

“Haven’t you heard about him rescuing a toddler?” someone else feels the need to add.

I glance back at Whitney over the top of my drink—except she’s not at the bar anymore. Ryan and Carrie chat alone. I glance across the room, toward the hall that leads toward the bathroom, but then I catch a glimpse of fire disappearing into the kitchen.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say to the group, cutting through the middle of conversation like a blunt ax without even realizing it.

I trail after Whitney, intrigued by her destination until I spot her near the sink, giving Ava a hug. The head chef and the sous chef from Étoile toil away on the far side of the kitchen near the stove. Ava is supposed to be out in the living room, with us, a guest tonight. I tell her so as I step into the room.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she promises. “I just couldn’t pass up the chance to see the chef at work.”

Ava isn’t classically trained. She was a cook at a mom-and-pop diner off the highway a few miles from the turnoff for Fairytale Kingdom. She makes the best food, genuine home-cooking. Chicken fried steak, cornbread, roasted carrots. My grandfather ate at her diner once after a late flight, and to this day, he says that was the best meal of his life. He sent a runner back every day for a week, trying something different each time. The following Monday, he marched down to the diner and offered Ava a job working as his personal chef. I once saw what he pays her. It’s obscene, and she’s worth every penny.

“I won’t keep you,” Whitney says, smiling guiltily at Ava. “I just wanted to say hi.”

The older woman swats her arm. “Nonsense! I’m glad you came in here. And look at you! I’ve never seen you so fancy. Doesn’t she look pretty, Derek?”

Beautiful. Radiant. Un-fucking-believable.

“Yes,” is all I manage.

Ava chuckles to herself and pushes off the counter, heading over to the chefs. “Do you two need any help over here?”

“Ava, c’mon,” I warn playfully. “It’s your night off, remember?”

She throws up her hands in surrender and leaves the kitchen, laughing. Cal will be glad I insisted. She’s as much of a workaholic as the rest of us.

Whitney and I stand alone. Across the kitchen—what feels like miles away—the two chefs continue working, but I get the sense they don’t even realize we’re here.

She makes no move to speak, and neither do I.

This back and forth between us has been confusing to say the least. I’ve been around her all week and technically we’ve communicated verbally, yet I don’t get the feeling I’ve actually talked to her at all except for the morning she admitted to her old crush on me.

She’s looking down at her drink, dragging her delicate pointer finger around the rim.

The warm light above the sink highlights the different hues of red in her hair. Her ivory skin is tinged with pink undertones.

I have a million things I want to say. Compliments could tumble out of me forever, but I don’t want to talk about how beautiful she looks. That much is obvious. I’m more curious about the thoughts she’s trying to hide away, namely her teenage crush on me.

“Seeing you here with Ryan is unexpected.”

She glances up, her eyes no less stunning than the last time I saw them.

“I thought it would be nice to have a friend by my side.”

“And Carrie?”

The corner of her mouth turns up. “All right then, two friends.”

“So you and Ryan are only friends?”

She nods, for once not looking away. “For now. Before you returned, I thought I had feelings for him.”

I latch onto the admission. My head tilts. “Before I returned?”

She catches her mistake. “No. That’s…I just meant I’ve been busy these last two weeks. I wanted to invite him tonight so I could spend time with him, figure things out.”

I hum, disappointed that she seems to be telling the truth.

“What about you?” she asks. “Did you bring a date?”

The idea of bringing someone else tonight hadn’t even crossed my mind. Now, I wonder if that was silly of me.

“No date.”

“What about back in London? Do you have a girlfriend there? Or a wife? I mean, you don’t wear a ring, but I don’t want to assume—”

“No girlfriend. No wife.”

She nods, finally stepping toward the kitchen island. I join her and we stand facing each other. There’s a charcuterie board between us, piled high. Once I steal a few grapes, she follows suit and we eat in silence for a moment.

“I’m sure you weren’t single for eight years,” she says, fishing for more information.

I smile. “No. I dated here and there.”

“What was your last relationship like?”

This isn’t what I want to be discussing with her, but for the first time since I’ve returned, she reminds me of her old self. Curious, bright-eyed.

“Oh, well…Laurie was fine. There’s not much to say. She was an attorney. Mostly litigation.”

She fights back her amusement. “Truly, I think I just nodded off there for a second.”

I smirk at her obvious teasing. “Laurie and I dated for a few months. It was fine. She fulfilled my needs at the time.”

“Fulfilled your needs? I can’t…I just—” She points at the food in front of us. “I feel like I could conjure up more feelings for that block of cheese than you just did for your ex-lover.”

“It’s not as if I’m going to go into lengthy detail with you about all the things I loved about Laurie.”

She immediately sobers.

“Did you? Love her, I mean?” She looks so earnest in that moment. No pretenses.

I shake my head quickly, for some reason desperate for her to know that. Why though? It’s not as if I didn’t love her because I loved Whitney.

“No. I’ve never been someone to fall in love very easily.”

She smiles again, her mood seeming lighter now. “Really? I feel like I fall in love all the time.” She must pick up on my skepticism because she clarifies. “Not just with people. With anything! A good book, a new flavor of ice cream. When I love something, I love it unabashedly. Take my job, for example. I’ve worked at the Knightley Company for over a decade. I’ve been in the same role as Princess Elena for over four years!”

“You were like that when you were younger too. Vivacious. Eager. Enthusiastic about any assignment I’d give you.”

She chuckles and looks down. Her fingers tap against the countertop. She’s silent while she debates something. Then she looks up with those feline eyes and I’m riveted. “You know earlier tonight, I read through an old email I sent while you were my mentor. Call it morbid curiosity. A part of me wanted to see it with fresh eyes, judge it the way you probably did back then. I’ll admit, at first, I was embarrassed. God, did I want to impress you. I wasn’t even good at hiding it. For an instant, while I reread those words, it was like no time had passed at all. I was still that eighteen-year-old girl. It made me so angry to think I haven’t changed one bit. I immediately wanted to prove to myself that I have, so Carrie came over and dressed me like this.” She waves her hand down her body. “I wore fancy heels and took time to pick out the perfect shade of lipstick, as if that would do the trick. But now I’m standing here, realizing it was all for nothing.”

I open my mouth to cut her off. She’s just said so much that I want to address, but she doesn’t let me. She speaks again with a self-deprecating smile. “The truth is, Derek, I’m still that same silly girl. I’m passionate. Maybe that’s just it. I have a lot of passion and I fall in love so easily. And you’re—”

“Heartless?” I say with a raised brow, goading her.

She groans cheerfully. “No! Not at all. You’re reserved. Unflappable. A Greek statue, and I’m—”

“A Jackson Pollock.”

“Exactly!” She laughs. “It’s funny, really, how little we’ve changed since you’ve been away.” Her gaze narrows. “Well, that’s not quite right. If anything, you’re even slightly more intimidating to me now than you were back then. You give off such an air of confidence. I wish I could soak it up for myself.”

She shrugs and pushes off the island, rounding it so she can head back to the party. “I feel better, truly, now that you know the whole truth. All that pretense was getting to be too difficult to manage. So what? I used to have a crush on you and some immature part of me wanted you to come back and see me as this older sophisticated woman, poised and confident.” She shrugs. “I’m not. In a lot of ways, I’m still—”

My hand shoots out to catch her as she brushes by me. Her arm feels so delicate underneath her sweater, and I immediately loosen my grip.

“Shouldn’t I get a moment to speak now? To tell you how I see things?”

She smiles and it feels as intimate as a kiss. “I am tempted to stay and listen. I wonder if you could come up with anything more rousing than you did for Laurie, but Cal is waving us into the dining room. I think we’re holding everyone up.”

She’s right, of course. We’ve been in here for too long.

I have no choice but to let her go. The chefs are plating the first course. Guests are gathering in the dining room, looking for their names on the place cards. Cal loves playing the host. No sitting next to someone you know well—what would be the fun in that? We’re meant to mix and mingle, force ourselves out of our comfort zones. Whitney is assigned to a seat a football field away from me. Ryan sits across from her. Ava’s at the place of honor on Cal’s right. I’m positioned on her other side, near Carrie and Thomas.

Somehow, I’ve found myself in a dead zone.

Cal and Ava talk animatedly. Carrie and Thomas keep their heads bent together half the evening. I’m left to my own devices, namely mulling over everything Whitney just unpacked in the kitchen.

She’s been all over the board since my arrival from London. She wavers between holding me at arm’s length and clutching me in close, splaying the truth out between us like she’s handing me pages ripped straight from her diary. Except, I’m not sure if it’s all the pages. Sure, she’s trying hard to seem open and honest, but it feels more like she’s feeding me fluff in the hopes that it will fill me up. It won’t.

In fact, I’m more desperate than ever to get the whole truth from her. I only need to pay attention to know there’s more to the story. Just like Pollock, subtlety isn’t in Whitney’s wheelhouse. Her expressions, her feelings, her real truths are splashed across her skin like paint across a canvas.

I feel her eyes on me half a dozen times throughout the night. I know if I glance over, I’ll catch her. Her cheeks will turn that rosy shade of red that drives me mad. So I don’t look. I ignore her like I’m actually taking a hint and giving her space.

In reality, I’m compiling a list of questions I want answers to. I want to know when she stopped having feelings for me. I want to know why every time I make contact with her skin, her lips part as if she’s expecting a kiss. She did it earlier when I caught her as she tripped in her gown, and she did it a moment ago in the kitchen. I want to know how she could possibly find me intimidating.

I don’t buy it.

Eight years ago? Maybe. She was meek. She would have sat quietly at this table, too afraid to speak up around so many of her colleagues. Now, she enchants us all. She’s the light we’re drawn to.

Me most of all.

Chapter Ten

Whitney

Honesty should come with a sigh of relief. I should feel like I just threw a boulder off my shoulders. Everything I said in the kitchen was the truth, but now instead of feeling weightless, I feel more tethered to Derek than ever before. I can’t go five minutes without glancing back over in his direction. I wish I’d stayed to listen to him before walking out of the kitchen. In truth, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I can’t believe how much I revealed.

Around him, I almost can’t help myself.

It’s his eyes. They’re the truest dark brown, a shade that doesn’t parade around with pomp and circumstance. There’s a quiet tug in their depths. Tell me your secrets and I’ll never tell a soul, they promise. And I listen. I down a truth serum each time our gazes meet.

I want you to like me.

I dressed up just for you.

I wish I wasn’t the same silly girl you used to know, but I am.

I think I’m as in love with you now as I was back then and how am I going to survive?

Tell me, brown eyes—how?

Thank God I stopped before I said that.

After dinner, I throw my attention toward Ryan. It’s easy enough to do. He’s charming tonight, excited to be here with so many influential people. Cal serves drinks and dessert in the living room. Someone’s encouraged him to tell the story of the day the park opened. I’ve heard it a million times, but I love listening. We’re spread around the room, giving him our attention. Derek stands to his right, one hand holding a thick glass tumbler, the other tucked casually in his pocket. It’s a good thing I know Cal’s story by heart because I don’t absorb one word of it tonight. Even without making eye contact, I can feel the weight of Derek’s presence in the room. My body refuses to ignore it. It makes me squirm and fidget. Once, our eyes lock and my thighs clench together. I feel too hot in my sweater, sweltering as he keeps ahold of my gaze for so long it feels like the entire room should take notice. As if we’re behaving indecently in the middle of a classy dinner party.

Eventually—painfully—I force my gaze down to my drink, and then another guest wants to sit on the couch, so Ryan has to scoot closer to me. Our legs brush and there should be a spark, or butterflies, or a low hum of…something. I even look at where we touch, searching for more—like a victim who doesn’t realize the true extent of their wound until they see the blood—but that changes nothing. Sure, my stomach is in knots, but not over Ryan.

At the end of Cal’s story, Derek disappears into the kitchen and returns empty-handed. I watch as he walks over to Ava and bends down to kiss her cheek.

He’s leaving.

I feel panicked by the idea.

Ryan leans close and asks if I’d like another drink.

I shake my head and wait for Derek to turn and walk toward me, to give me a kiss on the cheek just like he did with Ava. My chin even lifts to give him better access, but he doesn’t look in my direction as he says goodbye to Cal and a few others.

Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway.

My body sways forward as if physically compelled to follow him.

I feel deflated in his absence.

At the end of the night, Ryan walks Carrie and me back to her apartment. At the door, Carrie heads in, but I linger on the doormat as Ryan thanks me for inviting him. I meet his easy gaze and smile. When he boldly leans in to kiss me, I let him. His lips move on mine and I hold perfectly still as my gut twists. After only a few seconds, I step back and try not to crack into pieces.

What’s wrong with me!?

Ryan just kissed me! I should be jumping for joy!

He laughs and shakes his head, dragging his thumb along his bottom lip.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

I have no response, so I change the subject. “I’m glad you came.”

He toes the concrete between us and tousles his light brown hair. “Yeah, it was really fun. Maybe we could do it again next week? Just you and me? I won’t wear a suit, promise.”

I laugh as a bubble of relief bursts inside of me.

He doesn’t wait for a response, just steps back and dips his head. “See you Monday, Whit.”

Carrie is brushing her teeth when I join her in the bathroom. Without a word, I step behind her and let my face fall in the concave slope between her shoulder blades.

Her comforting presence triggers a slow trickle of embarrassing tears. They’re probably soaking through her dress.

“What’s wrong? Did Ryan do something?”

“It’s not about Ryan.”

“Tell me then.”

“It’s…I…”

She leans down to rinse her mouth, drops her toothbrush into a cup, and turns back to hold me at arm’s length. I’m a mess. I’m glad she’s blocking my reflection in the mirror.

“Derek,” she says knowingly.

The name churns my stomach.

“I hate him.” I say it viciously. Angrily. “What is it about him that I can’t shake? I mean, GOD, I was friends with him for a few months eight years ago! That’s nothing. A blip! Teenage girls have crushes. Unrequited love is not unique!”

“Making your feelings small won’t make them disappear,” she says calmly, as if channeling Oprah.

She’s right, of course. I’ve tried that unsuccessfully for the last eight years.

Derek has always sat heavy in my heart like a jagged piece of shrapnel, the cost of removal always outweighing the pain of letting him stay.

I want to be rid of him once and for all.

“It’s like he’s an addiction I can’t conquer.”

“Maybe you should stop trying to conquer it?”

I’ve been down that road before. I won’t do it a second time.

I’m done talking about this. I need to get it together.

I heave in a shaky breath, turn, and yank my sweater off over my head. My skirt follows. I turn her shower on the hottest setting it’ll go. Carrie tells me she’s going to go make us some hot chocolate before she closes the door and leaves me in peace. I finish stripping before stepping under the hot stream then I wash off the night, wiping the lipstick and Ryan’s kiss from my mouth. I close my eyes and shudder when an image of Derek comes to mind. I’ve imagined him so much over the years. When I’m alone in my dorm, tucked in bed, he’s the man I picture when my hand slides under my nightgown. It’s never a specific scene as much as a feeling, a warmth—no, scalding heat.

Tonight, I have something new to imagine: his hand wrapped around my forearm in that kitchen. I could feel his strength. I could feel him catch and restrain himself so he wouldn’t hurt me.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me, if he imagines me like this. Me in the shower. Me in his bed. Me pinned underneath him. I wonder how far he lets himself get carried away.

These new thoughts make my stomach flutter, and my hand covers it as if I can will it to stop with just a touch.

I want to slide my hand lower, but I won’t. Not in Carrie’s bathroom. Not when I can still feel Ryan’s kiss on my lips.

I turn off the shower and wrap myself in a towel. Carrie’s left me an oversized t-shirt, folded on the counter. I slip it on and join her in the living room.

I know my face is probably splotchy from my tears, but I don’t think any new ones will spring up now that I’ve settled my emotions.

Besides, I’m done thinking about myself for the night. I’m eager to hear what she and Thomas discussed all through dinner.

*

On Monday, I feel lighter. Friday’s shower cry-fest means I probably lost half my body weight in tears, but the rest of the weekend wasn’t spent moping around. I took a group of freshman girls from the dorm out to a movie on Saturday and then we spent the evening decorating our floor for fall. We went a little overboard. Bats hang from the ceiling, poking unsuspecting eyes. Pumpkins and fake skulls litter the ground. There’s a good chance I will trip over a seasonal gourd before the week is out.

Carrie and I spent Sunday reading at the park. Autumn has settled here, and though it’s still warm in the afternoons, in the shade and in the evenings, temperatures drop low enough that it’s actually tolerable to be outside for more than five-minute stretches.

It’s my favorite time of year.

The air isn’t quite as heavy, which means I’m not either.

Ryan and I texted back and forth a few times.

I think I’m even prepared to face Derek again during my shift, especially with Ryan there as a buffer, but when I arrive in the great hall, it’s to news that Ryan has been relocated to another section of the park. The information comes straight from Julie’s mouth, so I know it’s accurate. Still, I’m half-convinced it’s a rumor.

It has to be. Right?

My stomach is knotted when Derek strolls in with confident steps. His boots echo around the quiet room.

He doesn’t even have time to greet me before I pounce, tone accusatory. “Did you send Ryan away?”

He tugs at the collar of his emerald green coat, straightening it. When he speaks, he has the authoritative tone of a real prince. “Send him away? You make it sound like he’s left the country. No. He’s been transferred.”

“Why?”

There’s a coolness about him this morning, almost like he’s irritated by my line of questioning. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been placed here to play your prince. Last week, I was training. It was a temporary arrangement. You saw how confusing it was to the guests to have Ryan and me both standing here in costume.”

“Right, but Ryan wanted this job.”

“Yes, and I’m only tolerating it.”

Tolerating me, he means.

I look away, stung.

“For the time being, I’ll play His Royal Highness.”

“And for the holiday parades? Surely Ryan will be doing those.”

He clears his throat. “Unfortunately not.”

The news is shocking to say the least. Last week, I felt suffocated by my residual feelings for Derek and he was only here a few hours a day, standing in the background. Now he’ll be by my side during every shift? Rehearsing for the parade? I gulp.

“If you’re disappointed that I’m here instead of Ryan, take it up with Cal. I had nothing to do with it.”

To say my first day working alone with him goes deplorably is an understatement. Word of Derek’s placement as His Royal Highness spreads like wildfire through the park. Whether the guests know who he is or just find him particularly handsome, it doesn’t matter. My meet-and-greet line doubles. For every picture I take with a child, he takes one with a teenager or a mom. They fan themselves and make little quips. Derek stays quiet, his brown eyes as sharp as knives each time our gazes meet.

A few times, we’re asked to take a photo together. Come on, you two! Squeeze in! As if nervous that I’ll protest, Derek always moves quickly. He grabs ahold of my waist, tugs me close, and there I stand, crowded in by his size, his dominance. I might as well be a prop with the way he moves me to and fro. I’m sure when the guests return to their hotels and scan through their photos, they’ll wonder why I look so off, why my smile is so strained, why my cheeks are so flushed, my eyes glassy. I probably look fluish. I want to apologize and tell them to come back another day, preferably a few months from now when Derek is no longer posted here. Then, I’ll give them the dazzling smile they’ve come to expect.

The absolute worst is when they beg us to kiss. They’re relentless with their teasing. They don’t drop it when it becomes clear we won’t do it. Or rather, Derek won’t. He doesn’t even kiss my cheek like Ryan would have. I know we’re characters in a fictitious fairytale, but the rejection still hurts.

All day, I feel feverish and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s his mood I’m picking up on. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s still the composed, stoic man I’ve come to know, but beneath his marble exterior, I can tell there’s a storm brewing.

At the end of the shift, he leaves without a word, and I resist the urge to run after him, pound my fists against his back, and beg him to stop.

The entire week drags on like this.

*

Saturday night, Ryan invites me to play mini golf.

Whitney: Seriously?

Ryan: Oh…my bad. Was I supposed to invite you to do something cooler? Not too late to hit up a rave or something.

Whitney: A RAVE?! Stop while you’re ahead.

Ryan: So…yes?

It’s such an innocent request, and I’ve had such a strained week, so I happily accept. Since most of the staff don’t keep cars on site, Ryan shows up at my dorm with two bikes in tow. One is his. The other he borrowed from a friend.

He holds up a chunky black helmet, and I take it with a laugh.

“The mini golf course isn’t far, but it’d take forever to walk there. You up for it?”

I plop the helmet on my head in reply. He smiles and steps forward, helping me adjust the straps so they fit snugly under my chin.

“Sorry. My friend has a big head.”

I laugh and he bends closer, fiddling with the buckle. It finally clicks into place. His eyes meet mine and his smile fades. I think he wants to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me, but then I knock my closed fist on the helmet and declare it a perfect fit.

“Ready to go?”

Since it’s a Saturday night, the mini golf course is extremely crowded. It doesn’t help that we’ve found ourselves smack-dab behind a large birthday party. The first three holes take thirty minutes. Time moves in reverse. Danny (I know his name because everyone is wearing matching DANNY IS 8! shirts) seems nice enough and I hate talking trash about him, but the kid can’t golf. On the fourth hole, his ball pings off the miniature windmill, collides with a tree, and then manages to hit Ryan directly in the face.

Kids scream when his nose starts gushing blood. I rush to get ice from the main office. After that, we sit on the curb out front while Ryan tips his head back, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

“Want me to go back and beat Danny up for you?” I tease.

He laughs and then groans.

“You don’t think it’s broken, do you?” I ask, eyes wide.

“No. My nose bleeds really easily. I have a weak constitution.”

I laugh, because it’s categorically not true. He’s tall, athletic.

“It’ll stop in a second,” he assures me.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, he moves the ice pack off his face and there’s no more blood, just a little bit of swelling and a faint red bump.

He glances over and I smile.

“It’s really not so bad. You were always missing the left half, right?”

He leans over and playfully jostles my shoulder with his. I smile down at my feet.

“I can’t believe we worked together for so long before I worked up the courage to ask you out.”

One of my eyes narrows as I think it over. “Didn’t I technically ask you out first? Last week?”

“That doesn’t count. We were never alone. This is definitely our first date.”

“Wow. Date, huh?” I emphasize the word with an exaggerated smirk.

“I knew I should have taken you to the rave.”

I chuckle.

His tone is more serious when he continues, “I’ve been wanting to take you out for a while, but you know…you’re kind of intimidating.”

A laugh bursts out of me. Surely he’s joking.

He’s not.

“I mean, you’re you,” he says, gesturing to me as if I’m supposed to understand what that means. His declaration makes me slightly uncomfortable, so I pivot, trying to keep the mood light.

“Is this because I beat you handily in the first three holes? Because I warned you, for someone who played absolutely no sports growing up, I have scary-good hand-eye coordination.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon, be serious.”

No. That’s the last thing I want to be right now. I’ve been nothing but serious all week.

“How do you like your new position in the park? You’re a huntsman in the forest now, right?” I ask. “Must be nice. I hear you can show up early and volunteer to test some of the roller coasters.”

He looks away, disappointed. “It’s cool. Yeah. I mean, I didn’t want to leave my post, but I wasn’t really given an option.”

“You can come back, you know. Derek’s only going to be working there for a little while. They’ll need someone again when he leaves.”

He nods, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s it like working with him anyway?”

It feels wrong discussing Derek with Ryan. So I don’t.

I point to the snow cone stand across the street and promise to be right back.

In a few minutes, I return with two heaping piles of sugary shaved ice. Syrup drips down the side of the Styrofoam cup and I urge Ryan to eat it fast. “Hurry! It’s dripping!”

“I can’t! My nose!” he protests.

We laugh as my hands turn into a sticky mess. In the end, I have to scoop bites for him and pass them over so he can wedge the spoon underneath his ice pack. It’s a disaster. All of it. But, we’re having fun, and even though I’m fighting back yawns, I know it’s not because he’s boring. He’s not. This has been the most eventful date I’ve ever been on, by far, but I haven’t been sleeping well the last few weeks and eventually my fatigue wins out.

“Ready to go?” I ask, nodding toward our parked bikes.

Ryan tosses his ice pack in the trash before we start the ride back home. The autumn air cools my cheeks as we race down the road, laughing when Ryan makes a joke about “catching some air” as he lifts his front tire in a faux BMX move.

I try the same thing myself and manage to lift my bike only a fraction of an inch. Ryan, of course, acts like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

“You’ll go pro, for sure.”

We turn the corner back to my street together and my dorm looms in front of us. I suggest we race to the finish, and Ryan agrees. We pedal fast, but then my gaze catches on someone sitting outside on the curb, a few yards ahead. Right in front of my building.

I slow down.

In the moonlight, I can tell the guy is tall with dark hair. I squint to make out his features, hoping—then berating myself for it.

My stomach dips right as Ryan turns back to ask, “Is that…”

“Derek.”

He has his elbows propped on his knees and his head bent down. I know it’s him even before we’re dismounting and unbuckling our helmets. He glances up and our eyes meet. A familiar tug pulls me in his direction, and it’s painful to resist. He looks sad, though I doubt anyone else would notice. It’s the subtle way his dark brows are only slightly downcast, a shallow furrow between them. His full mouth is perfectly straight, and yet I swear he’s frowning.

He’s wearing jeans and a Miami Heat t-shirt, the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His dark hair is rumpled and when he stands, my eyes follow his body. He’s just as athletic as Ryan, and though he’s taller, he carries himself with more grace and fluidity. It’s self-assurance, I think, confidence in who he is and what he wants.

In his hands, there’s a hardback book. He sees me notice it and then tucks it under his arm.

I yank off my helmet, attempting to control the insane mess of waves that were stuffed underneath. No doubt, it’s hopeless. I give up and let them fly.

Ryan’s the first one to speak. He’s the only one of us currently capable of speech, I think.

“Derek, hey.” He sounds out of breath. We both are. “What’s up?”

Derek glances over at him and his scowl deepens. “What happened to you? Are you bleeding?”

Oh right, the golf ball.

“If you can believe it, I got a golf ball straight to the face courtesy of an eight-year-old. Don’t worry though, Whit here took good care of me.”

Ryan laughs and looks at me like we’re sharing a private joke. I guess we are.

“We were playing mini golf,” I explain, sounding guilty.

There’s no protocol for this situation. No one knows who to defer to. Ryan glances between me and Derek. Derek studies the building across the street. I keep my focus pinned to the ground.

“Well…” Ryan says, finally. “Looks like you guys need to talk. I’ll call you later, Whit, yeah?” He turns and kisses my cheek, catching the edge of my mouth.

I watch Derek, trying to decipher if I’ve wounded him. The idea is ludicrous. I’m projecting what I want to see, not what’s actually there, visible in his dark brown eyes. Those eyes might compel me to spill the truth, but they do the exact opposite for Derek. A well of dark brown so deep I get lost searching for answers. I don’t even think to acknowledge Ryan until he’s wheeling the bikes away, yards down the sidewalk from where I stand.

I throw a half-hearted goodbye in his direction, disappointed in myself. I had fun with him tonight. He deserves better.

“I thought you said you and Ryan were just friends?” Derek asks once I turn back around to face him.

I shrug. “We are.”

“So that wasn’t a date?”

“It was mini golf. Call it what you want.”

Suddenly, I’m mad at Derek for being here, for ruining a perfectly good evening. I’ve suffered through his sour moods all week at work and now he’s here, after hours, reminding me of what will inevitably await me come Monday.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I ask, sounding accusatory.

My arms are crossed over my chest. I try to stand an inch taller.

“I want to talk.”

“Then talk,” I shoot back.

In an instant, I become aware of where we are. Out here, voices carry. I’m sure students inside the dorms can hear us. I would tell him we should save this for another time, but I want to hear what he has to say. It’s clearly important or he wouldn’t have been out on the curb, waiting for me.

I sigh and nod my head toward the back door of the dorm. It’s co-ed, and there aren’t real parameters around who is allowed in as long as they sign in at the front desk. Still, I bypass that step and sneak him up the back stairwell, toward my room at the end of the hall. It feels better once we’re inside, safer now that we’re away from curious eyes.

I wish we were somewhere else, though. I never intended on ever bringing Derek into my dorm. It’s my personal space and he’s invading it. After setting his book down on my small dresser, he takes in my makeshift kitchen and desk. My twin bed has a simple white duvet and two pillows. Nothing else will fit. My books (some of which are his) are stacked beside my bed. I want to run over there and swipe the stack so it crumbles to the ground, preventing him from reading the spines, but it’s too late. I pray he doesn’t remember he ever lent them to me in the first place.

He’s taking it all in, looking, examining, prying. He keeps his hands to himself, but he turns a slow circle in the room, curious about every single detail. I’m a specimen and he’s a scientist and I recall the very first time we ever met, when he was sitting across the table from me in the coffee shop, examining me with amusement.

I have a feeling he’s doing the same thing now.

I explode.

“We’re here now, so talk.”

I immediately regret snapping at him and I nearly apologize, but he does first.

He turns to look at me over his shoulder, brown eyes awakening a swarm of butterflies inside me. “I’m sorry for how I handled things eight years ago,” he says, like it’s a matter of fact.

“What?”

I stand perfectly still, trying to figure out if I’ve heard him right. Maybe I got hit in the head with a golf ball too.

He turns fully toward me and continues, “You’re upset with me because of how I left things back then, so here I am, apologizing.”

It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t seem all that sorry. In fact, his tone is borderline angry. His posture is too proud for someone offering amends.

I tilt my head as I think it over.

“So if you could go back, you’d handle things differently?” I test, wanting clarification for my eighteen-year-old-self.

His expression stays neutral. Nearly bored. “I didn’t say that.”

I prop my hands on my hips. “So then you’re not apologizing at all.”

He almost smiles. “I guess not.”

Geez! The arrogance!

He shrugs. “I can’t apologize for not pursuing you back then. In my eyes, you were still a kid.”

“Kid or not, I still had feelings. In fact, I can still feel the sting of rejection when I got that generic form email informing me you would no longer be my mentor.”

His eyes narrow. “You seem to think I wronged you back then, but let me be clear. Your email was charming and sweet. However, you sent it on the company email server.” It takes every ounce of strength I have not to cringe. I hadn’t even considered that fact. “Besides that glaring misstep, there was the obvious age gap between us. What did you want from me? A relationship? You were barely out of high school. I’d already finished my graduate degree and had one focus: work. For the last eight years, I’ve barely taken the time to glance up, but now, I’m looking, Whitney. I see you. You want me to grovel and beg for forgiveness over what I did back then?” He takes a step toward me. “I’d rather talk about the way I feel for you right now.”

I hold my ground as he approaches, my chin tipping up in defiance. “That’s all well and good, but like I told you last week, I’m still the same girl. If you didn’t want me then, why should I care that you suddenly want me now?”

I can practically hear a chorus of women cheering me on in my head. Yes! Go girl! Louder for the people in the back!

His attention falls to my mouth. My lips part on an inhalation. “In spite of what you think, you have changed. You’ve grown up. This conversation proves it.”

His hand curves around my waist. When it reaches the base of my spine, he tugs me toward him. I practically stumble. My hands hit his chest and he doesn’t budge, as sturdy as a brick wall.

His other hand reaches up to cradle my chin and then he bends low, tipping my head just enough so our lips can make contact.

Except they don’t. Derek stays there, frozen. My heart is in my throat. I’m breathing so hard, I sound like a crazed animal, pinned underneath a predator. It’s not a kiss at all, but my body is reacting like it is. I sag against him, breathing in his scent: the spiced confidence of a man I’ve wanted since I knew what it meant to want. I’ve imagined this moment for so long. It’s heady. I’m screaming out for a kiss in ways that don’t require words: my fingers dig into his shirt, my hips brush against his. I know he can feel it, and yet he doesn’t give in.

Finally, he speaks, and his lips barely graze mine as they move.

“I have a theory.”

The noise of anger I make is involuntary. Primal.

It makes his full lips curve into a cunning smile. He straightens and steps away. His contact with me ends so suddenly, I sway toward him. It’s as if he’s my spine now. Without him, I’ll collapse.

“I don’t think your feelings for me are purely past tense. I think you might be as crazy about me now as you were back then.”

I chew on my anger, taking my lip into my mouth.

How dare he?

HOW DARE HE!?

“You’re wrong.”

I fling the words at him angrily, but his eyes peel away my layers of pretense. I resist the urge to squirm, to cover myself as if I’m somehow bared.

“Am I?” he taunts.

It’s infuriating to realize I have no shield against him, no way to convince him I’m not an open book. I’m a diary, locked and hidden away. Or rather, I wish I were…

I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. No. Instead, I walk to my door, fling it open, and gesture that he can kindly leave.

“Now.”

His eyes narrow and he doesn’t move. His gaze spars with mine. Then finally, he walks over to retrieve his book and slides right past me, pressing the hardback against my chest on his way out.

Clearly, it’s a gift.

I stand there, catching my breath and regaining my composure. All the while, I keep that book pressed to my heart until I know Derek has had enough time to leave the dorm and get back into his car. I hover there, unmoving. It’s a mind game I’m playing with myself, as if I couldn’t care less about the book. Look at me, being patient. Not even looking at it. I push myself even more, convincing myself I need a shower more than anything. I set the book on my desk and grab my bathroom caddy. I rinse off slowly in the communal showers, standing under the hot water while I berate myself for wanting Derek to kiss me.

When I can’t stand the heated water for another second, I get out and dry off. Back in my dorm, I sit on the edge of my bed in my robe, brushing out my tangled hair while I stare at the book.

It looks old. The cover is a midnight blue that’s faded to a dull navy. It’s impossible to read the debossed script on the spine from across the room, though I think it’s inlaid with gold leaf.

Finally, with an impatient huff, I toss my hairbrush on my bed and stand, walking over to angle the book toward me. I trace the letters with my finger then immediately rear back once I realize what I’m touching.

It’s a first edition copy of The Enchantress, the 18th century French fairytale Cal says inspired him to develop Fairytale Kingdom.

On the worn title page, in black ink, someone has carefully written, You remind me of her.

Chapter Eleven

Derek

I nearly forgot myself and kissed Whitney last night. It wasn’t part of my plan when I decided to wait for her outside her dorm. I wanted to talk, give her the book. She’s the one who invited me into her dorm. She’s the one who pulled me into her private sanctuary with her fluffy white bed. I saw it and imagined laying her down on those sheets, peeling her clothes off, unveiling perfectly bare skin. I would have taken my time trailing my hand along her stomach, navel, and then, lower.

I don’t have to wonder if she went to bed thinking of me last night. I know she did.

The only reason I didn’t kiss her is because she smelled like Ryan’s cologne. It reminded me of where she’d been earlier that evening: on a date.

Maybe he’s good for her. He seems harmless. I’m sure they had a pleasant evening, but I’m not the type to defer. Growing up with privilege didn’t make me lazy. The exact opposite, in fact. I’ve always had to work twice as hard to prove I deserve to be where I am, and that struggle means I don’t truly value things that come easy. I like a proper fight. If Ryan wants to throw his hat into the ring, let him.

The next morning, I’m in the shower, thinking of her, stroking myself with one hand while I keep the other one propped against the wall. A warm stream washes over me as last night’s scene plays out with an entirely different ending. Her full lips were stained red. Her breath smelled sweet. I wanted to lick up every last drop of her.

These sessions in my shower are the only way I’ve survived the last two weeks. Like a horny eighteen-year-old, I can’t seem to last a full day without giving in to the urge to touch myself while fantasizing of her.

It’s only getting worse.

I’ve had relationships before and I know what real desire feels like, but this visceral reaction I have toward Whitney is more than that. It draws from a chasm so deep and so wide, it scares me.

I finish and rinse myself off, grabbing my towel and wrapping it low around my waist. I pad out into my kitchen to fix myself breakfast and check my email.

I have a new message from Whitney that was sent last night.

*

From: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

To: DerekKnightley@Knightley.com

Subject: Gift

I can’t accept this book. I’ll leave it with Heather.

*

From: DerekKnightley@Knightley.com

To: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

Subject: RE: Gift

I already wrote inside of it. It’s yours. Keep it.

*

I could have easily put a note inside the book instead of tarnishing the title page, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t accept it willingly. I hope she doesn’t look up its value; she’ll get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to buy her affection. It was simply a gift. Besides, who would appreciate that book more than Whitney? It’s meant to be hers.

She must be awake early too because I get a response just after my coffee is finished percolating.

*

From: WhitneyAtwood@Knightley.com

To: DerekKnightley@Knightley.com

Subject: RE: RE: Gift

I still don’t think I can accept it.

*

I hate the forced formality. Emailing on the company server isn’t exactly the best method of communication if I intend on pursuing her. I want to ask for her number, text her to suggest we spend the day together. Doing what? Who fucking cares. I’ll take her back to that mini golf course if that’s what she wants. I’ll find that same dessert that stained her lips red and turned her mouth sugary sweet and buy her half a dozen of them.

Instead, I close my laptop and get ready for the day.

It was easy to get settled in my new top-floor apartment. It came fully furnished, and I had my clothes shipped from London. Heather had them unpacked and hanging in my closet before I’d even arrived in town.

The apartment has every amenity I could need, more space than a family of five could occupy, and enough silence to drive someone mad. I only notice it occasionally. Usually, I’m only here long enough to shower and sleep. I’ve been running myself ragged over the last two weeks.

Taking on an In Character position in the park doesn’t mean I get to walk away from my other duties. Instead, I have to manage my time down to the minute and give up a few precious hours of sleep every night. Cal has already begun training me to take over as the Director of Operations.

He’s expecting me at the park early this morning. We have a new ride opening next year and the construction crews have been hard at work. Today we have a progress walkthrough of the site with the head contractor and engineer.

Last night—before I waited for Whitney outside her dorm—we had a dinner meeting with a hospitality group based in Beijing. They’re in town to discuss negotiations for a franchise opportunity. In short, they want to purchase the rights to the Fairytale Kingdom brand so they can build an independent, copycat park in China. The number they threw across the table last night was enough to give Cal pause, but when I meet him this morning, he shakes his head, bypasses a greeting, and says simply, “I won’t accept their offer.”

Of course he won’t.

He’s fiercely protective of his brand. The only way our sister park in London came to be is because I personally oversaw its creation.

“I’ll email legal.”

He nods and that’s that.

The rest of the day is an outright sprint. We barely stop for lunch, and even that’s work as we sample the new fall tasting menu at València.

At 8 PM, when I make it back to my apartment, I’m dog tired. I kick off my shoes and walk straight to the fridge for a beer. It doesn’t surprise me that my father walked away from the business at my age, cashing out his shares of the company and leaving this world behind. If you get into this line of work expecting it to be a job, you’ll crumble.

It’s a way of life. A passion. Your creative values either align with Cal’s or they don’t.

Whitney accused me of lacking passion at Cal’s dinner party. I find that pretty funny considering ex-girlfriends have accused me of being too passionate. Not about them—about the Knightley Company.

I’d resigned myself to a life in which I was married to the company, just like Cal. Sure, spouses and lovers might come and go like the tide, but my real love would be always be my work.

Now, as I think of Whitney, I wonder for the first time in a long time if I might be wrong about that.

Chapter Twelve

Whitney

I think I need to sage my dorm room. This is embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never brought a guy back here. It’s not that I’m a never-been-kissed virgin. Far from it. I’ve had a whopping two sexual partners. The first was a year after Derek moved away to London.

Carrie and I went to a party at a friend of a friend’s apartment. It wasn’t exactly a stereotypical college rager. There were wine coolers and people playing Scrabble. Still, I met a boy.

Winston, so named for Winston Churchill, was cute with jet black hair and pale blue eyes. Originally from England, he seemed like the least threatening person I’d ever met. We got to chatting in a corner and, probably owing to his baby-bird-like demeanor and the one and a half Smirnoff Ices I’d consumed, I felt comfortable enough to admit to him that I’d never had sex before.

He hadn’t either.

Our eyes lit up with possibilities.

“Do you—”

“We could—”

The endings to our sentences weren’t necessary. He took my half-finished drink, set it down, and led me to his dorm room. That night was sweet and awkward. A lot of “Are you sure?” and “Is that the right spot?” mixed with “I don’t think we’re doing it right.”

Needless to say, I left having yet to experience an orgasm but with the confidence of a non-virgin sexpot.

I hung my sexual experience over Carrie’s head as any good friend should, saying cliché things like “Once you have sex, you’ll understand” so many times that she eventually tried to smother me with a pillow.

My second sexual partner was a guy I was actually dating at the time. It was a few years after Winston. I was more than ready to tackle sex for a second time.

Grant was very good-looking and a few years older. He was an associate in the engineering department and Carrie had tried to warn me away from him. According to her, he was unhealthily obsessed with his own reflection. He played acoustic guitar and described himself as an up-and-coming singer-songwriter, and that’s exactly what he was in the bedroom—up-and-coming. A real one-hit wonder with a two-minute single titled “She’s Not Satisfied”.

I gave him a second date, on the off chance he’d had performance anxiety. He insisted on playing his guitar for me before we got down to business. I sat on one side of the couch, he sat on the other, eyes shut, crooning in high falsetto. I was unsure of what to do with my hands after he politely asked me to stop snapping along.

We didn’t make it back to the bedroom. I lied about a family emergency and got the hell out of his apartment.

He still works here. We rarely cross paths, but when we do, he always asks how my grandma’s doing.

Needless to say, my sexual history is sparse and therefore my brain has latched onto the small exchange I had with Derek in my dorm room the other day and run with it.

It wasn’t even a kiss—his lips barely touched mine—and yet I dream about him that night and the next. On Monday, I wake up warm. Tingling. Turned on.

I kick off my covers and stand. Angry.

I refuse to do anything about my current state. I will not have a self-induced orgasm while thinking about Derek. Those brown eyes of his would know what I’d done. He’d smile smugly and ask me about my morning, making me blush and relive every wave of pleasure generated just from his hint of a kiss.

No.

I decide to exert this pent-up energy in other, more healthy ways.

I do five jumping jacks. Then I start to do ten push-ups, wimp out after three, and collapse onto my rug.

My eyes find the novel Derek gifted me in its spot underneath my bed. I hid it. I thought it was safe down there, out of sight. Turns out, I was wrong.

I want to give the damn thing back. How dare he give me such a thoughtful and priceless gift? What am I supposed to do with it? Even now, it’s wrapped in a Ziploc bag. If I look up its worth, I’ll likely faint. I won’t let myself. I reach out and push it a little farther under my bed.

For my shift later that day, I decide to show up exactly one minute before the meet-and-greet starts. Julie is in panic mode outside my dressing room door. “We have to go! We’ll be late! I’ll get fired!” I think I hear her hyperventilating but her worry is for naught. I’ve worked in this position long enough to know it takes me exactly ten minutes to walk at a normal-fast pace from my dressing room to my mark in front of the hearth. So, I give her eleven minutes.

She glares at me angrily during our walk. There’s sweat collected above her lip.

Derek is already standing in his position, patiently waiting for me to walk up and join him. He greets Julie with a polite nod and doesn’t hide his interest in me as I readjust my dress sleeves. Fix my hair. Clear my throat. Pretend to acknowledge and wave to someone across the room. Anything to keep myself busy.

“Whitney,” Derek says in greeting.

He does nothing but speak my name in his deep voice and immediately I recall the fantasy I woke up to this morning—the hot, anxious need I tried to quell with jumping jacks.

“Derek,” I respond, abrupt and formal.

“How was the rest of your weekend?”

“Uneventful.”

Carrie and I rode a shuttle to the grocery store for provisions. At checkout, she eyed my cart full of one-off items: spaghetti noodles, but no sauce; ice cream cones, but no ice cream; one lone onion. Though her brows rose with interest, she kept her lips zipped.

“And yours? Did you gift any other priceless artifacts?”

He smirks. “Just the one.”

“I really can’t accept it.”

“Yes you can. I gave it to you. It’s yours now.”

His earnest tone convinces me to give in to the urge to glance up at him.

“You’re insane. You know that? For writing in that book.”

He doesn’t seem to mind my accusation. He wears the label with pride. “So you don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

“And my theory? Have you put some thought into it?”

Children are lining up. Soon, we’ll be too busy for private conversations.

“Theory?”

It’s like I’ve never heard the word in my life. Could you use it in a sentence?

He smirks, seeing through my thin facade so easily my irritation spikes.

“No,” I reply hastily. “No time for theories, I’m afraid.”

“Did you see Ryan again?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“I’m just curious if this blush you’re sporting is for him or for me.”

I narrow my eyes on him, grinding my teeth. I meant every word I said in my dorm room. He doesn’t get to reappear in my life and suddenly decide he wants me. Where’s the poetic justice in that? My heart broke eight years ago, and whether or not he had valid reasons for leaving me high and dry—I know they were valid; I’m not so illogical that I can’t see his point of view—a part me feels like I cannot, will not ever be able to surrender and give him what he wants.

Besides, he still hasn’t made it clear what he wants. A date? A kiss? Or is it only curiosity that has him interested? Maybe he wants nothing more than for me to admit I still have feelings for him so he can say, Aha! I knew it! Case closed.

My heart couldn’t bear it. The way he spoke so flippantly about his ex-girlfriend only proves my point. If I ever found out he described me that way, I’d never recover.

When he next speaks, it’s like he’s been listening to my thoughts.

“Let me take you out to dinner.” There’s a shallow pause. “A date,” he clarifies in a velvety smooth voice.

“No!” I say too quickly. It comes out in a near screech. The reply is a knee-jerk response surfacing from deep within my psyche. The same part of my brain that warns me not to touch hot stoves warns me not to accept this date.

I flinch, realizing my mistake. My overreaction is sort of evidence in itself. I try to soften my response with justifications. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not fair to you, really. Theory aside, I think I might have feelings for Ryan. And there’s also a guy who works in the fudge shop across the street. I don’t know him well, but…”

My sentence dwindles as I realize how little sense I’m making.

I glance up, expecting to see signs of rejection, but he looks amused, and then, THANK GOD, the wave of children finally descends upon us, demanding our full attention.

I thought the shifts I worked with Derek last week were endless and misery-inducing, but somehow, this is worse.

His theory is a big fat cloud sitting over our heads. I can’t even look at him, especially after a guy tries to get handsy with me and Derek intervenes. Ryan wouldn’t have even noticed. In the ten months I worked with Ryan, I had countless men act inappropriately toward me while I was in costume as Princess Elena. Nothing scary, just sly comments and not-so-sly innuendos, a few phone numbers hastily written on scratch paper and shoved into my hand, but apparently that sort of thing won’t fly with Derek by my side. When a young man—slightly inebriated and very cocky—demands I take a picture with him and then lingers by my side, arm around my waist, Derek forcibly removes him.

“Aw c’mon, I was just asking her out! Look at her, man!”

I don’t hear what Derek says to him, but the guy’s face pales and he holds his hands up in innocence before walking away. Apparently, his interest in me wasn’t worth incurring Derek’s wrath.

When Derek walks back to take his place beside me, straightening his jacket, I offer him a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He nods, and that’s that. He might as well have said, I’m just doing my job.

After our shift, Derek surprises me by staying back. Most of the time, he’s the first to leave. Heather is always hovering nearby with her phone pressed to her ear and her clipboard in hand, ready to immediately jump into park business. Today, however, he holds his finger up to her and turns to me.

“Forgive me for overstepping earlier. It was inappropriate to ask you to dinner while we were at work.”

His tone is more formal than I’ve ever heard it, steel where before it was velvet.

I open my mouth, grasping for a response, but I’m left shaking my head.

I want to tell him it’s okay. I didn’t take offense in the least, but he’s already turning to join Heather, too busy to wait around for me to get my head on straight.

Later, I wonder if he assumed I’d lumped him in with that drunk guy. I didn’t. Not in the least. Even if I have no plans of giving in to his flirtatious advances, I still want Derek’s attention. It’s an ego boost to the teenager left inside me.

At lunch, Carrie sits across from me, showing me some of the sketches and fabric samples for the holiday parade costumes. We have our first rehearsal on Friday and the parades start up in a few weeks. She’s worried she won’t be able to get everything done in time.

While we talk, a shadow falls over us and my gut clenches. I assume it’s Derek. I grab my fork. Then, realizing I don’t need a weapon where he’s concerned, just a rock-solid set of armor, I release the fork and glance up to find Thomas there instead.

I sag in my seat.

Carrie lights up like Times Square.

“Hi Thomas.”

“Hey, I’m glad I caught you. I know we’re supposed to meet at 3:00 to go over costuming, but is there any chance we could talk now? I have a meeting at 2:30 that might run long.”

“Of course.” She nods enthusiastically, brushing her half-finished lunch out of the way like she’s not sure why it was there in the first place. Most of it spills onto my tray. Uh, thanks. Her apple rolls onto the ground with a thud, but she doesn’t care. “I was actually just going over designs with Whitney, anyway.”

As a manager in the Entertainment Department, Thomas is in charge of producing the holiday parade. As it happens, Carrie is helming the costume crew this year. They’ll have to work together closely, and by the sounds of it, neither one of them minds in the least.

Her gaze finds mine, widens with a silent plea, and already I’m collecting my things.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No. Not in the least.”

I get up and move to a table filled with a few of the girls from my dorm. Their joy at having me join them for lunch makes me feel good, like maybe, even with everything going on, I’m still doing a good job as their residence hall coordinator. Then, after my butt barely makes contact with my seat, they all lean in, tones hushed, and demand information about Derek.

“We know you’re working with him now!”

Apparently, word has spread.

“Is he as good-looking as everyone says?”

I don’t answer that.

“Are you guys going to have to kiss in the holiday parade or is that just a rumor?”

Dear God, I hope not.

I leave the table without a word and decide lunch is overrated. My time would be better spent locked inside my dressing room, hiding from my problems.

*

Wednesday night at Cal’s should be a nice reprieve. I walk in, toss my bag on the floor beside the door, and go searching for Ava.

She’s in the kitchen, finishing up dinner. I walk up to her and rest my head on her shoulder.

She laughs. “Long day?”

“Longest.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not in the least.”

She kisses the top of my head and assures me, “I’ll make your favorite dessert.”

Unfortunately, Cal doesn’t get the memo to go easy on me.

“I’m considering bumping Thomas up to Head of Entertainment when Pam retires,” he announces while we eat.

Makes sense. He’s too qualified for his current role anyway, and his end goal was always to run the department.

“That’ll leave his current position open,” Cal continues.

I understand where he’s headed because we’ve gone down this road before. Many times.

“Could you pass the salt?”

He ignores me.

“I think you’re more than qualified to take his position.” I push food around my plate. “And you’re going to have to consider the possibility of leaving your current post one day. Why not now?”

“I like my job.”

“What’s your long-term plan?”

I sigh. “Can’t we just eat dinner?”

It’s times like this that our roles as mentor/mentee blend into father/daughter. It’s like I’ve forgotten he’s Charles Knightley. Right now, he’s just Cal, pushing me out of my comfort zone.

I don’t like it.

I want Ava and her warm apple-pie-baking hugs.

I can sense he’s not going to drop the subject until I give him an answer.

With a sigh, I say, “I guess I’ll work where I am until it no longer makes sense, and then I’ll decide what to do then. Hey, maybe I’ll just go back to selling balloons on Castle Drive.”

He studies me, quiet. His astute ability to cut through my layers reminds me of Derek. Then he nods, “All right. If that’s what will make you happy.”

I think about that word through the rest of dinner. I haven’t really been happy for the last few weeks. I’ve been living on the edge of my seat. Waiting. If I have any hope of regaining some semblance of happiness, I need to take control of this situation with Derek, steer it in a direction I’m comfortable with. So, just before I leave, I ask Cal for Derek’s new address. If he’s curious about why I need it, he doesn’t let on.

I head straight to the exec apartment complex after leaving Cal’s.

Inside, I head for the bank of elevators just past the lobby, but I’m stopped by a woman behind the reception desk. Her hair is pulled up into a severe bun. Her suit is jet black. Her nails are trimmed and neat.

Apparently, all residents have to show an ID for security purposes. I have my work badge, but it doesn’t suffice.

“Who are you here to see? I’ll call.”

“Oh, um…Derek Knightley.”

Her skeptical glare doesn’t go unnoticed. She likely thinks I’m some kind of groupie here to invade his privacy. Still, she places the call while staring at me down the bridge of her nose.

“Yes, Mr. Knightley, sorry to disturb you. There’s a Whitney Atwood here to see you. Should I send her up or…?”

Send her packing.

The pause that follows seems infinite, then she nods and says, “Right, thank you, sir. She’s on her way.”

The elevator ride is quicker than I would have liked. I’m already at his door, about to knock when I take a moment to glance down. Ah yes, my appearance. I’m wearing a thin cream sweater dress and flats. My hair is still pinned up from my shift at the park, though a healthy amount has escaped. I wished I’d thought to glance in a mirror before leaving Cal’s because if there’s food stuck in my teeth, it’s too late to fix it now. The door swings open before my fist makes contact.

Thomas grins down at me. “Whitney! I didn’t realize you’d be joining us for poker night.”

I can feel the color drain from my face as he ushers me into Derek’s foyer then farther into the dining room. Inside the luxurious space, three guys sit around a large circular table, cards in their hands, dark liquor held in thick crystal glasses. Poker chips in towering stacks mark each man’s place at the table. Directly across from where I stand, Derek sits wearing a crisp white button-down, his tan chest barely visible at the collar where he’s undone two buttons. His brown hair is slightly tousled. He assesses me with cool intrigue.

“Sorry to show up here unannounced,” I say, feeling more foolish than ever. “I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting.”

One of Derek’s friends, a man I recognize but have never met, grins lazily then lifts his glass in salute. “You can show up at my apartment unannounced any time you like.”

Derek stays silent, surveying me with warm brown eyes.

“Cal gave me your address,” I explain, biting my tongue before I add, Blame him!

Thomas walks back to the table and tugs out a chair. “Join us?”

The invitation is barely uttered before Derek stands and rounds the table toward me.

“I’m assuming you’d like a word?” he asks, finally speaking as he walks over and blocks my view of the table.

One of them groans. “Aw c’mon! Can’t we all hear what she has to say? If you leave, we’re just going to get up and listen at the door anyway.”

They all laugh, but Derek turns me around and guides me down a hallway with a hand wrapped around my bicep. We step into a room. He closes the door behind us and stands there, waiting for me to say something.

I would, but my attention is focused elsewhere. Namely, the king-sized bed looming beside us.

“Is this your bedroom?” I nearly gulp.

“I didn’t think you’d want to speak in front of the guys.”

Sure, but he could have just shoved me into a hall closet. This is so much better. Access to his bedroom is like being given free rein of his private life. Sort of. The room is sparse. Don’t get me wrong, the furniture and bedding look like the very best money can buy. I want to rub my face on those sheets and feel how much mine are so desperately lacking. There’s art on the walls, but it’s the kind you’d find in a hotel: abstract sailboats, vague landscapes. No personal items catch my eye except for the paperback on the side table and a glass of water that was probably left there the night before.

“You look like you’re disappointed,” he says.

I shrug. “I was kind of hoping for more personal affects, something to blackmail you with. A teddy bear partially hidden under your pillow, that sort of thing.”

He chuckles and the sound swells inside of me, filling me with courage.

I turn, clasp my hands behind my back, and say simply, “I’m here because I’d like us to be friends.”

His brow quirks. Clearly, that’s not what he thought I came here to say.

“We’ve had a tumultuous few weeks. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it has. I think about you a lot—” There’s a shift in his gaze, a familiar yearning that makes my gut clench. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I clear my throat. “Our predicament, I mean. I think about our predicament a lot. In any other circumstance, I’d say it’d be best to give each other space, but we can’t do that. In fact, we’re only going to be spending more time together come Friday when rehearsals start, so it seems like we might as well make the best of the situation.”

“So you want to be friends?”

“Yes, and I want you to forgive me for the way I’ve behaved these last few weeks. In return, I promise to forgive you for everything that happened eight years ago.”

“A clean slate.”

I smile. “Exactly.”

He nods and his gaze flits down my body, just for a moment, before he glances out the window. “You’re right. We’ll be around each other a lot over the next few weeks…”

I tip my head, trying to meet his eyes. I get the sense that he might not accept my offer, so I amend my terms. “Maybe being friends is too much? How about just acquaintances? If I pass you in the hall, I promise to wave. How about that?”

When his gaze snaps back to me, my heart thump-thumps in my chest.

“On one condition.”

Chapter Thirteen

Derek

Her gaze widens in fear of what my condition will be. I can’t resist a smirk. She’s so easy to ruffle, at times I can’t help myself. Like a fox toying with a hare, here I am, blocking her way out of my bedroom in an effort to draw a morsel of truth out of her. I’m aware it’s bad form. Modern society is frowning down on me and yet, here I stand, a caveman with a wounded ego.

I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Whitney came to my apartment. She’s standing in my bedroom. This conversation could have waited until the morning. She could have scheduled a meeting with Heather so we could discuss this during business hours in an office with a sturdy desk separating us, ensuring we keep our hands to ourselves.

“What’s your condition?” she asks, voice breathy.

My condition is simple: I want to know if she still has feelings for me.

The question is poised on my tongue before I catch myself.

What does it matter if she still has feelings for me? Feelings mean nothing if she doesn’t plan to act on them.

I reroute.

“I want you to hold up your end of the bargain. I really want that clean slate you promised.”

I step forward and hold out my hand. She smiles and tips her head as we shake on it. She thinks she’s getting off easy. I have no doubt she was imagining something much more torrid.

“Derek Knightley, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a twinkle in her eyes. It’s sweet.

The fact that I don’t kiss her senseless in that moment is something I should be extremely proud of.

When we reemerge in the living room a moment later, I see the guys have taken it upon themselves to rearrange the poker table. There’s a fifth chair pulled up between Nick and Allen. No doubt they’ve also skimmed a few chips off my stacks and looked at my hand.

“Whitney, c’mon,” Nick says. “We’ll teach you how to play.”

Without pausing, I reach for her shoulders and direct her toward the door.

“Sorry, Whitney has to go.”

She laughs at me over her shoulder. “What? Can’t I stay and play?”

“Not tonight.”

“Come on, man! Fair is fair,” Allen groans. “You two were only back there for five minutes. Looks like Whitney here made her choice and it ain’t you.”

“That’s right. Whitney, come take a seat and I’ll show you the ropes. I’m Nick, Derek’s much cooler friend. Just ask him—he’ll tell you I kicked his ass in the last three rounds.”

I flip them the bird and they all laugh.

“Nick’s full of shit,” Allen argues. “I’m a much better teacher.”

“I have always wanted to learn,” Whitney calls back to them as I steer her into the foyer.

If she thinks I’m going to sit around while my friends throw their hats in the ring for her attention, she’s wrong. I’m not a masochist.

“Cal tried to teach me a few years back,” she says with a smirk.

This only spurs them on.

“Whitney’s going home now,” I insist. “Say goodbye.”

“Goodbye Whitney!” Thomas and Nick call out in unison.

“Bye Whitney!” Allen singsongs.

“Colorful crew you have there,” she teases.

“Why do you think I’m accepting your offer of friendship? I plan on ditching them after tonight.”

I unlock the door and hold it open for her.

She grins. “They seem nice enough. I actually know Thomas from work. You know, while he’s here, you should pick his brain about Carrie.”

“What about her? He’s in love with her, if that’s what you mean.”

Her jaw drops.

I nod like it’s old news.

“Why hasn’t he done anything about it?!”

I arch a brow. Yes, why hasn’t he done anything about it, Whitney?

She closes her mouth and rocks back on her heels, nodding in silent understanding.

I shrug. “If it’s meant to be, they’ll figure it out eventually.”

Her jade eyes lock with mine. Vulnerable and gentle, they confirm what I already know.

*

“How are you and Whitney getting on?” Cal asks me the next day, over lunch.

“Splendidly. Best buds now, in fact.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh yeah. Thick as thieves.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Do I?”

He hums and decides it’s best to change topics. “I’ve had feedback from the board.”

I lean back in my chair, schooling to my features into cool indifference.

“Barry tells me even your staunchest critics are impressed with the role you’ve taken on. I know you think this is all a waste of time, but it is working. The board sees you getting down on the same level as your employees, earning their respect. It shows a level of integrity and care. In a few weeks, when I inform them of my plan to promote you, I know the vote will be unanimous. This work isn’t in vain. Remember that.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing any of this for them.”

To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I’m doing it anymore. I tell myself it’s for the betterment of the company, an invaluable experience I’ll carry with me as I take the reins from Cal. But, if I’m honest, I might also be stepping into that costume every day just so I can spend time with Whitney.

I don’t delve deeper into that thought.

Friday afternoon, there’s an hour between the end of my shift as His Royal Highness and the start of parade rehearsals. After the last family leaves the great hall, I start to leave, planning to head to my office, then Whitney calls out to me.

“Do you have to work before rehearsals?”

I pause. Curious.

Her smile is self-conscious. She nibbles on her lip. “Because if not, we could go get a bite to eat?”

I hesitate before replying. I should hunker down somewhere with my laptop and take a pickaxe to the mountain of unread emails in my inbox, but there’s no way I’ll turn her down.

“As friends,” she clarifies, as if that’s my issue. Then she walks toward me and pokes me in the stomach. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Starved.”

“All right, c’mon. I know a place.”

We agree to meet in the Underground after we’ve changed out of our costumes. When I spot her again, she’s wearing leggings and a Nike crop top, blue sneakers and a high ponytail.

The sporty look fills my head with new fantasies, as if I wasn’t already at max capacity.

She’s talking to a guy, someone I don’t recognize. He’s wearing the uniform employees wear if they work inside Elena’s Village: white peasant top and breeches. No nametag. Blond Bieber hair. He’s her same height, which means I tower over the two of them as I approach.

“Yeah, so come by sometime and I’ll let you taste it,” he says, his voice drugged with longing. “Best flavor we’ve ever had.”

She grins and nods enthusiastically just before the guy glances down at his phone, curses, and complains that he has to run or he’ll be late for work.

Yes. Go.

I should brush off this exchange, but Whitney and I are friends now, right? Shouldn’t that come with perks?

“Who was that?” I ask, watching as he runs down the corridor.

“Fudge guy.”

My eyes widen with mischief. “The guy you—”

She leaps up to cover my mouth with her hand. “Yes! Don’t make a joke. I think he’s kind of cute.”

I smile against her palm.

“If I take my hand away, will you be nice?”

I shrug, saying without words that I can’t make any promises.

“Listen, okay, sometimes he lets me have free samples. It’s sweet. He was telling me about a pumpkin spice flavor they’re debuting for fall.”

My grin only widens under her palm. It’s too good.

“Ugh! Whatever. Eat dinner by yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

She removes her hand from my mouth, spins, and takes off toward the cafeteria. After only a few strides, I catch her easily, and though I try to wipe the grin off my face, it’s carved in stone.

“You know he’s technically stealing company property doling out free samples like that,” I point out, needling her.

Her eyes warn me to drop it.

“He’s kind of small, don’t you think?” I go on. “Petite for a guy.”

“You’re only pushing me further into his arms. Keep it up and maybe I’ll just find myself madly in love with him.”

“Fudge guy,” I say with a flat tone.

“The one and only.”

Her frown finally cracks into a small smile and she sidesteps into me, trying to playfully shove me away. She only succeeds in hurting her shoulder. She rolls it out and shoots me a glare.

“Do you work out a lot?”

I glance down. I’m dressed in athletic clothes too, per Thomas’ suggestion.

“I guess. Pickup soccer games. Cardio. Weights here and there. Why?”

“Just wondering. Now c’mon, let me introduce you to this little hidden gem I know of.” By now, we’re at the cafeteria, and she waves a hand across the tables toward a restaurant on the other side. “Subway—have you heard of it?”

*

Rehearsals for the holiday parade take place inside a dance studio near the parade warehouse. I’m a fish out of water as we walk into the room, mirrors reflecting off two of the four walls. There are a dozen In Character employees in workout gear, huddled in groups. Some of them stretch, some of them lean against the back mirror. All of them stare at Whitney and me as we walk in.

She waves to most of them. They seem glad to see her. The few men in the room are heavily outnumbered, which might be why we’re drawing so much attention. I don’t wait for Whitney to choose a spot, leading us straight to the back corner, away from prying eyes.

I expected Thomas to be here to offer moral support, but when the studio door opens again, a tall older woman strolls in, light on her feet. She has gray hair pulled into a bun, accented by a purple scarf. Her features are slight, her thin frame hidden under a black tunic and tights.

She walks to the center of the room and just as the door bangs closed, she claps her hands. Any stray chatter dies a swift death.

“As most of you know, these rehearsals move quickly. We’ll be in studio through next week. After that, we’ll move to the parade warehouse and practice on the floats. Three weeks from now, we have our first real parade. Raise your hand if you have any questions.”

No one does.

She nods. “Good. Though most of you are veterans, the scripts have changed this year. I’ll pass these out.” She holds up cue sheets. “Read them over. Start to rehearse. I’ll come around, give feedback, and answer questions.” She glances down, reading off the script. “Float one. Safari Island. Giraffes.”

A guy saunters up to retrieve the script for his group. It continues from there. Safari Island has the first seven floats in the parade, and those that follow will be filled with characters from the Enchanted Forest: huntsman, elves, fairies. Princess Elena’s float is the grand finale.

Whitney whispers to me as we wait for our script. “Don’t worry, last year they made my float look like a ballroom. There were lots of couples dancing on it and my old partner and I didn’t need much practice. If it’s the same this year, just spin me around and around until the fireworks go off. Easy enough.”

Just then, the rehearsal director walks over to us. She nods to me, a small reverent gesture that tells me she knows who I am but isn’t going to make a big show of it.

“Read it and let me know if you have any questions.”

Whitney glances over the script first, her eyes scanning the page quickly before they catch on something.

“Oh,” she says, holding the paper out for me to take. “They really have changed it.”

Jesus. She looks like she’s about to faint. How bad can it be? I’ve seen this parade plenty of times. Sure, the themes change every now and then, but it’s usually pretty simple stuff. I might not have danced in a studio before, but I know how to lead a partner. We’ll be fine.

Then I actually look at the paper and three words leap out at me.

A Royal Wedding.

Chapter Fourteen

Whitney

Essentially, the script reads as follows: Princess Elena and His Royal Highness pose in front of an officiant—played by an animatronic owl perched on top of a stump—while they exchange their vows. They should smile and look lovingly into each other’s eyes. As their parade float turns onto Castle Drive and dips beneath an arch of roses, His Royal Highness and Princess Elena kiss, thus sealing their vows for all the crowd to see.

Over and over again.

We will kiss.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from now until the new year, Derek and I will stand on a float, pretend to get married, and kiss.

Laughter bubbles out of me.

I have a strong urge to apologize, though none of this is my fault. I had no part in writing this script. In fact, I don’t know who did. Thomas? Nadine? Cal?

Derek finishes reading it and hands the paper back to me. He can’t meet my eyes.

“C’mon, it’s a little funny. No?”

He doesn’t laugh.

I sober up. “Right, well…you can always defer. Ryan was meant to play this part before you took over. I’m sure he’d be fine with it.”

Derek’s eyes shoot to mine and I have my answer. Over his dead body.

The rehearsal director—Lydia—strolls by us again, asking if we have any questions. Derek and I both shake our heads. “Then get started.”

Ah, right.

“What is there to rehearse exactly?” Derek asks me. “You’ve kissed someone before, I presume?”

I scowl. “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. But that’s not all we have to do. Have you ever stood at an altar? Professing your love to someone?”

“It can’t be that hard.”

“Try it.”

“We aren’t even engaged yet. Aren’t we skipping a few steps?”

I roll my eyes. He’s clearly trying to stall. “We don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to.”

He turns and reaches for my hands, holding them between us. “That’s not fair. You can’t steal the one good part of all this.”

I bite back a laugh. “C’mon, be serious.”

“You’re right.”

His face transforms, his gaze so sincere my heart skips a beat as he bends down on one knee.

“Whitney Atwood,” he says, voice steady and smooth. “Will you marry me?”

My mouth opens slightly as I quell the overwhelming urge to shout, Yes!

Lydia claps and we both jerk our attention to where she stands a few feet away. “You two have perfect chemistry. This scene should be no trouble at all.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and I resist the urge to punch him. I wish we were back at lunch, sitting in the cafeteria, munching on our sandwiches, stealing each other’s chips. It was easy then, but now my hands are in his, and his grip isn’t so suffocating that it hurts, but it’s strong all the same. I tell myself I couldn’t pull my hands away even if I wanted to, but maybe I just don’t want to.

“I’ll act as the officiant so you can get the timing right,” Lydia offers, stepping closer.

Derek stands, keeping ahold of my hands.

I can feel the room watching us. Curious.

“His Royal Highness, do you take Princess Elena to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Derek grins. “Sure.”

“And Princess Elena, la de dah, do you agree as well?”

My throat squeezes tight, so all I manage is a quick nod.

“Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Derek lets go of my hands and steps forward so his body is flush with mine. My lips part as I tip my head back. One of his hands goes around my waist, the other cradling my cheek. He leans down and moves me back ever so slightly in a dip. Our eyes lock—clashing—and he stays there. Motionless. Not kissing me. We’ve been here before and even though we’re in public, being watched, I yearn for him to seal his mouth to mine and just do it. Show me what I’m missing.

His lips slowly unfurl into a grin before he brings me back to standing and steps away, turning to Lydia. “Good?”

“Wonderful.”

“You didn’t kiss me,” I mutter as she walks away. “The script says he kisses her, not just almost kisses her. What is it with you and almost kissing me?”

“It’s my understanding that friends don’t kiss each other. Am I missing something?”

I toe the ground, annoyed at my frustration. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want to be surprised when we’re on the float in the middle of the parade and you do kiss me, and it’s so bad the audience reads the disgust on my face.”

His responding chuckle makes it clear he’s not taking the bait.

“If you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fat chance.”

He nods. “Then I guess we’ll wait.”

*

He meant what he said. At our next rehearsal in the studio, Derek’s lips never touch mine. Not that it actually matters because every other part of our bodies touch. It’s the choreographer’s fault. During the parade, we don’t just get married and then walk off the float. After our kiss, Derek is supposed to twirl me around and we dance while fireworks explode overhead. All of this means his hands are everywhere while we practice: grabbing my waist, pressed against my spine, holding my arm, tilting my chin, cradling my neck, catching me that one time I nearly fell on my butt after an overzealous spin. Rehearsing for this parade is the most intimate thing I’ve done outside of sex.

Scratch that.

It’s more intimate.

I could stand in front of a wall of paint samples at Home Depot and pinpoint the exact shade of Derek’s lips. I’ve studied them in great detail. His eyes too. I already knew they were brown, but they’re actually ringed with pale gold and filled with words that remain unspoken.

Once we transition to practicing on the floats, we’re joined by other crew members. The Costuming Department—led by Carrie—starts to dress us in pieces of our wardrobe so they can assess fit and movement. While Carrie places my veil on my head, I scowl at her. She’s unable to meet my eyes because she knows she’s been a very bad, no good friend.

I’m still slightly annoyed that she didn’t give me a warning about my nuptials with Derek. Immediately following our first rehearsal, I ran straight to her apartment to confront her. She wasn’t there, so I had to pace in the lobby, anger intensifying with every pivot. When she finally arrived, happy to see me, I pounced on her with all the accusations I’d been gathering in her absence. Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding and I thought we were friends and do you have a sketch of my dress on you by chance and never mind, that’s beside the point HOW DARE YOU.

I hiss at her now. “I still can’t believe you kept this a secret from me. You knew Derek and I were going to have to get married in the parade. You designed my wedding dress!”

“I’m sorry, okay? Like I said, I sign nondisclosure agreements about this stuff. It’s supposed to be kept under wraps.”

“That’s such a cop-out!”

As a rule, Carrie and I sign those and then immediately run to one another to share any and all secrets we’ve gathered. It’s called friendship. Look it up.

“Fine. Okay. I didn’t tell you because Thomas and I agreed it was better if you and Derek didn’t know.”

“Oh, so is Thomas your new best friend now?”

I sound like an eight-year-old on the playground. It’s either him or me! We can’t both fit on this seesaw!

“Don’t act like this is the worst thing ever,” she says, glaring like she’s got me pegged. “Your dress is going to look amazing and Derek is going to eat his heart out when he sees you in it. What’s the big deal anyway? You said yourself, you and Derek are friends. This should be fun! Now hold still so I don’t accidentally stick this comb into your scalp.”

Lovely.

My best friend is keeping secrets from me, and while karma should be smiting her, in reality, she’s having the time of her life during all of this. As the executive producer of the parade, Thomas is present for all of our rehearsals now too. He and Carrie stand together during the run-throughs and I catch their little smiles and teasing banter. Like a cranky drunk, I want to shout at them to get a room. Instead, I channel my rage into rehearsals. I’m the best damn bride anyone has ever seen. I wear that veil like it’s a superhero cape. I stare up at Derek while he leans over me and I keep my lips clamped shut, unwilling to admit that I’ll DIE if he doesn’t just kiss me already.

“It seems like you really want to ask me for something,” Derek teases, leaning over me. “Whitney, c’mon. I can’t read lips. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”

I’m gasping. Then I recover.

“I want you to let go of me so I can go get some water.”

He smirks and tugs me back to standing. His hands drop from my waist. “Now that you mention it, you do look flushed.”

“I hate you.”

As I walk toward my water bottle, he calls after me, “Not really something a bride should say to her groom on their wedding day!”

Apparently, I’m the only one feeling the sexual tension. Derek thinks this whole thing is one big laugh. Meanwhile, I’m edging toward insanity. I talk about the parade with anyone who will listen: the freshmen in the dorm, Julie, Carrie, the girl at Subway making my six-inch turkey on wheat. Okay, that was only once, but I think we can all agree that’s one sandwich artist too many.

In an effort to protect what few heartstrings I have left, I’ve taken to wearing extra layers to rehearsal. Tank top, t-shirt, sweatshirt, Nancy Drew overcoat tied at the waist—anything to keep his hands off me. But this is south Georgia we’re talking about, and even in autumn, it’s a balmy 80 degrees in the afternoons. The layers usually last only until I’m coated in a nice sheen of sweat and my vision is dotted, then I yank them off with an angry huff.

Even on the days I manage to hold out and stay overly clothed, Carrie inevitably ruins it by asking me to try on a piece of my costume. I just want to see if this very revealing bodice fits or not. Now take off your shirt. I always end up feeling entirely too underdressed in Derek’s arms. Like they’re trained for it, his hands always manage to find the inch of skin between my shirt and leggings and I shiver. He notices. Every. single. time.

At the end of rehearsals, once Thomas dismisses us, I make a mad dash for the safety of my dorm room. Derek occasionally asks me over to have dinner at his apartment or to join him at Cal’s, but I decline swiftly and sharply. It’s imperative that I put distance between us now more than ever, because—and this will be a surprise to no one—ding ding ding! Derek’s right! I want him to kiss me. Desperately! I also want a million dollars in cash! So what? Wishing and wanting don’t matter. I decided a long time ago to put the dream of being with Derek away. It’s locked in a safe. I’ve tossed away the key and burned the piece of paper with the combination on it.

*

With everything I have going on during the weeks of rehearsals, I find exactly two minutes of free time each day. I use them to scream into my pillow. Then I’m off again, running from my shifts at Elena’s Castle to Costuming, to rehearsals, to Cal’s, then back to the dorm for residence hall duties. Carrie and I each lunch while she forces me through fittings for my (I mean, Elena’s) wedding dress.

At the end of every day, I crash like I suffer from narcolepsy. Flopped on my bed with my legs dangling off, still in my clothes, I splay out on top of my comforter and am dead to the world within seconds. Then at 3 AM, I jump to my feet, worried I’m already late for work or rehearsals.

Ryan texts me often and I wonder what it would be like to have time to think about texting someone. He sends me funny memes or just simple one-liners—Hope you’re having a good day!—and though I usually don’t remember to reply until hours or, if I’m being honest, days later, he’s always really nice about it.

Part of me wonders if I’m being unfair to Ryan by stringing him along, but it’s not as if I’m giving him false hope or trying to use him to make Derek jealous. Not at all. Derek is not mine to make jealous. If I were playing the odds, I’d say it’s much more likely that at the end of all this, after Derek finishes his time playing His Royal Highness and resumes his lofty position as heir to the Knightley Company, I will end up with Ryan.

He’s the one who fits into my life. He’s the far safer bet.

I’m doing a poor job of replying to my family’s texts as well. They’ve been hounding me more than usual because of Avery’s opening night in three weeks.

Mom: You’re still planning to come up to New York, aren’t you?

Dad: We bought your plane ticket. Your sister really wants you to be here.

Mom: Here’s a photo of Avery in costume! Doesn’t she look like a star!?

Avery: Helllloooo. Why aren’t you answering my phone calls? Are you still alive? Mom and Dad said they bought you a ticket to come visit. Please come! You don’t have to see the musical—though it is really good! We can just hang out and explore the city together, just you and me. Think about it and stop ignoring my calls! Love you. XX

I don’t even have brain space for my family at the moment, so I reply to all of them at once.

Whitney: I’ll be there. Can’t wait.

The second I send off the text, I feel queasy. Why can’t I just be someone who says, No, you know what? I’d rather swallow a nail than go to New York. Life would be so much simpler that way…except that’s not really true. I do want to see Avery, but there’s no seeing Avery without seeing my parents too.

*

The night before our first parade, after we wrap up our final dress rehearsal, Thomas thanks everyone for their hard work and forces us all to gather round in a circle and put our hands in the center, like we’re a football team about to burst onto the field for the championship game. Everyone grumbles about it being silly, but they do it anyway. I can’t quite fit with everyone crowding in, so Derek reaches back and grabs me, tugging me in front of him so I’m part of the circle. His hand is around my waist, holding on to me as Thomas leads us through a “One, two, three, go team!” chant that makes absolutely no sense but makes us all laugh anyway.

I tip my head back to look up at Derek. His gaze flits to my mouth and his hand squeezes my waist. I can’t believe it’s about to happen right here of all places but then Carrie’s on me, tugging me toward her and taking a guillotine to my private moment with Derek.

“Okay, here’s the plan. We’re going to go home, take quick showers, chug energy drinks or whatever, and then meet at Lucky Star for tacos and drinks.”

“Who’s we?”

“Thomas, me, a few of the other girls from Costuming, some of the fairies, I think. Derek, you’ll come too, right?”

He turns to me, brow arched. We both joked about heading straight home and crashing as soon as rehearsals were over. We moaned with mock pleasure at the idea of a freshly made bed and fluffy pillows. Soft robes, I’d said, and his eyes had rolled back. Eight uninterrupted hours, he’d countered, causing me to nearly faint in delight.

Now, neither one of us is willing to admit how lame we actually are.

He grins, knocking into my shoulder like we’re two old pals. “C’mon. Our beds can wait. We should go out, enjoy ourselves.”

“Fine, but you’re buying me a taco. You almost dropped me during that final run-through.”

“Yeah, because you were dead on your feet like a rag doll. I was doing all the work for the both of us.”

“Not true! I’m just a much better dancer, so I was taking a break and letting you practice.”

Carrie walks away from us while we continue to argue—if you can call it arguing. It’s what we’ve been doing the last few weeks, and it’s the only way we know how to communicate: teasing, poking, pretending to be friends.

Laughable.

I am Derek’s friend the same way ball boys are friends with NBA players. Hey Lebron! Lebron! Wanna hang out after the game?

In the end, we agree to go only because the other person does. We even pinky swear on it due to my insistence.

“Do you want me to pick you up on my way?” he asks, reaching down to hand me my duffle bag. He does these little things: holding doors open, tugging my chair back for me, buying my meal when we eat together in the cafeteria even when I insist it’s not necessary. A girl could get used to this kind of treatment, so I try not to let it go to my head.

“It’s okay, Carrie and I will go together. I’m sure she’ll want to drag me back to her apartment and force me into some kind of fashionable outfit. Personally, I’d rather just keep this on.”

I’m wearing a sweatshirt and leggings. They’re black, though, so…fashion.

He tips an imaginary hat to me and starts to walk away. “All right, then I’ll just see you there.”

“Don’t forget about my taco!” I call out before Carrie loops her arm through mine and drags me away, just as I suspected.

While I’m rinsing off in her shower, she’s yanking clothes out of her closet. My options are limited: very short dress or very short skirt.

I hold up the skirt. “Where’s the part that covers my crotch?”

“It’s cropped.”

I drop it and the silky fabric falls back to her bed. “Maybe I’ll just put my other clothes back on.”

“They stink. You were sweating, I’m sure. Now just pick something so we can finish getting ready.”

“You’re quite the eager beaver tonight. This has nothing to do with Thomas joining us, does it?”

She grins. “He asked me out yesterday. We’re supposed to go to dinner on Saturday. Tonight is sort of a test run.”

My jaw drops. An unintelligible strand of syllables spills out of me. I grab her forearms, shaking her back and forth so hard I’m sure I’ve accidently dislodged her brain. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

“YES!”

“I knew he’d eventually make a move!”

She’s candy apple red now and I fling my arms around her, genuinely happy that she’s happy.

“God, I hope I don’t screw it up. I’ve liked him forever,” she says with a shaky voice.

My arms squeeze her even tighter. “You won’t. You’re amazing. The most talented designer ever and you’re really pretty”—she groans—“and there’s no use denying it now because Thomas asked you out!”

She laughs and steps back, chewing her lip. “Yeah, we’ll see how tonight goes. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. Like we’re just friends? More?”

I boop her on the nose. “Just be yourself.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks Mom.”

Then she reaches over to the stack of clothes on her bed and tosses an outfit at me. A happy medium, if you will: cool, ripped boyfriend jeans paired with a tight black long-sleeved shirt. Once I have it on, a few inches of my midriff are bared. I yank it down and she repositions it.

“It’s supposed to sit like that. Stop stretching it out.”

I don’t want to listen to her, but the scoop neck shows too much cleavage if I pull it down, so I have to just leave it be.

Carrie wears a patent leather miniskirt paired with a slouchy peasant top. Her boots could kill and I feel slightly less-than walking into the bar behind her, but then I remind myself what a stupid thought that is. She needs this moment. I want Thomas to look over at her and sweat. And he does. He’s at the bar when we walk in and the moment he spots her, he might as well drop to one knee right then and there.

He doesn’t even wait for us to come to him, scooting off his stool and heading straight for us, eyes on Carrie. I like Thomas. He and Carrie both have a shy streak that means they’ve circled around one another for years before getting to this moment. He straightens his black-framed glasses and smiles down at her. I glance between them and it’s obvious the attraction is mutual, visible like the magic dust swirling in the air between a projector and a movie theater screen.

I don’t linger. Third-wheeling is not a favorite hobby of mine. After a quick hello, they split and head to the bar so they can fall deeper in love, and I head to where our group has gathered in the back, near the dartboards. There are a dozen people from the parade clustered around tables, chatting and drinking. I’m welcomed warmly and take a seat at a table among a group of girls who work as faeries in the Enchanted Forest. Their float is just ahead of mine. When rehearsals get boring, we shout back and forth to one another, much to Thomas’ annoyance.

As I sit, I scan the other tables, looking for Derek, and my heart sinks when I realize he isn’t here yet.

“Want a drink?” one of the girls asks.

They’ve ordered a pitcher and I help myself, pouring some of the pale amber liquid into a cup just as I hear my name called from somewhere behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and spot Ryan standing a few yards away in jeans and a faded t-shirt. He looks extremely happy to see me. I stand, surprised.

When I reach him, he leans down to hug me. It’s a little awkward since I have my beer and I wasn’t exactly expecting a hug, which seems silly considering our last encounter. Of course he’d hug me. Fortunately, he laughs off my stilted movements.

“Sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t want to spill my drink. How are you? How’s the nose?” I ask, squinting to see if there’s any residual damage. I can’t believe I haven’t seen him in person since that night. I guess I really have been busy.

He sniffs as if to prove it’s still in working order. “I’m happy to report it’s good as new.” I laugh, and he nods in the direction of the group behind me. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”

My mouth forms an O and the corresponding sound follows. “Yeah. Sort of a stress reliever before the big day tomorrow. Are you with this group too?”

He nods and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “A few of the guys I work with over in the Enchanted Forest invited me.”

As if to prove his point, one of the huntsmen from the parade tries to wave him over. Ryan holds up his hand.

“How have you been lately? I texted you earlier, but I figured you were busy.”

Since I’m here now, at a bar, it appears I clearly had time to respond to his text, I just chose not to. I look like an asshole. I want to tell him I rushed straight from rehearsals to Carrie’s to this bar. I haven’t even glanced at my phone since lunch, but that’s a lame excuse.

Instead, I apologize. “Sorry. I suck. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you dumped me as a friend. I think I might belong in another century, back when carrier pigeons were the quickest method of communication. I feel like that might be the exact speed at which I can carry on a conversation successfully.”

He laughs. “Noted. Next time I want to talk to you, I’ll need to capture and train a pigeon first.” I laugh and he shrugs, continuing, “It’s really kind of my fault for pestering you in the first place. I think another guy might take a hint, but I don’t know. I guess I don’t feel like giving up just yet.”

I frown, unsure of what to say. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and it’s not like I need space—I want him to continue texting me. Right? Though if that were the case I’d probably answer him every now and then.

Oh god.

Truthfully, I’m a mess, and realizing this while carrying on a conversation with someone isn’t exactly ideal.

I move my mouth to speak but no sounds come out. I’m only making this more and more awkward.

Ryan shakes his head. “Forget I said that, all right? I’m going to go grab a beer and I’ll be right back. Stay put, okay?”

Once he’s gone, I sip my beer and pull a face at how disgusting it is, barely managing to swallow it without doing a spit take all over myself. I usually like beer, but this stuff tastes like actual urine.

I set it back down, glance at the door, and watch as it opens and a couple walks in arm in arm. It swings shut behind them and my shoulders sag.

I forget how bad the beer is, take another sip, and cringe.

Whitney, c’mon!

I shove it away and look back at the door as it swings open a second time.

Two more non-Dereks walk in and I hate them for the fact that they aren’t him. Who invited them anyway?

I should have asked Ryan to get me a better drink because I could use one right now. If nothing else, it’d just be nice to have something to do while I sit here, waiting on tenterhooks.

Thomas and Carrie have their heads bent together at the bar, and in another time and place, I’d feel happy for them, but there’s no room for any emotions when I’m already filled to the brim with anxious longing.

Ryan makes it to the bar and orders, and I glance back at the door in time to watch it swing shut. Derek has arrived and the strings he’s tied around my heart pull taut. He scans the room, looking for our group, or maybe just looking for me. My stomach dips like I’m toeing the edge of a high dive.

I have just enough time to soak him in, just enough time to see him in his jeans and brown leather boots and pale gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks so startlingly out of place here, an obvious transplant. He’s the epitome of refinement; there is no dressing him down or fitting him into a casual mold. His face is too handsome. His features are too striking. His chocolate brown eyes rimmed with dark lashes draw too much attention, and I’m not the only one staring at him now, sending up a silent prayer that I’ll be the one he’ll spend his time with.

A brunette near the door straightens her shoulders and fluffs her hair, trying to catch his eye. I don’t blame her one bit. I am her.

He keeps scanning and his brows furrow just before he glances at our group and finds me.

Bullseye.

His mouth hitches, and for a moment, he lingers there, unmoving.

Warmth floods through me, curling my toes, making it hard to breathe.

Hi, I say with a small shy wave. You found me.

Told you I would come, his smile replies.

My eyes roll. Took you long enough.

With a shake of his head, he starts cutting through the crowd to get to me, and I’m suddenly nervous. I’m shaking.

I look down at my trembling hands and try to will myself to calm down. It’s terrifying to realize that no matter how much I’ve tried to talk myself out of loving him, it’s proven impossible. I’m wholly outmatched.

Taller than most everyone else, it’s easy to track him as he descends on me. I stay perched on my stool and then he’s there and I’m inhaling his spiced cologne as he leans down to kiss my cheek.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to get some work done.”

“It’s okay. You smell good,” I tell him.

“I showered.”

“Me too.”

His eyes glance down my body. “Is that the outfit Carrie forced you into? I like it.”

“Thanks. Don’t tell her, though, or she’ll keep trying to dress me.”

He zips his lips and reaches for my beer, taking a sip without asking.

“It’s not good,” I say after he swallows.

His mouth is a wrinkle of disgust. “Could have warned me first.”

“I’ll buy you a better one.”

He finds that notion funny. The twinkle in his eye tells me so.

“What? Never had a girl buy you a beer?”

I poke his chest and he catches my hand, twisting it so he can lace our fingers together before he thinks better of it and lets go.

We both look away for a moment. Silent.

Then his throat clears before he asks, “Have you eaten? I’m starving.”

“No, I was waiting for you.”

“You can get the beer. I’ll grab our tacos.”

We make our way to the bar and I’m walking on air, in my own little sliver of paradise, obviously, because I completely forgot about Ryan.

We reach the bar at the exact moment he spins around, presumably to find me again. His eyebrows shoot up, an easy grin lighting up his face.

“Hey, did you get tired of waiting for me?” He holds up one of the two beers he’s just purchased. “I figured you’d want a better drink.” He holds it out to me and then glances over at Derek. “Oh hey, what’s up?” Ryan asks. “Sorry, I would have grabbed you a beer too if I’d known you were coming. The bartender’s swamped. You’ll be here awhile.”

I want to turn down the beer he’s offering me, but how can I? I will not hurt Ryan’s feelings just to make this situation less awkward.

Derek’s looking at me, though…waiting for an explanation, I think.

“Ryan knows some of the huntsman guys from the parade,” I volunteer, hoping Derek will understand what I’m trying to say.

So much of me wants to shout the whole truth: I didn’t invite him and I didn’t ask him to buy me a drink and I wasn’t waiting for him—I was waiting for you. Ryan is a cheap thrill, a second best I’m keeping in the dugout so I don’t have to be alone when you leave me like you left me last time. That’s the whole, sad truth, but I don’t say it, because I sympathize with Ryan. I grew up being the second best. He and I might not be the Dereks and the Averys, but we still have feelings.

Derek nods and turns to the bar. It feels like a sharp dismissal.

“Whit? You comin’?” Ryan asks.

“Derek? It’s not…”

He glances back and his eyes look right through me as he nods in Ryan’s direction. “Your friend’s waiting for you.”

“Derek—”

“I’m tired, Whitney,” he says, his voice so harsh I take a step back. “Not tonight. Yeah?”

He turns to the bar and I’m left standing there behind him, looking foolish. I can’t make myself move. I stare at his back, trying to shove all of my emotions down beneath the surface, but it’s proving harder than ever. Only a moment ago, our hands were linked together and our night held all the possibilities I could imagine, but now he won’t even look at me. He stands there, waiting for the bartender, his rigid body warning me to leave him alone. He clearly wants some space.

I turn and make my way back to the table. Ryan is there, eyes unfocused as he runs a hand through his hair. Our beers sit untouched in front of him.

I come up to stand beside him and thank him for the drink. He doesn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry,” I offer quietly.

It’s an apology that’s long overdue.

He leaves it there, lingering uncomfortably, before he finally speaks up.

“How long have you been into Derek?” he asks as we continue to eye our untouched beers.

The words come rushing out of me too emphatically. “I’m not.”

“Could have fooled me.” He laughs wistfully. “It’s funny…the signs were there. It was pretty obvious you weren’t into me, but I didn’t want to believe it, you know?” He stands and shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home.”

I grab his sleeve, my face expressing all the anguish I feel inside. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be, you know. I was shooting out of my league.”

Then he turns, tugs his arm out of my grasp, and shoves through the crowd. As he disappears, tears start to blur my vision.

I’ve never felt so disappointed in myself. I was cruel. I should have been honest with Ryan from the very beginning. I wish he would come back. In fact, I want to shout his name and beg him to let me explain everything. I don’t, though. It would be a selfish move, a way to assuage my own guilt. Why would Ryan care about my history with Derek? It doesn’t change tonight’s outcome for him. He has feelings for me that I can’t reciprocate. I hoped I could, but I can’t, and now he knows it. I owe him space.

I wipe my eyes, trying hard to hide my public meltdown. I’ve never cried in a bar before. With the neon beer sign buzzing near my head, I might as well be starring in a music video on CMT.

I drag my gaze back to the bar and find Derek’s still right where I left him, waiting for the bartender, elbows resting on the bar, focus straight ahead. Suddenly, I’m determined to talk to him even if he is tired, even if he wants to be left alone. I can’t let tonight end like this. I wipe my cheeks one more time and that’s when I notice the brunette from earlier—the one who fluffed her hair when he first walked in. She’s standing behind him, gathering courage. She straightens her blouse and then leans forward, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and glances down at her. I stand frozen, watching them. She speaks and gives him a kind smile, rocking back on her heels before extending her hand. He returns her smile and accepts her hand. Their connection is a blow I didn’t see coming. The bartender finally gets around to taking Derek’s order. He turns to the brunette, asking something before holding up two fingers.

Two drinks. One for him and one for her.

My heart burns like someone’s holding a lighter to it.

Me. I’m the one flicking the starter, cradling my hand around the flame so it doesn’t blow out. It’s my worst fear come to life. Derek with someone else. Derek with a beautiful woman, flirting with her right in front of me. My first instinct is to leave, but I need to witness this. Rip off the Band-Aid all at once. Ready, go. Hold your breath and live through the pain. You’ll survive, I tell myself. You’ll reach the other side and you’ll realize it wasn’t so bad. The pain only existed inside your head. Seeking proof of that, I look down at my chest, and just as expected, there’s no flame pressed against my heart.

Back at the bar, the woman takes the free stool beside Derek and angles her body in his direction. Her knee brushes his thigh. She leans in close to speak to him, and he does the same, trying to hear her over the sounds of the bar. Their mouths are too close. I watch her glance down at his. She wets her lips, subconsciously, I’m sure. She wants him. She’d be a fool not to want him as badly as I’ve wanted him all these years.

Her hand touches his shoulder. My shoulder.

Mine.

Derek smiles at her, and that small gesture is the fatal blow. I turn back to the table, grab one of Ryan’s beers, and chug it, letting some of it spill down my chin. I swallow and sputter and cough and wipe the back of my hand across my face and then I turn to leave. Exhaustion has caught up to me. I feel like I’m wading through thick syrup, carrying the world on my back as I find the exit, push the door open, and walk outside.

I make it five steps, just to the edge of some overgrown hedges, before I lose my stomach. Chugging a beer without eating dinner first was stupid, but that’s not why I’m sick. Another heavy wave of nausea racks through me.

A gentle voice behind me asks if I’m okay and I wave it off, too embarrassed to look and see who it is. I know Carrie’s still inside. God I wish I could go get her, but I can’t go back in like this. Not when I have vomit on her shirt. Not when she’s finally turning a corner with Thomas. Not when Derek is sitting at the bar, getting to know someone new, having forgotten all about me. I wonder if he’ll buy her that taco he owed me.

I stand and prop my hands on my knees and inhale a deep breath. The chilly autumn air hits my lungs like ice and I start the short walk back to my dorm.

I fantasize about what I’ll do when I get there. Cry. Beat my fists into my pillow. Pen a letter to Derek then tear it to shreds and burn it. Or maybe I’ll just sleep.

That sounds like a good plan. I manage to make it home, wash my face, and change into the softest pajamas I own. I’m tucking myself into bed when I hear a knock on my door.

“Whitney, are you still awake? Hey, it’s Alexa from 3B. I know we’re supposed to put formal complaints in your mailbox, but Kelly is eating my Pringles again—”

I throw a pillow at my door. “GO AWAY!”

Chapter Fifteen

Derek

The woman who introduces herself to me at the bar doesn’t want a drink. I offer, to be nice, but she says she already has wine back at her table. So, I only buy two beers. One for me and one for Whitney. It’s an accident. As soon as I put in the order, I remember Whitney already has a drink courtesy of Ryan.

Her pal.

I probably could have handled that situation a little better, could have clapped Ryan on the shoulder and acted like I was happy to see him, but honestly, I wasn’t. I’m sick of seeing his face. Sick of him standing in my way.

While I wait on the bartender to bring back the beers, the woman tries hard to carry the conversation for the both of us. I can’t remember her name right after she says it and she has to ask a question twice before I realize she’s waiting for an answer. I smile and apologize. She tries one more time to make conversation, and when I reply with a one-word response, she finally just gives up and walks away.

I’m glad to see her go. I didn’t come to the bar to make small talk. I came for Whitney and now she’s off somewhere, alone with Ryan.

That bitter thought keeps me planted on my stool. If I’m going to have to face them together, I need more couth than I can muster at the moment. I stay at the bar and sip my beer, half-focused on the football game playing on the TV in front of me.

I try on a brave face, relaxing my fists so they don’t accidently inflict bodily harm on Ryan. I’ve never been a jealous barbarian. Dragging Ryan out of the bar by the collar won’t solve my problems. Besides, he doesn’t deserve that.

Eventually, I force myself to get up, but it’s too late. It took me too long to compartmentalize my feelings for Whitney because by the time I grab her beer and what’s left of mine then turn to find them, they’re gone.

“Are you looking for Whitney?” a girl asks. I recognize her from rehearsals, but I don’t know her name off the top of my head. I think she’s one of the elves from the Enchanted Forest.

I nod.

She points to the door. “She left a while ago.”

“With Ryan?”

Apparently, my annoyance over the idea is visible because her eyes widen. I consciously loosen my grip on the neck of my beer in an effort to look less like a lunatic.

“No. They left a few minutes apart. It looked like they were fighting or something beforehand. Anyway, someone said Whitney was sick outside, throwing up. Not a good look, if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask you.

Without another word, I drop the drinks on a nearby table and head for the door. If she’s still out there, I’ll help her. Even with everything going on, I’ll help take care of her if she needs me.

Once outside, I look for her, circling the entire bar, but she’s gone.

The idea of her walking home by herself pisses me off. I know we’re still on the Knightley Company property and it’s a relatively safe area, but still, she was drinking, and as far as I know, she skipped dinner.

I reach for my phone, about to call her, but then I realize we still haven’t exchanged numbers. I curse and call Heather instead.

She’s not at all happy to hear from me, something about boundaries and not bothering her after hours. I tell her she can take an extra day off whenever she wants it before instructing her to pull up Whitney’s employee file on her computer. I need her phone number.

After she’s done, she says, “Make it two days off,” before hanging up.

I head to my car and unlock it as I place the call to Whitney. It rings forever and then goes straight to voicemail. I try again as I sit down in the front seat and close the door. She finally picks up.

“I swear if this is someone complaining about Pringles, I’ll scream.”

“What?”

There’s a long pause. The metal ting of a lamp being switched on in the background.

“Whitney? It’s Derek.”

“Oh.”

There’s a muffled groan like her face is pressed against her pillow.

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry. I was nearly asleep. Groggy, I think. Did you need something?”

She’s dropped her friendly tone.

I tip my head back against the headrest and rub my eyes.

“Someone said you were sick outside the bar. I wanted to check if you were okay.”

“Oh, well…that wasn’t me. Must have just been a raccoon or something. I’m in tiptop shape. In fact, I was nodding off before you called. Don’t let me keep you from your night.”

“My night?” I ask roughly.

“With Ms. Fluffy Hair.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The brunette at the bar.”

“The one I talked to for five minutes?”

“Is that all it took to convince her to go back to your apartment? I underestimated you.” Her icy attitude grates on my nerves.

“I’m sitting in my car, alone. And what about Ryan? Is he there beside you?”

“You saw how small my bed is. There’s no way an adult man would fit on here with me. He’s on the floor.”

My stomach clenches. Then I realize she’s joking. It’s not funny.

“If you’re calling to see if I’m all right, I am,” she continues in a biting tone. “Best I’ve ever felt. Great, in fact.”

“Wonderful.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Good night, Whitney.”

She hangs up first.

I sit there, battling the urge to call her again and continue this fight. I want to push it to its limit so we can air our grievances once and for all. I guess I’ll have to save it for tomorrow.

*

I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning most of the night. I wake up early and hit the gym, my frustration warning away anyone who happens into my path. A well-meaning trainer ventures in my direction. I shake my head and say, “Don’t.” He turns right back around, picking up his pace. I shower and push away thoughts of Whitney as the water streams down my chest and abs. With an angry twist, I cut it off and step out to greet my reflection. I’m quite the scowling beast this morning. I could convincingly play any villain in our theme park, and the thought only annoys me more.

With a quick email to Heather, I inform her that I’ll be skipping my shift as His Royal Highness during Whitney’s morning meet-and-greet. She’ll be fine without me for a few hours. I’d like some time in the office to get work done before the parade this afternoon.

I’m sure Whitney will appreciate that time away from me as well.

“You’re in quite a mood this morning,” Heather says as we work together. I delegate tasks, check emails, add events and tasks to my calendar, and so on, tearing through work to keep myself busy.

“Unless you have a comment related to work, I don’t really want to hear it.”

“Excuse me?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been so harsh with her. I immediately regret it.

“I’m sorry. Ignore me. I had a terrible night. Let’s continue.”

We work straight through lunch, right up until the last possible moment before I need to head to the parade warehouse and get changed into my costume. Heather walks with me so we can continue working. With her pregnancy, it’s harder for her to keep up with me, and I forget to slow my pace. By the end of today, I’ll probably owe her half a year of paid time off.

Two employees from the Costuming Department are waiting for me with my suit. I dismiss Heather and head into a dressing room. The costume is designed in a military fashion, similar to what British nobility would wear if they were getting married. I have black pants and a fitted red jacket with gold buttons stacked down the center. A royal blue sash cuts across my chest, accented by a yellow-gold collar and cuffs. There’s a family crest embroidered just below a medal that’s pinned over my heart. I feel slightly ridiculous wearing the damn thing.

“Is everything where it should be?” I ask when I step out, and the two employees nod, eyes wide, silent.

I walk out of the dressing room and head toward the back of the parade processional. Our float is last in line and the set designers have gone overboard decorating it in the theme of a royal wedding. It’s massive—at least two stories—complete with a mini version of Elena’s Castle near the back. Roses cover every square inch of the float, arching and swirling to create a backdrop for the raised platform on which we’ll stand. An engineer is stationed there now, going through a checklist to confirm everything is in working order. There’s no driver present during the procession. Each float is built with a mini computer on board pre-programmed with the parade route. Miles away, there’s a room full of engineers sitting at their desks prepared to troubleshoot any malfunctions.

I climb the ladder and nod to the engineer before I notice the volume level inside the warehouse start to trickle off. The ensuing silence pulls my attention back toward the dressing rooms just as Whitney steps through a door.

I stare, enraptured.

It’s all just pretend. I know her wedding dress is just a costume, but still, she’s more breathtaking than any bride I’ve ever seen. A stunning contrast of white lace and dark red hair.

It shouldn’t be such a shock to see her. She’s worn parts of her costume during rehearsal—the veil, the top, the skirt—though none of it all at once. Heather told me a team of seamstresses has been working on the dress night and day to complete it in time.

Their efforts weren’t in vain. Whitney wears it like a dream. The lace sleeves extend down to her wrists, the matching top narrows at her waist, and the skirt falls in soft pleats down to the floor. A V is cut into the high collar, revealing only a hint of cleavage.

Her hair is down, a few strands pinned beneath her lace veil. There’s a small diamond tiara on her head—exactly what a princess ought to wear on her wedding day.

Everyone’s eyes follow her as she walks. The parade warehouse is actually just an industrial space with concrete floors and exposed duct work, and yet Whitney might as well be walking down the center aisle of Notre Dame. Carrie walks beside her, holding her veil so it doesn’t drag on the ground. Whitney’s talking with her, unaware of the affect she has on the rest of us. It’s better that way. I need a moment to take her in, to catch myself. Remind myself of where we are. What we’re doing.

When she nears the float, I climb back down the ladder, knowing she’ll need help getting up.

Her eyes flit to me, down across my wedding suit. I’d forgotten I was wearing the damn thing, but she notices. Her cheeks flush with color and she looks away, back to Carrie.

“Help me up the ladder, will you? I don’t want to fall and break my neck—or worse, tear this dress.”

“I’ve got it,” I tell Carrie, and she nods, stepping back.

“Carrie can help me,” Whitney insists, glancing back at Carrie over her shoulder. I can only imagine she’s threatening her friend with an urgent glare. Don’t you dare leave me alone with him.

Too bad.

I step forward and loop my arm around Whitney’s shoulders, turning her in the direction of the ladder. “Don’t be difficult. I don’t have the energy for it today.”

She exhales an angry puff but listens to me all the same.

I’m careful with her as she climbs the first few steps, focusing on the row of small white buttons that trail down her spine. I lift so much of her weight, I doubt she’s even touching the rungs as she makes her way up.

“They could have put me in a pantsuit or something, at least. This doesn’t seem at all safe. Climbing ladders in wedding gowns…”

“We have good worker’s comp insurance.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The engineer excuses himself once we make our way up onto the platform. Either he’s done with his checklist or he heard us arguing and wanted to get as far away from us as possible. I can’t say I’m sad to see him go. I need a private word with Whitney.

As soon as she’s sure on her feet, she tries to put space between us. Though the float itself is large, the platform we’re on is only about ten feet wide. She can’t get far.

For a few moments, we stand in silence. Whitney straightens her dress and arranges her veil so it falls lightly down her back. When she’s done making up tasks to keep herself busy, she finally spares me a glance.

When she speaks, her tone carries a note of annoyance. “You actually look like a real prince. Tall, muscular, and that thick brown hair doesn’t hurt either. It’s like they plucked you straight from the pages of a fairytale. I can practically hear the women in the crowd swooning already.”

I don’t take her bait.

She glances over at me. Her feline eyes are narrowed and mischievous. “Aren’t you going to say anything about how I look?”

“I think you’ve probably already heard it enough today.”

She scowls. “Hopefully my real wedding day isn’t as bad as this. It shouldn’t be considering my groom won’t be half as overbearing as you are.”

“Overbearing?”

“Yes. I think that describes you pretty accurately. It means arrogant or bossy,” she explains with a haughty tone.

I want to ignore her comment altogether, but I can’t. I press her. “How exactly am I overbearing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You do exactly what you like at all times. Just like you did a moment ago, shooing Carrie away and pushing me toward the ladder. Walking in and out of my life whenever you feel like it. I guess it makes sense why you act this way. Growing up as the heir to this empire, I’m sure you carried a lot of weight on your shoulders. Most men would have buckled under that pressure, but you rose to the occasion. Now, I imagine it’d be impossible to separate the man from the heir.”

She might as well be staring at her fingernails. So confident in her assessment, she’s bored.

“I wasn’t aware we were psychoanalyzing each other. Is it my turn now?”

Chapter Sixteen

Whitney

I aim a smirk his way before replying, “You can try, but I doubt you’ll get it right. Go ahead. Tell me everything you think you know about me.”

I’m faintly aware of Thomas speaking to all of the parade cast with a megaphone. I’m too busy staring Derek down to listen. I don’t think he registers Thomas either. Just as the floats at the very front of the line start to move forward, Derek turns fully toward me.

“Do you remember our conversation in Cal’s kitchen at the dinner party? You claimed you were the passionate one out of the two of us.”

I practically snarl at him. “Yes. I remember. So what?”

He chuckles, and I have to bite my tongue not to call him a bad name just to regain the upper hand.

“Well, you’re wrong. You aren’t passionate. You play at passion. You play make-believe. With your heart, with your job, with your life. You’ve deluded yourself into thinking you put yourself out there, but you’re even more guarded than I am. You don’t love Ryan.”

“I could have! Before last night!” I retort as our float starts to move. I wobble on my feet and he reaches out to steady me. I wrench my arm away from him as soon as I’m sure I won’t fall. Wouldn’t he just love that? Me splat on the concrete.

“Think about it,” he prods, voice sharp and steady.

Just then, our float drives out of the warehouse, turning onto a side street that leads into the park, and the bright Georgia sun blinds me. I clench my eyes closed, listening. In a few moments, we’ll be in front of a roaring crowd. Even now, I can hear the upbeat music blaring from speakers inside the park.

“You say you’re this hopeless romantic, that you fall in love all the time—but you know what I think?” he continues.

I blink my eyes as they adjust to the light, unwilling to look in his direction.

“I don’t really care,” I spit back at him, boiling with anger.

“I think you tell yourself it’s love so you don’t have to consider the fact that it’s the exact opposite. Nothing. Empty crushes. Arm’s-length relationships.”

We’re in the park now and I have no choice but to turn toward him and let him take my hands in his. The animatronic owl perched beside us flips through the pages of an officiant book. And they lived happily ever after is engraved in cursive on the front cover of it. I snort. We’re supposed to be sharing our vows right now, staring adoringly into each other’s eyes, a picture-perfect representation of love. In reality, we’re spitting fire. There’s a sea of people behind Derek’s shoulders, a blur of colors I try to focus on. I can’t. I’m shaking with anger, tempted to push Derek right off this float. Oh, don’t worry—he’d be fine. He’d land on a cloud of adoring fans.

“You’re wrong,” I insist through clenched teeth, staring at the gold buttons on his jacket. “I have had real crushes and I’ve been in love, most definitely.”

“I’m sure you think so. Fudge guy—is that who you love?” His mocking tone makes me fist my hands. Unfortunately, he’s holding on to them. He knows he’s just triggered a reaction. “Ever ask him out? Try to get to know him? Maybe, I don’t know—ask his goddamn name?”

“I was waiting for him to ask me,” I say in an angry whisper.

“Yes, well, I asked you. I asked.”

I finally jerk my gaze up to his, but he’s looking out at the crowd now, scowling. God, we’re doing a horrible job at pretending to be in love. I know we’ll get in trouble for this. We’re ruining the parade for all the guests, but I can’t seem to force myself to get it together. I want to know what he means.

We continue down the road, nearing Castle Drive. In a moment, we’ll pass under the arch of red roses. That’s our cue to kiss. My heart starts to pound hard against my lace bodice. I’m sure he can feel my palms sweating against his.

“You swore you’d give me a clean slate,” he says, sounding defeated, “but you haven’t. You’re still scared of getting hurt again.”

“Oh come on.”

I sound incredulous and finally, he turns his head all the way toward me. For the first time since the start of the parade, we’re looking into each other’s eyes. It feels like he’s gripping me by the back of my neck, keeping my attention on him. It’s visceral, this connection between us.

He bends low, releasing my hands so he can wrap his arms around my waist and tug me close. My hands hit his hard chest and, out of focus, in the background, I spy a thousand blood red roses.

“It’s true, Whitney. You’re scared of real pain,” he whispers down at me, softly now that his attention is on my lips. “The burning kind. The lie awake and worry kind. The can’t eat, can’t think, no life without you in it…kind.”

And then he leans down and kisses me.

Fireworks explode. Literally. Over our heads, a million rainbow sparks crackle across the sky as his lips possess mine.

He kisses me with reckless abandon, like we might never get another chance, like I might come to my senses and push him away at any moment. This, his kiss tells me, this is what I’ve been waiting for—you going soft and sweet in my arms.

On our script it simply read Princess Elena and His Royal Highness “share a kiss”, and since we never actually rehearsed it, there’s no way to know exactly what that meant. Still, if I had to guess, I assume it was intended to be a quick, modest peck.

What we’re doing is the exact opposite. It’s heated and crazed, a kiss meant to take place behind locked doors, tying a knot around two hearts. He’s relentless. Hungry. My hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. He groans as my palms touch his heated skin. He follows suit, moving to cradle my chin so he can tilt my head back and deepen the kiss even more. My skin comes alive under his touch.

His tongue touches mine and my head spins.

I’m sure tiny children are standing in the front row, slack-jawed and worried.

“He’s not…hurting her, is he, Mommy?”

One of us needs to stop this, but he’s not letting me go, and I refuse to step away. Now that I’m here, pressed against him, it’s like I can’t get close enough. I want to rip his jacket open and step inside of it, feel his reassuring strength.

There is no way on earth I’ll ever have a first kiss that tops this one, and that’s good considering how much trouble we’ll be in when this is all over.

Derek’s the one to eventually break it off. He pulls back just enough to let his forehead touch mine and we stay like that through the rest of the parade, our hearts beating wildly, our breaths heavy. We refuse to separate even with the roar of the theme park around us.

My lips are swollen and parted as I try to grasp for a thread of common sense to take me back ten minutes in time. Before we kissed. Before I realized all my imaginings of what his kiss would be like were nothing compared to the real thing. I find no thread. None at all. By staying here, pressed against him, I’m admitting defeat, admitting my fear. I’ve been keeping myself away from him as a way to protect my heart. I’m not confident I can survive him leaving me a second time, but I suppose there’s only so long you can beat back the inevitable.

Sometimes fate is sick of being ignored.

I tip forward and steal another quick kiss. It’s not enough. Derek grips my waist tighter, communicating his annoyance when I pull away. His eyes are heated with yearning. We could reignite so easily. Another kiss…longer…

Our float jostles as it pulls back into the warehouse, and Thomas has his megaphone aimed right at us.

“Derek, can I have a word?”

Derek and I glance at each other, and I have to bite my lip to hold back a giddy laugh.

“We’re in trouble,” I whisper like we’re delinquent teens.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take the fall, tell him I was the one who initiated it. I took advantage of you.”

“That won’t work. I was kissing you right back—nearly climbed on top of you. I would have, had my dress allowed it.”

His eyebrows arch at the idea. “All right then we’ll have to Bonnie-and-Clyde it. We’ll escape and go on the lam.”

“I can have a bag packed in five.”

He grins.

“Derek,” Thomas says again, and this time the severity in his voice makes us finally step away from each other and try unsuccessfully to wipe the smiles off our faces. Apparently, we should be taking this much more seriously.

Derek helps me down the ladder and I deflate as he drops his hands from my waist and walks over to join Thomas. We have a lot to talk about. You don’t just share a kiss like that and go back to life as you knew it before. Everything has changed. It has to.

Carrie rushes past them with a giddy pep in her step. Her smile is contagious, and the moment she has passed Derek and is out of his line of sight, she throws her hands in the air in triumph.

“Is it true? What everyone’s saying? I thought maybe he’d just kiss you on the cheek but apparently you guys were really going at it! Scaring the children! Tell me everything!”

“Oh, god.” My face floods with color.

I fill her in, skipping breaths and talking fast as she leads me back into the dressing room. She unpins my veil and starts on the buttons of my dress. An assistant knocks, asking if Carrie wants help, but she shoos her away so we can keep talking.

By the time I’m tugging on my jeans and sweater, there’s another knock on the door. Carrie’s working on hanging the wedding dress back up, so I answer it and stand back, surprised to find Thomas standing there. His brows are furrowed, eyes unreadable. No, not true. He looks…worried. Upset, even. Are we really in that much trouble? It was just a kiss. We didn’t hurt anyone.

He tugs his hand through his hair and asks if he can come in.

“Of course. Wait, is this about—”

I don’t get the full sentence out before he cuts me off. “Cal is in the hospital.”

*

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“Cal, lay back so the nurse can see your arm,” Derek says, sounding put out.

“Why? They’ve been running tests all day. I don’t need my blood pressure taken for the hundredth time, I assure you.”

Derek reminds him that the tests are necessary. They need to be absolutely sure they can rule out a heart attack.

“A heart attack? That’s what they think? No.” Cal sounds incredulous. “This was just a little heartburn, really.”

I stand outside Cal’s hospital room, leaning against the wall. Derek is in there now, along with a nurse. It’s probably a small room, so I stay out here, not wanting to get in the way. Or so I’ve told myself.

After the parade, I rushed straight to the hospital with Carrie and Thomas. They helped me navigate the maze of hallways, leading me past vending machines and empty waiting rooms, around corners, under official-looking signs and through stainless steel doors. It felt like miles between the parking garage and the hospital’s cardiac intensive care unit.

Once we walked in, a nurse stopped us right away, asking to see our visitor badges.

We had no badges.

She withheld a groan. “Who are you here to see?” I told her and she shook her head. “Family only.”

Carrie stepped forward, pointing to me. “She is family. Take her. We’ll wait out here.”

I fibbed and told the nurse my last name was Knightley. When she asked to see an ID, I told her I didn’t have it on me. With everything going on, I didn’t think to grab anything practical.

I know it was against hospital policy for her to let me pass, but chances are she took one look at my tear-streaked face and thought, I don’t have time for this shit today, because she sighed, produced a nametag, and demanded I wear it before pointing down to a room at the very end of the hall.

I walked there on numb legs, reached for the door handle, and then paused, listening to the voices inside.

At the time, Cal’s doctor was going over things with him. Half the words I didn’t understand, and the rest I tried hard to ignore. It felt like an invasion of his privacy, so I lingered outside until he left.

The doctor eyed me curiously but didn’t say a word.

That was an hour ago.

Since then, nurses have come and gone. I’ve lingered.

I wasn’t at the hospital the last time Cal had a heart attack a few months back. No one told me he’d been admitted until he was back home, resting. I went over for dinner and Ava shared the news. It didn’t really hit me then how serious it was. He seemed fine to me. He was up, walking around, dressed in his usual clothes. Other than the healthy dinners Ava started to prepare for us, nothing had changed. He seemed fine, but that can’t be, because here he is, back in the hospital again so soon.

“Could you go get me a snack from the vending machine?” Cal asks Derek. “Something salty? I’m starving.”

“Are you serious?”

“Fine. How about a granola bar? That’s healthy enough, right? What? As if having my blood drawn a thousand times isn’t bad enough, now you’re all going to starve me to death?”

There’s more conversation, but it doesn’t carry out into the hall. Then the door opens and I straighten. Embarrassed, though I’m not sure why.

Derek walks out of the room with his head down, focused. Then he catches sight of me and halts mid-step. We stare. Silent.

He’s still in his costume from the parade—the only splash of color in the stark hospital hallway. The last few hours are visible in his heavy, drawn eyes and disheveled hair.

We stand like that for a few moments as he looks at me. I don’t know if he’s surprised I’m here or upset that I’m intruding. His gaze flits down to my name tag: Whitney Knightley. He offers a small smile. I offer an even smaller one, about to open my mouth to apologize when he nods his head toward the room.

“Go in. He’ll want to see you.”

I wait until the nurse leaves, pushing her cart, then I knock gently on the door.

“Cal? Is it all right if I come in? It’s Whitney.”

“Finally! Someone I actually want to see.” I step inside but stall near the door. “Please say you’ve got a snack on you. Some pretzels, maybe?”

I shake my head, nibbling on my bottom lip.

“Why are you crying?”

Oh.

“I’m not,” I lie, wiping my nose.

It’s just that he looks so fragile lying in that bed in his hospital gown, twenty years older than the last time I saw him, pale and hooked up to a thousand machines.

“You don’t think this is serious, do you?” His forehead crinkles. “C’mon, I need you on my side. They’re going to discharge me and we can head back home. Ava’s probably got dinner ready for us.”

“Cal.”

He sighs and pats the bed, encouraging me to come over.

Cal’s always been affectionate. Kisses on the cheek, heavy pats on the shoulder. He’s a warm, kind soul, and that’s why I reach down and hug him. I want his warmth, to assure myself it’s still there.

“You really don’t need to worry,” he says quietly, patting my back.

I feel silly. Derek wasn’t crying. Why am I?

I shake my head, not speaking.

“Are you upset about the lack of snacks in this place too? I feel like crying myself if I’m honest.”

I laugh and keep my face buried against his chest.

“Don’t…” Don’t make light of this. Don’t brush this off. “You’re my family,” I whisper against his chest.

“Of course I am. That’s why you have my last name on your name tag. I like the way that looks. It’s true, you know. I only ever had one grandson, but if I could have picked a granddaughter, I would have wanted her to be just like you.”

If his goal was to make me stop crying, he’s doing a piss-poor job.

Now, I’m sobbing against his chest. He’ll have to change his hospital gown with all the snot I’m smearing across it.

“I promise you I’m going to be fine. The doctor already assured me of that. I didn’t have a heart attack. He called it a Tako-something cardiomyopathy. Apparently, it mimics the symptoms of a heart attack, which is why Ava insisted on calling an ambulance this morning, but they’re going to give me some medicine and that should do the trick. They’re even letting me go home. Well, kind of. I’ll have to have a nurse with me and some of these machines will go too. Now, stop this. C’mon. Tell me about the parade. How did it go? Did Derek play his part?”

“I did just fine, thank you.”

I jerk away from Cal, shooting back to my feet and taking a step back. I hadn’t realized Derek was there. I wipe at my eyes and my nose, thanking Cal after he passes me a tissue from the stash beside his bed.

I don’t turn around and meet Derek’s eyes, though I can feel him watching me. The hospital room feels too crowded with the three of us in it.

“A nurse gave me a fruit cup and some walnuts,” Derek says, stepping up beside me and dropping Cal’s food on his nightstand.

“Oh good. Squirrel food.”

“We’ll have Ava fix you something better at home. They’re preparing everything to transport you there now. Heather has booked a care team for you, and we’ll have a nurse stationed at the house. Your cardiologist is happy to check on you there as well later tonight.”

“Good. When can we leave?”

“In an hour or so. I want to make sure they have everything set up.”

Then, ever so gently, Derek reaches over and wraps a hand around my waist, tugging me against him and dropping a kiss to my hair.

Tears spring back to my eyes, but they don’t blur the grin spreading across Cal’s face.

“Well then, we’ll all go,” he says, sounding extremely pleased with himself.

Though I offer to go back to my dorm—not wanting to intrude—Cal and Derek both insist otherwise. “It’s been a long day” and “You haven’t eaten” come from Derek, and “What if I take a turn for the worse?” from Cal. I shake my head then, fighting back a smile at his audacity before I nod and agree to it. After we tell Thomas and Carrie of the new plans, Thomas assures us he’ll get Carrie home safe and they walk out of the hospital hand in hand.

It’s a blur of activity during Cal’s transport back to the house. A nurse is already there to help him get settled. His doctor arrives shortly after we do. Cal doesn’t think another checkup is necessary, but his doctor insists on it. He’ll be back in the morning as well.

I linger in the kitchen, unsure of where I’m supposed to be. I feel kind of useless, tired. I watch Ava move around, finishing up dinner. She’s already sent some food up for Cal, but there’s homemade chicken soup on the stove and cornbread muffins turning golden brown in the oven.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

She’s putting away spice jars, wiping the counters, tidying up the kitchen. I pick up a dishtowel to help her and she steals it back, swatting away my offer. “The soup’s just keeping warm until the muffins are done. Don’t do a thing. Can I make you some tea? Chamomile?”

She doesn’t even wait for my reply before she starts turning to the cabinet. I realize then that Ava is doing what the rest of us are trying to do: staying busy, being useful, keeping it together.

I slide off my stool and round the island toward her, putting my hand over hers as she tries to open the box of tea bags. She’s shaking.

“I’m okay. I can’t stand tea. You know that.”

She laughs and sighs, and it’s as bone-weary as we all feel today.

“Whitney?” Derek’s voice calls behind us. He’s at the doorway of the kitchen, motioning for me to join him. “Come on.”

“Don’t be long,” Ava warns. “Dinner will be ready soon and by the looks of it, you both need a decent meal.”

His hand reaches for mine and I let him lead me down the hallway. Though I’ve been in Cal’s penthouse a hundred times before, I rarely go into the private spaces, down the hallways that branch off from the main rooms. Still, from snooping, I know Derek has a room here, the one from his childhood.

That’s where he leads me, closing the door behind him. All the personal items I wanted to find in his apartment are here instead: an old TV with video games stacked beside it, a small framed picture of him playing T-ball. I hold it up and he smiles.

“Had the best batting record in the league.”

I hum, sounding impressed.

There’s a faded Fairytale Kingdom name tag beside the frame. It’s the style the company used years ago. I hold it up and he nods.

“That’s from when I used to sell balloons. Remember?”

How could I forget?

I place it back on his dresser gently and then glance up and catch his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. He’s unbuttoning his jacket, probably anxious to get out of the stuffy costume.

There’s a duffle bag on the bed, no doubt courtesy of Heather. I’m envious. I wish I had a change of clothes. I wasn’t there long, but I still smell like the hospital.

“I need a shower,” Derek says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

He lays his jacket on the bed and then tugs his white shirt out of his pants. I catch a glimpse of his tan torso.

“Come with me?”

My stomach dips as I jerk my gaze back to his. “In…in the shower?”

My voice breaks midsentence.

He nods.

I know it might seem odd, but I don’t get the sense that Derek wants me in the shower so we can get it on. I know he’s a warm-blooded man and I’m a girl who’s waited eight years for him to look at me like he’s looking at me now, but still, there’s no lust in his tone. Not tonight. There’s a vulnerability about him, in the way his frame is slightly sagged, and I realize however hard this day has been for me, it’s been harder on him.

Cal might feel like my only family, but for Derek, he really is.

He turns and heads into the en suite bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, the stream spraying across tile. Steam starts to spill out into the bedroom.

My stomach quivers with nerves, but his invitation hangs like a lasso around my neck, tugging me into the bathroom. The shower glass is already fogged when I peer around the corner and see Derek’s head ducked under the stream. His eyes are closed and the water beats down on his broad shoulders, rolling down his back. I unbutton my jeans and push them to the ground, fold them into a neat stack along with my sweater, and place them beside his on the counter. I keep my panties and bra on, unwilling to part with a small modicum of modesty.

Half of me wants to knock on the glass door before I open it, like, Oh, hello. Mind if I come in?

Instead, I pull it open and step inside. Derek’s head lifts and our gazes lock.

Then his hand shoots out and he tugs me under the water with him.

We don’t kiss. We hug, our bodies completely wrapped around each other. My bra is soaked in seconds and the material is silky smooth against his hot skin. His face is buried in my hair and my cheek is pressed against his chest. My arms wrap around his waist so tight I might be cutting off his circulation.

He turns us, shielding me from the spray of the shower with his body. His hands brush the hair away from my face and he cradles my chin, looking down at me.

I press up onto my toes and kiss his neck, his cheek, his brow, his forehead.

He smiles and reaches for his soap, lathering some in his hands and stepping back so he can wash me.

I stand perfectly still, letting his large hands glide over my skin. He sweeps his sudsy palms up my arms and around my shoulders, dipping his fingers under my bra straps but avoiding my chest. I shiver and he turns me, getting more soap so he can wash my back. The stuff he’s using has a masculine, woodsy clean scent, the kind of soap sold in a dark blue bottle with a picture of a mountain on the label. When we finish, I’ll smell just like him. I won’t want to shower ever again. A small price to pay, I think, to keep his scent on me.

His hands trail down my spine until his fingertips skim the hem of my panties. He stops there and curves his hand around my waist, tugging my body back against his again. I feel him there, hard against me. I blink, all innocence wiped clean.

“Oh,” I say, surprised, though how on earth I am, I don’t have a clue.

He might not have invited me in here for that, but I doubt he has any control over his body’s reaction to me.

God, I hope not.

Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

“Just let me finish bathing you,” he says in response.

It’s the earnest way he speaks, the fact that I know without a shadow of a doubt that he means what he says. He’s not trying to take advantage of me during an emotional time. He’s trying to lean on me, to use me as a rock. I want to comfort him. I want to feel him. All of him.

His hands curve up my stomach and I watch the suds spread across my skin. He climbs higher and his fingers skim the lace on my bra. This time, he doesn’t shy away.

I reach my hand back between our bodies and grip his thigh, slowly moving upward.

He doesn’t move.

Somehow, it’s easier with him behind me. Without having to look at him, I can be as bold as I want to be, moving up even higher to grip his length in my hand, stroking him as my eyes flutter closed and my head leans back against his chest.

A shudder breaks through him and he grinds into me like he can’t help himself.

One arm wraps around my waist, pinning me tighter against him. The other skims across my wet bra, feeling my full breast in his palm. He moves to the other side, brushing across the delicate fabric and using it to torment me. My body writhes, and that’s only doing more for him considering each time my hips shift, I grind against him. His mouth falls to my neck as he drags my wet bra away from my breast, finally baring me.

My eyes pinch closed as his hand covers my nakedness, trailing the warm drops of water across my chest.

A wave of pleasure racks through me and he does it again, starting at my breast, barely touching really, like he’s too scared he’ll hurt me. I’m a fragile piece of art and he’s a curious observer, stepping over the boundary rope so he can touch the frame. His hand skims across my ribs and down the center of my abs. He can feel me shaking, my stomach clenching as he brushes over it, and then he continues down, pushing past the wet material of my panties. Then, lower.

When his hand covers me there, I grip him tighter in my hand, slowly pumping up and down, almost languid in my movements.

A husky groan tickles against the shell of my ear as his middle finger presses inside me. He swirls his hand so the base of his palm hits me in exactly the right spot, sending a delicious tingle up my spine. I speed up as he speeds up, pumping my hand while he slides his finger in and out of me. I writhe, needing more.

Please.

He can hear my plea and a second finger slips in beside the first, stretching me. His thumb joins, circling deftly while his fingers drag in and out. Faster. Harder. A whimper escapes me and it spurs him on. His thumb drives me closer and closer. His fingers push inside, the deepest they’ve been, and hold there as I shake against him, arching my back, crying out so that the sound reverberates around the tiled shower.

My pleasure feeds his. My hand moves on him quickly and I can feel the hot wetness coat my back as he groans deeply, guttural sounds of pleasure reverberating through him as he keeps his fingers buried inside me.

We stay like that until our breaths even out, until my spent body can muster up just enough energy to reach up and stroke his cheek, comforting him.

It’s in this moment, before we break apart and clean ourselves off, before we step out of the shower and re-enter the world, that he leans down and presses a firm kiss against my mouth, whispering a truth along with it. “I’m falling for you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Derek

Whitney doesn’t say a word as we step out of the shower and towel off. I think she might be in shock. If I waved my hand in front of her face, I doubt she’d react. Her green eyes are vacant, focused on the ground as she blinks, lost.

It’s not as if I can go back and rescind what I said.

It’s the truth.

Though now I see I might have considered waiting to tell her on a better day.

We’ve had a busy twelve hours. We started on that float, nearly at each other’s throats. Then I kissed her. That shut us up for sure. Then everything happened with Cal and how are we still standing? How much longer can this day last?

I cringe when I glance over at her. She looks kind of pitiful standing there.

She has my towel wrapped around her like a cape, pinning it closed with her fists right under her chin. She doesn’t move. I walk out of the bathroom and rifle through the duffle bag Heather brought me. I told her to pack extra, unsure of how long I’d be staying at Cal’s, and now I’m grateful for the spare t-shirt and boxers. After I’m dressed, I bring both into the bathroom and step in front of Whitney. She seems smaller than usual.

“Are you still alive?”

“Not sure.”

“Cold?”

“Very.”

“I brought you clothes.”

She hums but makes no move to take them. Like I said, I think she’s in shock.

I bend down in front of her.

My hand touches her ankle. “May I?”

She doesn’t speak, so I reach up underneath her towel and take off her wet panties. I try to make it nonsexual. By all accounts, this should be the least sexual day with everything we have going on, but it’s Whitney, and she can stand there comatose and still, I want her. She steps out of the wet material and I grab my boxers, holding them open for her.

“They’ll be big, but maybe you can roll them up?”

No response.

I pull them up her long shapely legs. They sag on her hips, so I roll them twice. Good enough. With the t-shirt in hand, I stand back up and tug on her towel. She lets me pull it away and, with her arms at her sides, all I see is smooth ivory skin from her waist up, still flushed from the shower. A wet bra pasted over…

Jesus.

Quickly, I step forward and reach around her for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it and dragging it off her. It’s tossed on the ground and my t-shirt is yanked down over her head with a tad too much force. I might have lopped off an ear. I should be gentler, but I’m trying hard to be a gentleman here and the sooner she’s covered, the better it’ll be for the both of us.

It takes her a moment to register that she needs to put her arms through the holes. For a second, she stands there armless. I lose the fight with a smile. How can someone so damn pitiful be so damn cute?

“I’m hungry,” she says, sounding far away. Sleepy.

She finally forces her arms through the sleeves.

I nod. “Me too. I’m going to go get us dinner. Do you want to stay in here?”

As an answer, she walks out of the bathroom and heads into my room, reaching for the throw blanket on the bed so she can wrap it around herself. I hurry out into the hall, feeling rushed to get her food and to check on Cal. His doctor should be gone by now. Hopefully he’s asleep. He needs rest.

Ava’s not in the kitchen, but she’s set aside a tray of food for Whitney and me. I reheat the soup in the microwave and then carry the tray back to my room, devouring two cornbread muffins on the way. Once there, I find Whitney curled up on my armchair in the corner, head resting on her palm. Asleep.

I bet she was out the second I closed the door.

I smile and set down the tray of food before turning down my duvet and tossing a few stray pillows aside to make room for the two of us. When I lift her up off the chair, I expect her to stir, but she doesn’t make a peep. I tuck her in and carry the food out with me, heading to check on Cal.

I was right about his doctor having left already, but he’s still awake, propped up on his bed with pillows. A nurse sits in the corner, looking at her laptop, and when she sees me, she smiles and stands, leaving us.

There’s a small lamp on beside his bed, but most of the light streams into the room through the windows. Though the sun set hours ago, the streets inside Fairytale Kingdom are lined with lamps, illuminating the overnight crews who are working away: mowing the lawns, watering the flowers, emptying the trash cans, fixing benches, repainting buildings—doing anything they can to touch up the park so it looks as good as new when guests arrive again in the morning. Cal watches it all from his perch on his bed.

He looks better than he did a few hours ago. Color has returned to his cheeks. The hospital gown has been swapped for pajamas and a thick white robe.

“Hungry?” I ask, setting the tray beside his bed.

“Ava brought me some food a while ago. It was good. Sit. Eat.” Then he glances over my shoulder. “Where’s Whitney?”

“Asleep.”

“Here?”

“Yes. In my room.”

He nods then looks back out the window.

“I’ve been careful with her over the years,” he says. “She had a unique upbringing. The forgotten child in her family, you could say.”

“She told me about that, years ago.”

I was reminded of it the other day at rehearsals when her phone kept going off. It was her sister, Avery, wanting to know if she was still coming up to New York for a visit. I’m not sure Whitney would have told me anything about it had I not been standing there while she read the texts.

“Her sister is performing on Broadway now,” Cal shares. “Whitney’s parents are proud. Their world revolves around Avery. It always has. You know in all the years I’ve mentored Whitney, I’ve never met her parents. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

I frown, thinking it over.

“They don’t make it down here often,” he continues. “In fact, I can’t recall the last time they visited her. Whitney flies to New York every now and then to see them, but she always comes home worse off than when she left.”

“Sounds like she’s better off without them.”

He turns back to me. “Like you’re better off without your dad?”

I shrug, feeling guilty. “I know I should want a relationship with him, but the truth is, you took his place years ago. I’ve never wanted for family.”

Cal smiles and reaches over to pat my hand. “I think that’s the exact reason why I’ve been careful with her. Imagine if you and I didn’t have each other, how tough a road that would have been…”

I stay silent, mulling it over.

“You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” he asks.

Something clicks for me then. It’s an obvious truth I’ve been ignoring all these weeks. I’ve always known Cal to be a few steps ahead of the rest of us. His mind works continuously, inventing and designing every aspect of the park. I didn’t realize he was extending his gifts to my life as well. Sitting here with him now, I finally piece together the real reason Cal placed me in the role of His Royal Highness. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the board had nothing to do with it at all. Cal was playing matchmaker.

I’m sure of it.

I wonder how long he’s wanted Whitney and me to be together. I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter now. If anything, I should thank him. Instead, I nod, answering his question, and stand, feeling deeply exhausted.

“Before you go, Derek, there’s something we need to discuss about the company.”

Chapter Eighteen

Cal

When I hear the sound of Whitney’s voice at my door, I stuff my book back under my covers and lie back, feigning sleep. She’s here with my breakfast. I can hear the clink of ceramic as she sets the tray down on the nightstand beside my bed.

“Cal?” she whispers, touching my hand.

I make sure my breathing sounds haggard, a wheeze or two thrown in for good measure. It works well. On cue, Whitney’s hand tightens around mine. Her gentle grip translates all of her worries.

I peel one eye open slowly, as if it takes all the strength left in me.

“Whitney?” I ask, acting fatigued.

She smiles tentatively. “Morning. How are you feeling?”

Wonderful. That nurse and I played cards half the night and she proved to be a worthy opponent.

“Oh, I’ll manage,” I groan, trying to lift myself into a sitting position.

She leans forward to assist me and the first pang of guilt hits my heart. Serves me right, putting it on like this.

What option do I have though?

Whitney and Derek have been taking their sweet time, performing a prolonged mating ritual. Some of us don’t have years to wait around for them to admit their feelings for one another. I had no choice but to take action.

Of course, I didn’t plan the hospitalization. That was just a happy accident, really.

Once I saw them together at my bedside, I realized the opportunity I’d been presented.

Now, I just need to milk it.

“You and Derek have been so helpful. I don’t know how I’d be faring without you both.”

She nods and fluffs my pillow.

“He’s a good man, Whitney.”

“I know.”

“You love him?”

She rears back, surprised.

Oops.

I press a hand to my heart as if a sudden spasm is causing me pain. She forgets my question and worries over me.

I change course.

“Derek won’t be filling in for His Royal Highness anymore.”

Her brows furrow over her jade green eyes, eyes I hope to see on the faces of my future grandchildren someday.

“Of course,” she says, understanding.

“I’ll need him to take over some of my duties. I’ve been obstinate when it comes to passing the reins, but it’s time.” She nods, keeping quiet as I continue, “We’ll have Ryan fill in for him.”

“Really?”

Oh good, she’s disappointed.

“Though now might be a good time for you to transition out of your role as well.”

Her forehead crinkles. “Quit working as Princess Elena?”

I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Consider it.”

It’s hard not to smile. I didn’t realize I had such an evil streak.

There’s another knock on the door—my cardiologist here to do a morning checkup. Whitney excuses herself and the second she’s gone, I perk up, reaching over for my breakfast tray.

I’m starving.

“Morning doctor.”

“Hey Cal. How’d you hold up over night?”

“Nothing to report. Hey listen, while I’ve got you here, is there any way you could make my prognosis sound worse than it is?”

He frowns, confused. “How so?”

“Oh, just maybe only having a few weeks to live. That sort of thing.”

Thirty years my junior, he still has the audacity to shoot me a reproachful glare.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. The beta blocker we’ve got you on should do the trick. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

I sigh, deeply disappointed.

“Well damn. Don’t mention that to my grandson or Whitney if they stop you in the hall on your way out. Better they think I’m on my deathbed for now.”

Chapter Nineteen

Whitney

This morning, I woke up before Derek, tangled in his luxurious sheets, weighed down by his bronzed arm stretched across my body. He sleeps sans shirt, and the sight of his muscled shoulders and arms on full display distracted me long enough for my bladder to nearly burst.

After using the restroom as quietly as possible, I went to check on Cal and bring him breakfast, but now that I’m done, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Hang around? Make myself useful? Grab my clothes and flee? The last option sounds the best, but when I return to Derek’s room, he’s awake, in his bathroom, with the door shut. I can hear the whir of his electric toothbrush. I think fast, grabbing my phone out of my purse and stuffing myself inside Derek’s closet to place a phone call.

Carrie doesn’t answer at first. I get anxious.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

The call connects.

“Hello?” she asks, sounding half-asleep.

“Carrie, it’s me.”

“Babe, hang up,” a husky voice adds. “C’mon, it’s early.”

OH MY GOD.

“WHO WAS THAT?” I demand.

“Thomas,” she admits.

“CARRIE.”

“Jesus, stop shouting. He can hear you.”

“Tell Whitney you’ll call her back,” Thomas says, probably reaching for the phone to disconnect me.

“No! I need help! Carrie, tell Thomas to stop listening.”

“Thomas stop listening.”

“No,” he says simply.

I sigh. “Fine. Just…I need help.”

“Where are you?” she asks. “It sounds like you’re underground.”

“I’m hiding in Derek’s closet.”

Thomas groans.

Carrie actually laughs. “You’re what? Does he know you’re in there? In his house, I mean?”

What does she take me for?! A stalker!? Just because we trailed Fudge Guy to his car one time, now I’m some kind of crazy person?

“Yes! Of course he knows I’m here—in the house, that is. Not in his closet.”

The sink turns off in the bathroom. I’m running out of time!

I cup my hand over my mouth to quell my voice. “I slept over here last night, but I don’t know what to do. Stay? Act cute? Casual? As if I do this sort of thing all the time?”

“She’s overthinking it,” Thomas replies.

“Tell him to stop listening! This is a private conversation!”

Then, before either of them can answer, the closet door is pulled open and Derek is standing there, looking down at me—blinding me with sunlight and his sculpted physique.

“And don’t call me again!” I shout into the phone before hanging up. “Damn telemarketers.”

Derek tilts his head, an amused smile accenting his adorably sleepy features. “Do you always take phone calls in the closet?”

I hold up my phone. “Better reception. Something to do with all the walls, I think. Anyway, good morning. I was just going to get my clothes on and get out of your hair.”

I walk past him and into the bathroom to find my bra and panties. They glare up at me from the counter as if to say, We know what you did last night.

I berate them in my head before collecting my jeans and sweater.

Derek is standing at the door of the bathroom, leaning against the frame. Arms crossed. Cool as a cucumber. Even with bedhead, he’s so damn cute, I want to lick him. Kiss him. Hug him until our bodies stick together like hot glue and popsicle sticks.

I do none of those things.

“Well, aren’t you going to turn around?” I twirl my finger in a circle so he gets the idea.

His shoots me a glare that says, I’ve seen it all anyway, but then he obliges, turning his back to me.

Smooth tan muscles taper down to his waist where gray pajama pants sit low on his hips. I stare a beat too long before swapping his boxer shorts for my panties. Then I tug on my jeans. While his back is still turned, I fold his boxers neatly in half, then again, and again until they’re small enough to stuff into my pocket. Hopefully he won’t miss them. They’re mine now.

“Where are you off to so early?” he asks.

“I have a big day. Work and all that.”

“Heather’s having someone fill in for you.”

“Who?” I demand.

“Does it matter?”

I guess not.

“If you’re freaking out over what I said last night…”

I freeze with my sweater halfway on, covering my eyes. I can’t see a goddamn thing.

“What thing?” I ask tentatively through the nylon-polyester blend.

His hands suddenly yank my sweater the rest of the way down so his gaze meets mine. Oh good, eye contact. My favorite thing.

“That I’m falling for you. You heard that, didn’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Okay. So that really did happen. I wasn’t sure.”

“Do you have any thoughts about it?”

“Love? In general? I think it’s good.”

“Whitney…”

“I don’t know, Derek.” I feel caged in in his bathroom, put on the spot. He’s blocking my only exit and I can’t really go out the window seeing as we’re a million stories off the ground in a freaking castle. “I need time to think about things. Yesterday morning we were fighting and then last night…well, I can’t even look in the direction of your shower without my knees going weak. Now you’re asking me to break down my emotions?” I tap my temple. “It’s a jumbled mess in here. Chaos, really. I’m trying not to worry about Cal, trying not to make the wrong move with you. I thought about leaving before you woke up so I’d look cool, but you ruined that.” I toss my hands up in defeat.

“Sorry?” he says, bemused.

“Apology accepted.” I start to move around him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to see Cal one more time before I go back to my dorm—”

His palm stops me in my tracks, flat against my chest. He’s not exerting pressure, really, but his hand is steady and big and the gesture is clear: Stay put.

“I won’t leave you again.”

I’m a tiny bird perched on a wire, ready to take flight at a moment’s notice.

“What?”

“I won’t do what I did eight years ago.”

My heart beats against his palm as he stares down at me expectantly. Yesterday, we supposedly put this behind us, didn’t we? That fight on the float was about me not giving him a clean slate.

I should laugh this off. Minimize the ache.

Derek continues before I can.

“Back then, you opened up to me about your family. That day in the coffee shop when you cried? Do you remember? Your parents weren’t coming down for Thanksgiving and you felt alone and you opened up to me about it. I was your friend and, through my own thoughtlessness, I hurt you when you were at your most vulnerable. I left and didn’t even say goodbye. I sent you an email.”

I don’t flinch. I remain perfectly still like that tiny bird, wings at the ready.

“I know we said the past was in the past, but that’s not how life works. I hurt you then and I’d like to make up for it, to earn your trust again.” He tilts his head. “Won’t you say something?”

The muscles around my throat are constricted. Speech is an ability I don’t possess at the moment.

“Whitney,” he says, lifting my chin gently to get a better look at me.

His soft brown eyes are marred with worry. He’s just cracked himself open for me, and though more words fail me, I do manage a quick, “Yes. Okay. I’ll try,” before lifting up onto my toes and kissing him. Then I stay there, my face pressed against his so we’re cheek to cheek. We’ve slept wrapped up in one another and it shows. We carry the same scent. His soap mingles in the air between us.

I brush my cheek against his rough stubble, enjoying the burn for a moment before stepping back and taking his hand so we can go check on Cal together.

*

If I’d realized the whirlwind that was in store for us in the coming days, I likely would have stuck around in that room a little longer, barricaded the door, soaked in time with Derek while I still had the chance. With Cal on sick leave, Derek is now essentially running Fairytale Kingdom on his own. He’s busier than ever. I never see him. When I go to check on Cal, Derek’s not in the penthouse. When I walk through the Underground, I look for him incessantly (much to the annoyance of Carrie) but he’s nowhere in sight. I spot Heather every now and then, but even she maintains a near-sprint pace at all times, hand wrapped around her growing belly.

Ryan has officially moved back into the role of His Royal Highness. The first day I saw him, I prepared myself for the worst, thinking maybe he’d still be angry with me for the other night, but he smiled and shrugged. “Friends?”

We shook on it and that was that. He’s been in the parade with me as well and now, I get married to him instead of Derek. I try not to feel too sad about it. Ryan’s not so bad, really. We make it fun and silly. I lie and tell him he’s just supposed to kiss me on the cheek and Thomas never corrects us. After my hardcore make-out with Derek on the first day of the parade, he probably agrees that less is more.

We have a new addition during the meet-and-greets as well. A young man, dressed up as a footman in the castle, is now stationed behind me during all my sessions as Princess Elena. He’s a security guard. At 6’5’’, he’s massive, with scarred knuckles and shoulders so wide I once saw him turn sideways to fit through a doorway. I half-expect the children to run shrieking in fear when they see him, but there’s something inherently soft about him. It’s his gap-toothed smile, I think. A new routine develops pretty quickly. The children come to me first and take their picture, and then they run to him, begging him to flex his muscles. When he does, they shriek with amazed delight.

Two weeks pass like this. Autumn settles in and Halloween is only a few days away. My trip to NYC looms on the horizon and I try hard to come up with ways to get out of it. I even think of using Cal’s illness, but he chides me when I bring it up to him.

“You need to go. See them. Support Avery.”

Haven’t I supported Avery enough in my life?

Carrie and Thomas are attached at the hip. They don’t even attempt to hide their obsessive devotion to one another. They talk in baby voices and use names like “bubbie” and “sweetums”. Their hands are fused at all times. They only begrudgingly separate when they encounter some unmovable obstruction, like a concrete pillar, then they pass it and immediately link together again like two NASA-grade magnets. Thomas joins us for lunch every day. They share food. Once, he fed her his sandwich before I said, “No. That’s the line. You found it.”

After work, they’re always sucking faces. Not wanting to intrude or accidentally get my face sucked, I head back to my dorm and hang out with the girls. When they’re not ratting each other out about roommate grievances or pestering me about Derek updates, they make good company. Sometimes, I help them with their school assignments and give them pointers for how to study for a certain exam. After all, I took all the same courses not all that long ago. Occasionally, they invade my room and we binge-watch Friends. Most of them have never seen it. Which one is Phoebe, again? Dear God, is it really up to me to properly educate this nation’s youth?

I don’t think it was Derek’s intention to give me this much space after our chat in his room. It’s not as if we’re avoiding each other. We text whenever we can, we play phone tag, and we see each other in sporadic bursts.

One day, on my way to the parade warehouse, I see him with a group of suited men and women walking down Castle Drive. I stop, transfixed by the sight of him at the helm, speaking to the group while pointing out something on the horizon.

He glances in my direction as they pass and winks at me without breaking stride.

My legs turn into Jell-O.

The next day, he knocks on the door of my dorm at 6 AM.

I assume it’s one of the girls—in need of a tampon or a shoulder to complain on—and I politely tell them to scram before I tuck my head underneath my pillow.

“Whitney, open the door.”

When my sleepy brain connects the dots—that sounds like Derek, that IS Derek, Derek is OUTSIDE—I fling my pillow across the room and make a mad dash for the door. It’s whipped open, he’s tugged inside by the lapels of his suit jacket, and we kiss like we’re addicts breaking our sobriety streak. The sign proclaiming the days since our last hit reverts to zero.

“Come inside,” I plead, tugging him into my evil lair so I can devour him whole.

“I can’t,” he half-laughs, half-groans. “I have to get into the office. We have a board meeting and I need to prepare so I don’t look like an ass.”

Speaking of asses… My hands find his.

Later, when I’ve had coffee, I’ll blush thinking back on this encounter.

With one last soul-stealing kiss, he tells me to go back to sleep. He just wanted to say hi.

Impossible.

That night, I try to work up the courage to text him the truth. In the end, I wimp out.

Whitney: I miss you so much.

Whitney: I really want to see you for longer than these five-second stretches.

Whitney: Hi. Are you busy?

He doesn’t reply for two hours.

Derek: Sorry, I was at dinner with some of our London team. They were in town for the meeting this morning and they fly out tomorrow. Are you still awake? Can I call?

The next morning, I see the text and a missed call and my heart sinks.

I regret my early bedtime. Derek and I could have talked! Maybe even had phone sex!

I throw myself back onto my pillow and dig my palms into my eyes, groaning with annoyance. I need to see him.

Two weeks after the day Derek kissed me on the float, I’m working a shift as Princess Elena and it’s dragging in a way they never used to. Without Derek by my side, I don’t look forward to work. I can’t muster up the same enthusiasm when a girl looks up at me with big googly eyes and tells me I’m her hero. I want to love my job the way I used to, but there’s no ignoring the fact that my old life is suddenly not good enough. I start to realize I’ve outgrown my role as a part-time princess.

On my way to my dressing room after my shift, I have my phone in hand, trying to come up with some way to, without sounding like a psycho, convey to Derek that I’m going to spin out into a full existential crisis if I don’t see him soon.

Then a hand grabs my forearm and I’m tugged to the side, into a dark room. The door slams shut behind me and I shriek.

“I have money! Back in my dressing room. And snacks! You like Fig Newtons?!”

My abductor chuckles and the light is flipped on. I blink, quickly taking in the room where I’ll likely be held captive for the next several months. In one corner, there are boxes stacked to the ceiling. One of them says FLOUR on the side. Good, I can use it to make a sort of paste to eat so I can survive down here.

Then I look at my captor.

Derek stands there, suited up, handsome, calm in the face of my panic.

I immediately rush toward him and pound my fists into his chest. “You scared the hell out of me!”

He lets me go at him another moment or two before catching my wrists. I try to wiggle free but he doesn’t let me.

“Forgive me?” he says, bending down to kiss my cheek.

I jerk my face away.

I thought I was going to have to share my Fig Newtons or eat flour paste. I’m pissed.

He backs me up against the door, holding my wrists, annoyingly strong. I’m breathing hard, trying to slice him with my narrowed gaze. His hips meet mine, pinning me, and he bends down again, his lips a whisper against my skin.

“Forgive me?”

Then he kisses my neck, and the tension in my stomach gives way to something else. A soft, warm flutter. His mouth trails lower, closer to the edge of my deep square neckline. Since I’m still in costume, he has access to too much of my skin. His lips are everywhere, begging me to give in. I curse Costuming for not putting me in a turtleneck.

“Whitney,” he begs, and I can’t hold out.

Two weeks have felt like two years and I whimper as his lips find a sensitive spot beneath my collarbone. He hears the soft sound and it’s all the green light he needs. His lips find mine and we kiss with a frenzy, like we’re each other’s only hope for survival. Kiss me or the world will come to an end. His tongue sweeps across mine and I bite his lip, and I must draw blood. I taste it as his hand covers my breast over my dress, angry at the amount of material that separates our skin. There’s a zipper in the back of my bodice; with a sharp tug, it’s loose enough for him to tug it down and cover me with his palm. I shiver with pleasure. Impatient and possessive, neither one of us is taking the time to do this the civilized way.

His other hand is tugging up my tulle skirt, fighting against the forty-five layers until his fingers find my bare leg and then skim up across the soft triangle of fabric between my legs. Back and forth, he brushes teasingly before he tugs my panties aside. My eyes squeeze shut. Already, I’m close, hovering on the precipice, wild with want as voices drift in and out from the hallway on the other side of the door. Near us. Behind us. The door handle shakes and someone curses.

My eyes fly open.

Alarm bells ring.

Derek holds his finger up to my lips in warning and we stay silent.

“Who locked this?” a woman asks, annoyed.

“Not sure. Wasn’t me.”

“Dammit,” she groans. “I gotta go get my key. C’mon.”

“Shit,” Derek curses under his breath, stepping back, taking my heart with him. I sag against the door, trying to catch my breath.

With slow perusal, Derek carries his gaze up my body, memorizing me.

I don’t cover myself, though I want to. The adoration in his eyes pins my arms by my sides.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “C’mon. Crap. This was stupid. We need to get out of here.”

He helps fix my dress and assures me I don’t look too thoroughly ravaged. Then he cracks the door, nods, and gently pushes me out. He follows and just like that, we’re back in the hall, passing other employees as if he didn’t just have his hand up my skirt.

I feel cranky and unsatisfied.

He must feel the same way because we don’t say a word as we walk together, side by side, eyes straight ahead.

“When can I see you again?” I ask once we turn a corner.

“Tonight?”

“We’re having a Halloween-themed movie night in the dorm. Hocus Pocus. The girls will kill me if I cancel.”

“Tomorrow I’ve got meetings all day. Then there’s the trick-or-treat event in the park.”

“Thomas and Carrie are hosting a Halloween party at his apartment tomorrow night. Will you be there?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll try.”

His hand finds mine and our fingers link together.

“I never thought I’d miss working as His Royal Highness,” he says, giving me a private smile.

I manage a meager smile in response just before his phone rings. He sighs. Apparently, our time is up.

I love Halloween as much as the next pumpkin-spice-drinking, decorating-for-fall-in-July girl, but my heart isn’t in it this year. Even the Oscar-worthy performances in Hocus Pocus can’t turn my mood around. The next day in the park, all the children are dressed in costumes with their candy buckets at the ready. After each photo I take, I dole out a piece of candy, and before I know it, my shift is over and I’m headed to have dinner with Cal. It’s later than usual by the time I arrive.

He’s sitting at the window in his living room, looking out at the park. It’s filled with trick-or-treaters still running around, trying to overflow their buckets. Tonight, the park will stay open later than usual. It’s why Derek is still out there working. No rest for the weary.

“It’s your favorite day of the year,” I tell Cal, coming to stand beside him.

It’s a day that proves there just might be a little bit of real magic going on behind the scenes at Fairytale Kingdom. As soon as the last trick-or-treater leaves the park, employees will immediately start taking down and hauling away all the Halloween decorations. While they’re still in motion, a second wave of employees will follow, ushering in Christmas. All year, our decorating team prepares for tonight. In the flowerbeds, fall mums are swapped for poinsettias. Pre-fluffed, pre-lit Christmas trees are placed on their marks. Wreaths and garland are hung across Castle Drive. The entire village is lit with thousands upon thousands of Christmas lights. Every year, I think, No. There’s no way they’ll manage to do it all in one night.

And yet they always do.

I usually sit here, perched next to Cal, staying up far past my bedtime just to watch everyone at work. Tonight, that’s my plan as well, but Cal seems confused by it.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

I glance down at my phone, rereading my texts from earlier.

Whitney: Any chance you can make it to Thomas’ party?

Derek: Not sure. I don’t want to get your hopes up. I promise things will slow down soon.

Whitney: No worries. I know you’re busy.

Derek: Want to meet me for a quick dinner? I might have time around 8 PM.

Whitney: I’m supposed to see Cal tonight. Could you join us?

Derek: I’ll try.

An hour ago, he texted again.

Derek: Can’t make dinner. I’m with the holiday team going through a final check before the park closes and things get underway. I’m sorry.

Whitney: No, it’s okay. Good luck. XX

“Nope,” I tell Cal, pocketing my phone. “It’s just you and me tonight.”

“Derek works too hard,” he says, probably catching a glimpse of my text messages.

“Derek’s not my only friend, you know. I have other places I could be. Carrie and Thomas are having a party.”

“Then why on earth are you here with me?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine. You know that. Next week, I plan on returning to work.”

I frown. “Really? Already?”

“It won’t be like before. I’m going to take a step back, help Derek transition into the Director of Operations role and make sure he has a good team around him so he can delegate. He can’t continue at the pace he’s working now. As it is, I don’t think he’s slept more than a few hours in the last two weeks.” He stands. “No, c’mon, you’re not hanging out here with me all night. I want you to go have fun.”

I resist. “I don’t even have a costume. It’s fine. I’m happy just hanging out with you.”

“Nonsense. Now, follow me. I have an idea.”

Chapter Twenty

Whitney

“You’re kidding,” Carrie says dryly.

I hold out my hands. “What?”

“Most of the women here are dressed like they’ve lost half their clothes and you show up like this.”

I spin in a circle. “What’s wrong with my costume?”

Thomas steps up behind Carrie at the door and doubles over in laughter. “You nailed it! You win.”

I smile. “Thank you. Now, are you going to invite me inside or am I just going to stand out here in the hall all night?”

Just then, two women dressed up like sexy witches brush past me. They give me a once-over before frowning in confusion.

“I’m Charles Knightley,” I declare proudly.

Their smiles say they feel deeply sorry for me.

They shouldn’t. I look amazing.

Cal let me raid his closet. I’m wearing a purple linen shirt tucked into my jeans, and a small navy scarf is knotted around my neck in the French style. A call from Cal to the night crew in the Costuming Department produced a white beard that’s now glued to my jaw. My hair is tucked in a bun underneath one of Cal’s straw fedoras. He even let me borrow his watch, and an extra pair of his reading glasses hang from a lanyard around my neck.

The witches disappear inside and I glance back at Carrie—who, by the way, isn’t dressed all that sexy either. She has her hair slicked back into a half-up bun. She’s wearing a laced leather jerkin over tight black pants. There’s a dagger and a thin sword holstered at her waist. She looks like a medieval assassin.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Then I snap my fingers with realization. “Duh, you’re Arya.”

I turn to Thomas and take in his matching leather vest and trousers. “Which makes you…Gendry?”

He holds up a helmet in the shape of a bull’s head and beams, proud that I guessed right. They usher me inside and offer me something to drink. I accept whatever they have sitting in a massive punchbowl and then cough dramatically after the first sip, because holy hell.

“Is this moonshine?” I ask, wheezing.

“Just really strong punch,” Carrie assures me. “Thomas asked me to make it and I wasn’t sure of the correct ratio.”

“Maybe next time ask Jeeves for a little help? I think this just burned through the lining of my esophagus.”

Carrie rolls her eyes and throws her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be a baby. Drink up and c’mon—I need you to be my partner in this beer pong game Thomas is forcing me to play.”

Thomas, brave soul that he is, has invited way too many people into his apartment. Sure, he has plenty of space since he lives in exec housing a few floors below Derek, but every time I look up, it’s like the party has doubled in size. Or maybe I’m just seeing double? Who knows. Carrie and I suck at beer pong and are forced to drink a lot of her crappy punch.

I recognize most of the people here from around the park, though some of them must be Thomas’ friends as well because I don’t know the guy dressed like Einstein trying to get my attention.

“Our costumes could be friends,” he says, pointing between us.

We look like two old dudes.

I laugh. “Yeah, we should be playing chess in a park or grumbling about the merits of Brexit.”

He grins. “Exactly. Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” I explain it and he laughs. “Is it weird that I still think you’re hot even with the beard?”

I’ve had exactly enough alcohol to think this comment is hilarious. It’s not. Sober me is rolling her eyes.

He extends his hand, I think to introduce himself, but Carrie drags me away. It’s funny. My costume should be turning men in the other direction, but I think they’re just curious about who the hell I’m supposed to be. Once we’re back in the kitchen, I check my phone for the one hundredth time, hoping Derek will text or call. He hasn’t.

I don’t want to be obsessively thinking about him. It’d be great if I could throw myself into this party like everyone else, but there’s this overwhelming sense of disinterest since Derek isn’t here. I don’t want to suffer through small talk with other guys. I just want Derek.

When I slide my phone into my back pocket, I glance up and spot Ryan over in the corner with some friends and I wave. He’s dressed like a pirate with a fake parrot perched on his shoulder. He waves back but doesn’t make his way over to me. It’s for the best.

Carrie finds me again, tugging me in the direction of the coffee table where she and Thomas have set up a Ouija board. I groan.

“Seriously?”

“Yes! It’s Halloween,” Thomas says. “Shit is about to get spooky. Someone kill the lights!”

It takes approximately forty-five minutes for people to locate the light switches around his apartment—“The left one. No, that one controls the fan.”—but eventually, Thomas’ place is plunged into darkness. A few phone flashlights are tapped on to illuminate the board.

For one second, a trickle of fear runs down my spine. Then a guy asks where the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos went.

“Whitney, take the other side,” Carrie says, pushing the Ouija board’s heart-shaped magnifying piece toward me. Together, we take on the supernatural.

“Someone ask a question,” Thomas prompts the room.

“Is Whitney a virgin?”

I flip the crowd my middle finger and everyone laughs. We’ve all reverted back to tween-dom and soon enough, we’re asking the board the most ridiculous questions.

“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop?”

“Who stole the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos?”

“Is the spirit of Elvis Presley among us?”

We’ve just identified that Elvis is, in fact, in the building—“Tell him I said hi!” someone shouts—when the door to Thomas’ apartment opens, flooding the living room with light. In theme with our current activity, we all scream our heads off.

Crouched over the Ouija board, I can’t see over the crowd, but Thomas stands and laughs, telling everyone to settle down. “It’s just Derek. Hey man, come on in.”

DEREK!

I leap to my feet, flinging the Ouija board away from me. It hits a guy in the face and he groans in pain.

The lights in the apartment are turned back on and the crowd disperses, but I stand at the coffee table, trying to find Derek. There. Thomas is waving him over in our direction. He’s still in his clothes from work, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He must have come straight here and I bet he’s exhausted.

I reach up to fix my hair before realizing I’m still dressed as an old man.

I scan the crowd quickly, trying to locate one of those slutty witches. I need your outfit! Now! Switch with me!

It’s too late. Derek finds me in all my glory. I wave and a whole range of expressions flash across his face in a matter of seconds: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Or is that delight?

Hard to tell.

When he reaches me, I’m still standing in a group with Thomas and Carrie, and I’m not sure how he wants me to act. We aren’t dating, really. I mean, are we? I don’t know. Now doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to ask for clarification. I don’t even know how to properly greet him. If I had it my way, I’d throw my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his waist, and make him carry me like a baby koala back to his apartment. Instead, I extend a courteous hand.

“Hello Derek, good to see you.”

It’s formal and discreet. He should be proud.

Instead he shakes his head, smiling before taking my hand and using it to tug me in his direction, right through the middle of the circle.

So much for discretion.

“You’re absolutely insane,” he says before bending down to kiss my cheek, just above the edge of my beard.

“Do you know who I’m supposed to be?” I ask.

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I did a good job, though, didn’t I?”

I hold up my watch. It’s the twin to Derek’s. We clink them together like we’re middle schoolers fitting together two halves of a friendship necklace.

“It’s eerie,” he says, tugging on one of the tails of my neck scarf. “You’re a miniature version of him.”

“And what’s your costume?” I ask, teasing.

“Overworked asshole?” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to get ahold of these last few weeks.”

“It hasn’t been so bad,” I say, shrugging. He arches a brow and I look away, sheepishly admitting, “Okay, it’s been a little bad.”

“I’d kiss you right now, but I’m not sure I know where your lips are underneath that beard. Can you take it off?”

“It’s glued to my skin. Permanently, I’m afraid.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Carrie and I tried to rip it off a few minutes ago because it’s getting itchy and it won’t budge. What if I look like this forever?”

He narrows one eye, thinking it over. “I’d get used to it.”

“Yeah?”

“Not worth breaking up over.”

“Breaking up?”

My voice comes out squeaky high.

He likes my reaction. He’s grinning with the confidence of a warlord. “Unless you want to take things slow?”

Slow? No. I want to speed things up. If I had a car, I’d stuff him in the trunk and drive us to a drive-thru chapel in Vegas. Elvis would really be in that building.

“So it’s officially official?” I ask.

“Officially,” he confirms, like we’ve just executed a contract.

We shake on it.

Then our hands linger, and we have quite the audience watching us at this point. I think they’re genuinely confused about our interaction. I mean…I’m wearing a beard and Derek Knightley is staring down at me with sappy eyes.

“Are you guys done being weird? Because I want to play another game of beer pong. Whiterek versus Thomarrie,” Thomas says, ushering us toward the table set up near the back windows.

“Whiterek actually sounds like the name of a real athlete,” I point out, as if this alone proves we’ll be the victors. Derek seems to agree.

“Are you sure about this? I’m completely sober,” he says to Thomas. “We’re going to win handily.”

Thomas points directly at me. “You might want to hold off on making claims like that until you see your partner play.”

“Oh come on! That’s uncalled for! Derek, as my boyfriend, I think you should beat him up.”

Isn’t that the number one perk of being in a relationship? Having a lackey to fight all your battles?

During my first turn, I take careful aim and then let that sucker fly. The ping pong ball bounces off the table, hits the window, and then smacks into the back of Dracula’s head. It’s the same guy I hit in the face with the Ouija board.

He whips around, fangs bared. “Seriously? Again?”

To be fair, he should probably just avoid me.

When I’m up again, Derek slides up behind me and attempts to direct my toss. I’m immediately distracted by the feel of his body pressed fully against mine.

Thomas calls foul. “Cheating! No. Don’t touch her.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Derek points out. “I’m just hugging her.”

“You’re aiming the ball for her!” Carrie says in outrage, pointing to where Derek’s hand cradles mine.

“We’re just holding hands,” I say with an innocent voice.

Leave us alone! We’re in love!

Then Derek flicks my wrist for me, and the ball flies and lands in one of their cups with a satisfying plunk.

Thomas tells Derek he can go screw himself before scooping out the ping pong ball and shooting back the punch from inside the cup.

Sadly, even with us cheating, we still lose.

Derek thinks I should make an appointment to get my eyes checked because he’s unsure how someone can be that bad at beer pong. I tell him it’s an art.

We mingle for a little bit, pilfer some snacks that look like they’ve had the least amount of hands dipped into them, and then Derek nods toward the door.

“Want to get out of here?”

“Really? Because I was hoping we could hang out here for another hour, maybe eat some more stale chips and—”

My sarcasm is cut off when he tugs me over to say bye to Carrie and Thomas. They’re still dominating at the beer pong table. I think they might try to go pro. They don’t even care that we’re leaving early. Carrie waves, not realizing I’m standing right beside her because she’s too busy lining up her shot. She ends up brushing her hand down my beard and remains wholly unfazed. It’s like she always fondles my beard when we say goodbye to each other.

“Have a good night!”

Out in the hall, Derek leads me toward the bank of elevators.

“So am I spending the night?” I ask, playing the cool girl.

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Nothing’s obvious when you’ve had as many drinks as I have.”

He smiles and presses his hand to the small of my back. “Let’s go, champ.”

Inside the elevator, I tug on my beard. It stays fused to my face. I recall my parents’ old reprimand: “If you keep making that face, it’ll stick like that.” It appears that lesson is finally hitting home. I will forever look like an 80-year-old man. I must whimper in distress because Derek chuckles and loops his arms around my shoulders as we arrive on his floor.

“C’mon, I’ll help you get it off.”

In the end, he props me on his bathroom counter and stands between my legs, rubbing an alcohol-soaked cotton swab carefully beneath the edges of the beard.

He concentrates as if he’s performing open-heart surgery. He’s so gentle, working slowly so he doesn’t rip my skin off by accident. I was very clear with him that I like my skin.

“Where did you get this glue?” he asks.

“Someone from Costuming brought it over.”

“Ah. Right. I guess that makes sense. They want these beards to stay put on people who are In Character all day.”

He works another piece of the beard off as I hold still, watching him.

It should be boring, but it’s not. I have unhindered access to his face. Up close and personal. I study his nose (straight, cute if noses can be considered so) and his forehead (seemingly an appropriate size, currently wrinkled in concentration), his eyebrows (brown, thick enough to offset his strong features) and the little freckles that are barely visible on his nose. He has a tiny scar on his left cheek I never noticed before.

“You’re so beautiful,” I say.

He chuckles but keeps his attention on his work. “You’re swaying.”

Am I? I thought I was holding perfectly still.

I go back to studying his face.

“I didn’t like these last two weeks,” I admit quietly.

“Me neither.”

“I missed you.”

“You never said so,” he says, eyes flitting to mine.

“I was trying to play it cool.”

He hums and tugs a little more of the beard off my face, and I wonder if someone donning a costume like mine can ever really be considered cool.

“And I knew you were busy, so I kept myself busy too,” I confess.

“Once, I drove by your dorm and nearly demanded you get in my car even though it was midnight.”

My heart soars. “You should have!”

He grins.

I wrap my legs around his waist and he keeps working. FINALLY, my beard is tugged off and I’m a free woman. I turn back to look in the mirror and am greeted by splotchy red skin. Specks of the glue still hang from my face. In other words, I am a vision.

Since there’s no way in hell we’re about to get it on—I wouldn’t even kiss me right now—I decide to use this opportunity for something equally as important.

I turn back around. “Let’s have a state of the union address.”

His brow quirks. “Meaning?”

“We make sure you and I are on the same page. Relationship-wise.”

He tugs off his tie and walks into his closet to hang it up. “Shouldn’t we do this in the morning?”

“I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.” Wrong. I could lie down on this counter and be out in five seconds flat, but I’m worried I’ll chicken out if I wait until the morning, when I’m stone-cold sober.

“All right, then,” he says, walking back into the bathroom a few moments later, after having changed. He’s bare-chested above a pair of gray pajama bottoms, and my heart stumbles over itself, trying to keep up.

As if I’m ogling when I shouldn’t be, my eyes shoot to the ceiling as blood rushes up my neck and cheeks. Oh good, my face wasn’t red enough.

Derek chuckles.

My embarrassment only amuses him.

He sits on the lip of the tub, facing me, legs crossed at the ankles.

He is smooth confidence and refinement. I’m the previously bearded lady. The gap between us has never felt quite so obvious.

I wait for him to begin, to take the helm and explain in detail what exactly we’re doing, but he stays silent. Watching me. Waiting.

I clear my throat dramatically before starting. “So…we’re in a relationship?”

I leave it hanging like a question.

“Yes.”

“If I call you my boyfriend in public, you won’t deny it.”

“Why would—”

“Just agree or disagree.”

“Agreed.”

“Wow.”

If I wanted to, I could stick my head out the window of his bathroom right now and tell everyone outside I’m dating Derek Knightley. What a time to be alive.

“That’s it for me.”

He laughs and stays put on the tub. Apparently, we aren’t quite done. “There are other things to discuss.”

My gaze is caught on his chest when I ask, “Like what?”

“With Cal back in the office next week, I won’t be as busy, but it’s still going to be hard to find time for each other if you’re working two jobs.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”

“You might have to retire your post as a residence hall manager.”

“Really? But I like that job.”

It’s so fun. Kind of. Lately, I suppose it has been more of a chore than anything else, one more thing keeping me from Derek.

“Okay, so if you enjoy that job, maybe you can cut back your hours at the park.”

“Never!”

“So then we’ll see each other next year sometime?” he asks flatly. “Maybe I can pencil you in for some time in May.”

“Point taken.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” he prods.

“In your bed. You’re drizzling chocolate sauce down my body.”

“Whitney.” He tries to level me with a Be serious glare, but I have rug burn on my face, I’m still dressed up like his grandfather, and there’s enough alcohol in my system to sedate a bull.

“Fine.” I close my eyes as if really trying to imagine it now. “I’m not working as Princess Elena anymore. Now, I’m running the park. You work for me. You call me Master—”

With my eyes closed, I don’t see him move until he suddenly hauls me up off the counter, and I burst into laughter as he carries me into his bedroom.

I spank his butt like I’m playing conga drums.

He tosses me onto the bed and stands over me.

“You’re drunk.”

I hold up my fingers so they’re pinched together, only separated by a millimeter. “Only this much.”

He takes off my shoes and drops them on the floor.

My socks go next.

“Seductive,” I tease, rolling my tongue like I’m speaking Spanish.

My jeans are tugged off along with Cal’s vest.

“Wait, if we’re going to have sex, will you make me some coffee first? I want to remember our first time and my head is spinning.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Derek

Whitney is still disappointed we aren’t having sex tonight.

We’re standing side by side, brushing our teeth in the bathroom. She’s drowning in one of my t-shirts, cheeks still inflamed from that stupid glue.

“C’mon, just a quickie?” she asks, toothpaste spilling out of her mouth.

It’s ridiculous that she’s still attractive.

“Spit,” I tell her, and she does before rinsing out her mouth.

“How about a hand job?”

I level her with a glare and she throws up her hands.

“This relationship is dead already. Look at us—day one and we’re already going to sleep like two old people. No kissing. Just proper dental hygiene followed by lights out.”

She crawls under the covers on my bed and brings them up to her chin. She’s a floating head, encased in white sheets. Her red hair fans out wildly around her.

“What’s next—are you going to read me a bedtime story?” It’s said in jest, but then her eyes light up. “Wait! Yes.”

I leave to go get her some water and an Advil for the morning. I half-expect her to be asleep when I return, but she’s right where I left her, smiling, patting the bed where I’m supposed to sit.

Apparently, she was serious about the bedtime story.

“I’m reading a Stephen King book.”

“Ooooh spooky. Perfect for Halloween.”

“I’m two-thirds of the way through. You won’t understand what’s going on,” I say as I sit down beside her, propped up by pillows as I open my paperback to where I last left off.

“Yes I will,” she insists.

One page in, she turns, curls up against my side, and closes her eyes. I stay up reading until she’s fast asleep. I should be glad she’s sleeping off some of the alcohol, but I’m not. I kind of…miss her.

In the morning, I cook us breakfast with what I have on hand. After a busy few weeks, my fridge and pantry are all but empty. I peel an orange, toast some bread, and shake out enough cereal from the bottom of the box to make us each a small bowl of mostly crumbs. Whitney walks right out of my bedroom, darts around the island, and comes straight to me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

“Sorry about last night.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“I keep having flashbacks of our conversation, and yes…I definitely need to apologize.”

I chuckle and turn around, lifting her chin. Her face is back to normal, and I tell her so.

She brushes her cheek with her palm, relief evident in her gaze.

“Can I help?” she asks, glancing down at the counter. “Here, let me take over and you go sit at the table and don’t lift a finger. It’s the least I can do.”

“Breakfast is already done. Coffee’s on the table. Juice too. Well, some juice. We’ll have to share a glass.”

“What about silverware?”

“Beside the plates.”

“Okay, well, sign me up for dish duty, at least.”

It’s nice sitting across from her, eating toast, sipping coffee. It’s the most normal activity in the world, but there’s more emphasis on it now that we’re doing it together.

Whitney’s quiet, and I assume she’s probably tackling quite the hangover, so I don’t bother her.

When my plate is clean, I stand and her hand shoots out to stop me.

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

*

Whitney wants me to go with her to New York in a week.

It seems all but impossible with everything I have going on right now. I should be working in my sleep, especially with Cal still on sick leave, but I don’t say any of this to Whitney. I know why she’s asking, and I know she never would have brought it up if she didn’t really need me.

Besides, when she broached the subject, she made me a promise.

“After New York, I’ll decide what I want to do about my future. Okay? I’ll give you a five-year plan, and I promise to be serious about it, too.”

I bring it up to Heather and Cal the next day and Heather’s eyes go wide.

“Are you crazy? Are you both crazy?”

“Make it work. I’ll fly up on Friday, be there in time for her sister’s show, and return Saturday. With Whitney.”

Cal is fully on board. He won’t hear of Whitney going to New York without me.

“I told you those trips are always so difficult for her. She’ll do better with you by her side.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Whitney

My plane plops me down in New York City at 9:00 PM the following Wednesday. My parents originally booked my flight for 6:20 AM. I changed it last minute. I told them I had to because I couldn’t take another day off work, but really, I’m trying to cut down on the length of the trip out of self-preservation.

My dad is waiting for me at baggage claim, impatiently looking over and around other passengers to find me. He’s wearing a Yankees hat and a matching t-shirt. His face is hard, unsmiling, even when he finally spots me.

He’s always been good at complaining. It’s the first thing he does. No, Hey, how are you? Just, “Can you believe this airport? Jesus, it’s the middle of the night and it’s still this crowded. Did you check a bag? No? Good. Come on.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Asleep.”

Outside, he flags down a cab. Then, with his hand still in the air, he gives me a once-over. “You look skinny. You eating down there in Georgia?”

I didn’t have time for dinner because I cut it too close at the airport. I wolfed down a packet of peanuts like a rabid squirrel midflight, eyeing my neighbor’s bag greedily while he took his sweet time, eating them one by one, obnoxiously crunching them with his front teeth. After warring over a shared armrest for half the flight, I think it was retribution on his part.

“Yup. I’m eating. Just working a lot.”

“Oh? Well, that’s good. Is Carly still working with you?”

He means Carrie.

“Yes.”

“What does she do again? Does she make the shoes?”

Yes, Dad. She’s a cobbler.

“Costumes, actually. Dresses.”

He’s not listening to me. Now that we’re in the cab, he’s too busy arguing with the driver about a better route to take, talking over me until I just decide to shut up.

“Dammit,” my dad says. “We missed our turn.”

I sit in the back seat, stewing in regret. I should have stayed in a hotel. I should have waited and flown up on Friday with Derek so I could have used him like a human shield. Or, even better, I should have just not come at all.

After we finally arrive at my parents’ apartment building and I tip the cab driver heftily while my dad isn’t looking, we trek up to their eighth-floor walkup while my father starts to lay out our plans for the next day.

“Avery has time for breakfast if we wake up early and go to her, so I hope you didn’t plan on sleeping in?”

There’s a long pause and I realize he expects an answer from me.

“Uh, no. I’m fine with an early breakfast.”

“Good, because then we can walk with Avery over to the theater for rehearsals. After that, your mom and I have to get to work.”

This revelation presents a classic conundrum for me. I should want them to leave and go to work and get out of my hair, but in reality, I’m upset that they didn’t even consider taking the day off to spend time with me. We haven’t seen each other in a year. It hasn’t felt like that long, but I checked my calendar, and it’s true.

A year.

In their apartment, my dad fixes up the sofa bed and I glance around the room. Not much has changed since I was last here. Their apartment isn’t so much a home as it is a shrine to my sister. Her production posters are signed and framed and hung on the walls. Her official headshots rest on the TV stand beside a basket filled with fifteen remote controls. What could they possibly need them all for? Who knows.

I doubt I make even one appearance in the place, but I’m wrong. On the fridge, half-hidden behind a magnet for Anthony’s Pizzeria, they’ve hung a photo of me from my high school graduation. They weren’t there when I graduated from college—Avery had a big audition—so this is it, apparently. Chubby-faced Whitney with a pepperoni pizza covering her hair.

I want a shower, but my dad shakes his head and warns that my mom is a light sleeper these days. Wonderful. I’ll just carry airport gunk on my person until the morning. After he goes to bed, I stand at the kitchen sink, cast in shadow—“Light keeps her up too.”—as I rinse myself off as best as possible, using my phone’s flashlight propped against the backsplash. I wash off my arms and lean over to rinse my face, but that’s about all I can manage without standing up on the counter and shoving my foot under the faucet.

As I brush my teeth in that dark lonely kitchen, spotlighted by my phone, I feel an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

It’s silly.

I don’t know why I expected anything to be different.

Time and time again, I foolishly allow myself to be let down by my parents, and that hurt only makes me angrier. The vicious cycle loops around on itself. How do they still have the capability to inflict damage? Why do I give them that power?

I finish up at the sink, and then I dig around in my suitcase for a change of clothes. Everything is a jumbled mess because I packed last minute and I can only find one sock knotted around some underwear, so I give up and decide to sleep in my dirty peanut-salt-covered airport clothes like the heathen that I am.

After I climb under the sheet of the sofa bed, I rest my head on the lumpy couch pillow and call Derek.

“Hey,” he says, answering after the first ring.

His voice is a melody, one syllable that rips straight through me. I love him for answering right away. It’s like he’s been waiting by the phone for my call. It’s like we both hate that I’m away even though I was with him just a few hours ago. He insisted on driving me to the airport. We kissed at the security checkpoint until a little boy yelled, “Ew!” and we broke apart, laughing.

“Hi,” I whisper, knowing my parents have paper thin walls.

“How was your flight?”

I want to tell him about my seatmate, and my dad, and the sink bath, but I can’t do it.

I sit there, silent, throat closing tight.

“Whitney?”

The concern in his voice strikes a chord, but I will myself not to cry.

“Sorry,” I whisper, hoping he can’t tell I’m upset.

“That bad?” he asks, knowing.

“No,” I tell him, trying to pull myself together.

This is nothing. Children are starving in the world. GET IT TOGETHER.

“I’ll be there early on Friday, but I can bump my flight up a day if you need me to?”

“No. It’s okay. I’m just tired and I have to whisper because my parents are asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

And then I hang up quickly, knowing it’s for the best.

He texts me.

Derek: Send me your parents’ address when you get the chance.

*

After what feels like only a few hours, I’m awoken by the sound of my parents moving around the small apartment. My dad tries—and fails—to be quiet as he makes a pot of coffee. Cling. Clang. Crash. It’s like he’s never been in a kitchen before. My mom has the TV on in their bedroom.

I sit up and wipe my eyes, abandoning the notion of sleep.

My mom steps out of their bedroom, an older version of Avery. Her blonde hair is cropped short at her chin. She’s thin with a round attractive face that she covers in heavy makeup, fully subscribing to the theory that more is more.

“I was just about to wake you up. We’ll need to get out of here soon.”

“Can I shower really quick?”

“I don’t think there’s time. Avery just called and said she’s in a rush.”

What’s another layer of filth, right?

I go into their bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a sweater and jeans, and when I return, I find them at the door of the apartment, waiting on me. Toes tapping.

They’re wearing matching t-shirts. Rush is printed in white—the name of my sister’s musical. Her signature is scrawled in the left-hand corner, over the R. Immediately, my gaze catches on the rolled-up piece of fabric in my mom’s left hand. It’s the same bubblegum pink color as their t-shirts.

Ah, of course.

My dad takes it from her.

“Here, your mom got you a shirt.”

It’s held up in front of me like he’s checking the fit.

“I’ll put it on later.”

I might as well have just told them I’ve been convicted of murder with the way their faces fall. After battling the lumpy sofa bed for half the night, I have no fight left in me. I put the shirt on over the sweater I’m already wearing and the three of us leave the apartment.

On the mat, outside their door, a courier has dropped off a dense bouquet of blood red roses. I lean down quickly to snatch the accompanying note. It reads:

A rose for every time I wanted to kiss you during parade rehearsal. I think you still owe me…

I smile to myself, pocket the note, and carry the flowers back inside so they’ll be the first thing I see when we get back.

My parents assume someone sent the flowers for Avery. I don’t correct them.

Down on the New York sidewalk in our matching pink shirts, we draw the stares of everyone we pass. After a subway ride and short walk later, we find ourselves in the theater district. On the way, I’m treated to a bastardized summary of Avery’s musical. Apparently, it’s a parody of American sorority culture, hence the name Rush. Avery is one of the leads, an incoming freshman hoping to land a coveted spot in Kappa Zeta come bid day. She faces off against an arch-nemesis (a sassy rush captain) and finds love along the way (in the form of the sorority’s hunky house boy). My mom thinks it’s very cool how inclusive the cast is. “There’s even a girl from Spain!”

I stare wistfully at oncoming traffic just before I spot Avery standing in front of a diner with a black backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s scanning the crowd, looking for us, and when our eyes lock, she runs straight for me, wraps me up in her arms, and spins us around. I moan that I’m going to be sick and she finally stops, stepping back to hold me at arm’s length.

“God, I miss you. Why don’t you visit more?”

We both know the answer to that, so I don’t bother with a reply.

She gives me a once-over. I smile sheepishly, hoping I don’t look half as tired as I feel.

“How are you so grown up!? You’re supposed to be my baby sister, but you’re not a baby at all. You’re freaking gorgeous. Look at these cheekbones.”

She squishes my face in her hands. My lips pucker like a fish. She is the only person on the planet I would allow this from.

“I think she needs to eat more,” my dad points out with a frown.

Avery rolls her eyes, ignoring him, and takes my hand to steer me toward the diner. We use the lead on our parents to our advantage.

“I see they forced you into the t-shirt,” she says with a wink.

“It wasn’t worth the fight.”

“Why are you staying with them, anyway? Do you want to stay with me tonight? Please? Come! It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t want to upset them.”

“Oh, believe me. I know. It’s your life motto.” I frown and she rolls her eyes, not pressing that issue. “Whatever, just think about my offer, yeah? I’ve got extra space. Well, kind of. You’d have to sleep with me on my twin bed.”

My dad catches wind of our conversation inside the diner and shakes his head. “Absolutely not. That commune isn’t even safe enough for you. I won’t have Whitney there as well.”

“It’s an actor’s co-op, not a commune.”

“Not now,” my mom reprimands my father as we slide into a booth near the window. The red upholstery is sticky with syrup from a previous customer. “Avery has enough stress already. I don’t want any arguing today. Now, Avery, tell us how your dress rehearsals went last night.”

And that’s that.

There’s not a single moment of the breakfast that doesn’t revolve around Avery. Oh, she tries hard to curve the conversation toward me, but my parents swivel the spotlight right back on her. I’m actually okay with it. This is comfortable, like slipping on a worn pair of shoes. I sit and listen and eat, content to be an understudy.

We don’t even have the check when Avery looks at her phone and curses.

“I’ve got to get going. Dave wants us all there extra early today. We have press.”

She leans over and kisses my cheek and when she leaves, she takes all the energy with her. After that, there’s an overwhelming feeling of What now? None of us makes eye contact. I rearrange the sugar packets. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long. My parents have to get to work, after all. I have a day to myself, and I make the most of it. Right after I yank off that bubblegum pink t-shirt.

*

The next day, my parents and I spend a tense, awkward morning together in their crockpot of an apartment. We stew in each other’s space. I suggest we go out and sightsee, but my mom thinks it’s better if we stay in. We have a big night ahead of us, she reminds me. The musical starts at 7 PM and my mom wants to ensure we get there with plenty of time to find our seats. After, we have late dinner reservations at a restaurant my mom keeps describing as “very fancy” while giving me a pointed look.

It’s like she thinks I’m going to roll off my sofa bed, slide on some shoes, and proclaim myself ready to go.

A long walk outside by myself around the city at lunch time is the only thing that keeps me sane.

“Did you reserve a table for five at dinner?” I ask later, sitting at the window to use the natural light to apply my makeup.

“Yes. Avery might bring a guest.”

No. She won’t. I suggested she do that because I’m a wimp and haven’t told my parents about Derek. Even now, as we stand on the sidewalk, underneath the theater’s marquee, I still haven’t spilled the beans, and I realize this was slightly poor planning on my part right as Derek steps out of a car, stands to his full height, and straightens his suit jacket.

My heart leaps into my throat.

He really came.

He flew all the way to New York to be here for me tonight.

I glance over at my parents and they’ve noticed him as well. Everyone has. The carpet that leads from the street to the theater entrance has been roped off for arrivals. We, of course, came in off the sidewalk, ushered by a coordinator who immediately marked us as unworthy. Sort of. She did tug my arm as I passed.

“Who are you? A blogger? Do you act? If you want photos, you’ll need to enter from the street.”

I decided to take the compliment before setting her straight.

Some of the other guests arriving to the theater are milking that short walk up the carpet for everything it’s worth. Step. Pose. Smile. Smoldering glare. Flash, flash, flash. Derek ignores the photographers as they start snapping away frantically. He ducks his head down and keeps his eyes straight ahead.

I doubt the paparazzi know exactly who he is. After all, he’s not a fixture in New York society, but that doesn’t stop them from angling to get a good photo. Snap now, research later.

With quick strides, he moves past them, heading to the door of the theater, then he looks up and halts. A few feet from him, I stand with my parents.

He smiles. Flawlessly suited, hair freshly trimmed, features in perfect harmony. Warmth spreads through me, and for half a second on that busy sidewalk, there’s only the two of us, exchanging a silent greeting.

His eyes quickly scan down my dress, a short simple black thing, unassuming except for its tight fit. I have a wrap covering my shoulders, not enough to battle the cool New York temperatures, but at the moment, I don’t feel a thing.

My parents look at each other, then over their shoulders, trying to determine who he’s looking at because surely it can’t be me. Then he turns, walks straight for me, and leans down to plant a kiss directly on my mouth. It’s unexpected. Brief, but sweet. And just like that, the last two days are wiped clean. They’re nothing compared to how he makes me feel. My cheeks grow hot as the cameras continue flashing. Derek wears a proud smile. I want to poke his side and berate him for drawing so much attention to us, but then I realize we’re being watched by more than just the press.

My parents are gaping, eyes wide, utterly confused.

“Um…Mom, Dad…this is Derek,” I say as he turns to them.

My mom shakes her head. “Are you…I’m sorry, are you a friend of Avery’s?”

She apparently missed the part where we exchanged saliva.

Derek smiles and stretches his hand out toward her. “I’m Derek Knightley, Whitney’s boyfriend. It’s good to meet you both.”

After shaking my father’s hand, he suggests we move inside—since the cameras are still flashing away—and my parents do exactly as they’re told. I’ve never seen them so awestruck.

“I’m sorry, did you say you’re Whitney’s boyfriend?” my mom asks, trying to clarify things once we’re in the lobby.

Does she have to look so surprised? Honestly.

My dad is even more confused. “Whitney didn’t mention anything.”

My neck grows hot. I rip off my wrap and tuck it under my arm.

“How about a drink? Does anyone want a drink?” I ask, scanning around the lobby for a bar. There, across the room.

I don’t wait for replies. I just smile and say, “One for everyone? Okay! Be right back!” then dash in the opposite direction. Leaving Derek alone with my parents after the world’s most awkward introduction is cruel to say the least, but I make a silent promise to make it up to him later.

Once I’m in line at the bar, I glance back and see the three of them are carrying on a conversation just fine. Or rather, Derek is. My parents look utterly enraptured.

By the time I return, carefully balancing four glasses of champagne, everyone seems like old friends.

“I could have helped you,” Derek says, quickly taking two of the glasses out of my hands before I accidentally spill the whole lot down the front of my dress.

“It’s okay.”

“So Derek.” My mom stares up at him, eyes twinkling. “You said you’re staying at The Plaza? Avery was just there last month for a meeting with her agent.” That segue back to Avery is impressive even by my standards. “I wonder if you know him? Martin Branch?”

“Why would Derek know Avery’s agent?” is the question I ask in my head before downing half of my champagne.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“But you must know quite a few people in New York City, what with your family…”

Being so rich and all is what my father is hinting at.

Another big gulp of champagne slides down my throat. At this rate, I won’t be able to walk come curtain call.

“You grandfather is Charles Knightley?” my mom asks when the conversation lulls.

Derek nods.

My mom turns to me. “Avery, you—” She laughs, having caught her mistake. “Whitney, you know Charles a little, don’t you?”

“Some.”

Derek is glancing down at me, brows furrowed. I can’t imagine what he thinks of this exchange.

“Whitney and my grandfather are very close,” he amends.

My parents seem to find this very impressive.

“You never told us,” my mom says.

I grind my molars and look away. “I have. In the past.”

“Oh.”

An usher comes around, informing guests that it’s time to find their seats. Our tickets were gifted from Avery. Derek had to buy his. I wonder where he’s sitting then he pulls out four tickets from his pocket.

“I hope you don’t mind. I got us a box so we can all sit together.”

My parents have no issue with this change. After all, Avery’s tickets were good, but they were nothing compared to the ones from Derek. Now we’re sitting like royalty up in a private box. An attendant asks us if we’d like anything else to drink and I practically beg for another glass of champagne.

I sit at the very end of the front row of chairs, closest to the stage, forcing Derek to insulate me from my parents. It’s for the best. Now I can actually pay attention to the show.

It’s fantastic. My parents’ summary of it earlier didn’t do it justice. The writing is pithy, the pacing perfect, and I find myself barely aware of my surroundings while the production takes place. Avery captivates us all, cast in the glow of those stage lights as if she were born to be on Broadway. I’m so unbelievably proud of her, I could burst. When she bows at the end, I leap up and whistle with my fingers. Classy, I know.

We wait for her after the show, near the exit where the actors have been filtering out for the last fifteen minutes. She sees us and squeals, throwing her arms around me first and then hugging our parents. When she introduces herself to Derek, she hugs him too.

“So you’re the man who’s stolen my little sister’s heart.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whitney

It’s almost like I don’t recognize myself at dinner. Or rather, Derek doesn’t recognize me. I can tell because he keeps glancing over, trying to catch my eye. He wants a private word—an explanation for why I’ve barely said anything all evening—but there’s no way to manage that without announcing it to the table.

Instead, I shoot him reassuring Totally fine! smiles and resist the urge to order another drink. Flashbacks of Halloween remind me that tonight, two glasses of champagne is my limit.

My mom wasn’t kidding about the restaurant being fancy. It’s filled with fine white linens, crystal wine glasses, and multiple courses. Only the best for Avery.

There’s a congratulatory vase of pink peonies on the table, delivered before our arrival. It’s so large, I’m blocked from seeing my mom’s face across from me. I decide I don’t mind this setup actually.

“You guys didn’t need to do all this,” Avery says, shaking her head, smiling nonetheless.

She’s wearing a loose red dress that showcases her tan skin and bright blonde hair. It hangs off her svelte frame, and our waiter can barely take his eyes off her matching red lips.

She’s vivacious and captivating, and I find myself jealous of her presence in a room. As if all she has to do is exist and that alone should warrant praise.

That thought festers over our second course of roasted carrot and onion soup.

I remind myself that I’m only jealous of Avery because of our past, because I’ve been conditioned to think she’s more important. I know it’s not true. I can usually convince myself of that. Tonight, however, it’s proving harder.

Even now, she carries the conversation for the table, asking Derek questions about his work.

I sit with a tight ball of tension in my stomach.

A waiter swoops in to start clearing the second course and my father leans toward him, as if he’s going to speak to him one on one, then proceeds to announce his next words to half the restaurant.

“My daughter just starred in a Broadway musical,” he boasts. “We’re here to celebrate. Avery, come on, tell him about the musical.”

Why do parents think random strangers care about the achievements of their children? Hey, yeah, can you get the busboy over here too? I want to let him know my kid got an A on his spelling test.

The waiter’s eyebrows shoot up with interest all the same.

I reach for my water and try to channel Jesus, but when I take a sip, I’m sad to report it hasn’t been transformed into wine.

“Dad,” Avery chides when the waiter finally walks away after getting an autograph. He tried for her number too, but she laughed off his request like he was joking. He was definitely not joking. “Okay, come on, guys. New subject. Whitney, how is everything down in Georgia? Are you still working in the dorm?”

I should say yes, my life is exactly the same as the last time you asked me about it. I still dress up like a princess and take photos with children during the day, and at night, I babysit a bunch of college freshmen.

I can’t get those words out though. Instead, I say, “No, actually. When I return, I’ll be accepting a new position.”

Everyone perks up, intrigued. Derek most of all.

“So you aren’t going to be playing that princess girl anymore?” my dad asks, like I’ve been spending the last decade of my life slumming it.

“No. This will be a major promotion. Long overdue.”

Derek sits perfectly quiet, neither confirming nor refuting my claims.

My heart threatens to burst from my chest.

What am I saying?

Is this even the truth? It’s what Cal has wanted for years, but I’ve been too chicken to actually make the move, to accept a new role and shake things up. My position as Princess Elena is what I’ve known. I’m good at it. In other words, it’s safe.

In that instant, a new future unfurls before me. One that doesn’t involve me staying stuck in my rut. One that feels terrifying yet exhilarating. For once, I don’t run from it.

Yes. Okay. I’m going to do this. I’m going to take Cal up on his offer.

I’m smiling now, high on the thrill of making a major life decision and going for it.

I’m going to accept a new position. I could cry. I might be crying already. Derek’s hand wraps around mine and squeezes.

I glance up, thrilled, and then realize the conversation at the table has moved on without me. My mom is asking Avery when she can get them tickets to another show. They want to go to as many as they can, and maybe if their schedule allows, they’ll even—

I can’t take it.

I stand up, chair screeching. I’m now taller than that ridiculous vase of peonies.

“Are you guys freaking kidding me right now?” I’m breathing heavy, like marathon-finish-line heavy.

My dad looks around, embarrassed. My mom tries to get to me sit back down.

“Whitney, just—”

“No. I won’t sit. I just announced that I’m getting a major promotion and you two didn’t even ask me about it. It’s a really big deal. You should care.”

“We do care,” my mom says hurriedly.

“No you don’t. You’ve already moved on to talking about Avery’s musical again. I mean, you could have at least asked me about it. Just one question.”

I hold up a finger to emphasize my point.

“We care,” my mom assures me. “Sit down and we can talk about your promotion.”

My weight shifts from foot to foot as I realize I’m definitely not sitting back down, not now that I’ve actually stood up for once in my life. “No. You don’t get it. This isn’t about the promotion, really. It’s just…” I glance back and forth between them, their eyes wide in horror, or maybe just sheer disbelief that I have a voice. “Sometimes you both act like I don’t even exist. No, not sometimes. All the time.” Words continue coming, like I’ve tapped a deep reserve of oil and now there’s no way to stem the flow. “Your whole world revolves around Avery and I’m sick of you guys treating me like I don’t matter as much as her.” I cringe, hearing the accusation. “I don’t think you do it on purpose, it’s just—” I turn to Avery. “I’ve always been jealous of you.”

Her red lips part. Her eyes mirror my pain.

“Yeah, pretty much my whole life. And I know there was no reason to be jealous of you back when you were really sick, except even then you had all the attention.” I screw up my features, shaking my head. “It’s not that I want to be sick. That’s not it. It’s just…you were always the special one, even when you didn’t want to be, and that’s fine. Really. I don’t—it’s whatever. That’s not why I’m saying this.”

I rub my forehead hard, trying to unscramble the thousands of thoughts clambering to be set free all at once.

“I don’t blame you for taking care of Avery like you did. She needed it. But I existed too. I’m your daughter too, and there were a lot of times when I was growing up that I just felt…forgotten.” I take a deep breath, having realized what a colossal mistake I’ve just made. A quick perusal of the restaurant confirms that every single person has stopped what they’re doing to look over and listen to me give this speech. “Oh-kay. I’m going to excuse myself now. Avery, you were really good in that musical, and I love you. And sorry for ruining your big night.”

Then I scoot my chair back further and walk right out the front door of the restaurant, but not before some guy sassily shouts through his cupped hands, “Yes, honey! Preach!”

A gust of cold air hits me upon my arrival on the sidewalk. My bout of honesty-vomit didn’t give me the chance to properly plan for an exit. I left my wrap inside. I can’t go back and get it. I’d rather lose an arm to frostbite than face my parents right now.

Then a warm jacket covers my shoulders and I glance up to find Derek has joined me.

“Ready to go?” His calm tone contradicts the scene we both just left behind. He ushers me to the street and hails a cab. “The Plaza,” he tells the driver before tugging me against him.

We ride in perfect silence. It’s a gift, I realize. He’s giving me what I need most: a moment to recover. Once we’re there, we stroll through the lobby and up to his room as if we’re a couple returning from a blissful day out in the city. He has a suite with enough floor space to do a series of back handsprings, but I focus on the turned-down bed and the bottle of champagne chilling beside it.

“Can I open this?” I ask, already reaching for it.

“Yeah, and I’m still hungry,” he says, hanging up his jacket in the closet. “Are you?”

“Starving. What was in the carrot soup, anyway?”

“Carrots,” he says before placing a room service order for a cheeseburger, fries, spaghetti, and a vanilla—I correct him—chocolate milkshake.

“Food will be here in forty-five minutes.”

I give up working on the champagne. Residual adrenaline is making my hands shake. The bottle clinks back into the bucket of ice and I walk to the window. Central Park sits at my fingertips, seemingly endless. How does Manhattan do it? Trick you into forgetting you’re on a tiny speck of an island, one person among millions?

Derek comes to stand beside me, glass of champagne in hand. I didn’t even hear the cork pop. He offers it to me and I accept, holding it at my side, unwilling to move. I can’t come to grips with the fact that I just exploded like that in the middle of a restaurant. I want to trade lives with that lady down there in the park, walking her dog. I bet she’s never caused a scene like I just did.

“For the record, I think what you did was incredibly brave.”

My laugh is laden with sarcasm. “Thank you, but it was mostly gibberish. I doubt I even made sense.”

“Sure you did.”

My forehead hits the glass. My eyes pinch closed.

“It was twenty years in the making,” I confess.

“I could tell.”

“Did I sound crazy?”

He rubs the back of my arm gently with his knuckle, just above my elbow.

“No, not at all.”

“Think they hate me now?”

“Of course not.”

I’m not sure how long we stay like that. On the street, a siren grows loud, louder, loudest then disappears. My eyes stay closed. He steps closer, enveloping me. The last of my adrenaline and worry evaporate as I settle against him. To love is to settle, to feel calmed by a lover’s embrace. It’s why people often define home as a person, not a place.

Derek is my home now.

I release a soft laugh. “And the musical? Did you like it?”

He chuckles. “It was good…I think.”

“You think?”

“Honestly, I was kind of distracted. Worried about you.”

I lean back and look up at him.

His brow is wrinkled and his eyes are a deep sad brown. He’s frowning down at me, as if everything I’ve carried tonight has been his burden as well.

In an instant, I press up on my toes and kiss him.

God, this man.

I could just…

I kiss him again, and this time he doesn’t let me go so easily. He seeks out my lips again just as I’m pulling away, and there’s an underlying yearning in the way he wraps me up in his arms, in the bite of his grip on my lower back. I’m reminded of where we are, of the twinkling cityscape at our back and the empty bed at our side. I’m reminded that he flew all the way to New York to be with me tonight and I don’t want to waste another second.

The restaurant is forgotten. The city is gone. All of the millions of people below us vanish the moment I kiss him again, harder this time, begging for more. His hands trail up and down my bare arms, teasingly slow. My body comes alive for him, like he’s turning the dial up on the desire that’s lived dormant inside for the last few weeks. He’s unsure of where my head is at—that’s why he’s going slow—but after his tongue sweeps across mine and my stomach clenches tight, I step back to show him I’m ready for more.

My untouched glass of champagne gets placed on the side table. My hands reach for his and I walk us backward toward the bed. He stands at the edge as I climb up and face him. He steals another kiss, a peck. Then he leans back with hooded eyes and keeps his hands to himself as he watches me reach down and finger the hem of my dress. I tug it up an inch on my thigh and then another, bunching the material in my hands to expose more and more skin. I watch him, feeding off of the burning need building in his gaze as my dress reveals my upper thighs and then the very edge of my lace panties. He reaches out to touch me, his palm skimming up the inside of my leg, starting at my knee. My body quakes and a smirk paints his face in devilish light as he continues upward. When he reaches the top of my parted legs, the knuckle of his pointer finger skims the middle of my panties and I hold perfectly still, letting him take his time exploring while I dutifully hold my dress up for him. Back and forth, he brushes. Almost innocently. Almost. My stomach dips and I’m burning up on the inside, barely able to contain myself as he does it yet again, pushing the material against my most sensitive skin.

With a heady breath, I release my dress and reach out for his shirt so I can start unbuttoning it. When the top two buttons are undone, I drop a kiss to his chest, and his low rumble in response encourages me to continue. Down I go, letting my hands roam under the fabric.

His olive skin is one of my favorite things about him. He has the look of someone who’s perpetually returning from a week on the Italian coast. A warm, romantic tan.

He stands patiently in front of me, letting me touch him as he fingers the straps of my dress. They’re thin and easy to push down my shoulders. Once they hang limp on my arms, he runs the back of his pointer finger up along a pulse line on my neck then back down along my collarbone.

I shiver.

A smile lifts at the edge of his mouth and he continues his gentle exploration.

I finish with his shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders. Once it’s on the floor, he steps forward to find the zipper on the back of my dress. An eye for an eye, I think.

He tugs and the only sounds in the room are our breaths and that zipper, peeling down my back.

My dress sags now that there’s nothing holding it up. My strapless bra is visible only for as long as it takes him to unclasp it, and then it’s falling too, off the bed, onto his shirt. In that instant, his hands slide up my ribs and cover my chest. I look down and watch him touch me. I feel beautiful with the way he’s reacting. It’s like someone’s been holding him back, keeping him away, and now that he’s finally touching me, he can’t get enough.

I try to reach for his belt, but just then, he bends down to take with his mouth what he’s already felt with his hands. My head falls back and a soft moan escapes as I feel his tongue lap over my breasts.

“Forty-five minutes isn’t that long,” I warn him as his hands tug the front of my dress down a little more. An inch. Two. I’m naked from the ribs up. His eyes eat me alive.

In response to my worry, he hauls me up and tosses me back onto the bed. I bounce a little.

His brown eyes are feral.

I scurry away from him, playfully.

He grabs my ankles and hauls me back toward the edge of the mattress.

His weight covers me and his hands are in my hair, holding my face angled up to him so when he kisses me, it’s unencumbered magic.

His groans match my own and his lips trail from my mouth to my chin, to the sensitive skin just underneath. He kisses me lower, spreading heat. I writhe and arch up with every new territory he conquers.

His hands are tugging my dress lower. My panties are silky smooth against his suit pants, but that’s not fair. I want access. I demand access.

Unfortunately, Derek doesn’t agree.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against my ear as his hand slides down the front of my panties. Lower. Parting.

My head tilts back and my mouth clamps shut. I don’t think the nice, imagined family staying next door needs to hear the dirty thoughts racing through my brain right now. Derek knows I’m having a hard time containing myself, though. His wicked smirk tells me so just before he slides a finger inside me. Pumps slowly. Adds another. His mouth finds my breast again and I groan his name, raking my nails down his back as he brings me close to an orgasm right before pulling back.

He isn’t intimidated by my distress.

He stands and takes two steps away from the bed. Towering over me as I lie on the sheets, perfectly exposed. My skin is on fire from his kerosene-soaked caresses. He stares, as self-assured as ever, while he tugs off his belt and unbuttons his pants. Dark boxer briefs are tugged low and my lips part before I wet my lips.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask, my voice pitched with need. “If not, I’ll call down to the concierge and demand one. Do they keep that sort of thing behind the desk?”

I’m already reaching for the phone when he tells me he has one in his suitcase. I turn, looking over my shoulder as he retrieves it and tears it open with confident ease, unrolling it while I stare.

I think my role in this scene is supposed to be Girl Waiting Patiently on Bed, but I can’t wait. I stand up and walk toward him, pushing him gently back toward the wall. He smiles and accepts my eager kiss before spinning us around, caging me in. The wallpaper is smooth as he hoists me up, guiding my legs around his waist.

“Here?” he asks, brushing his hand between my legs so he can taunt me with soft circles.

“Anywhere,” I tell him, sounding frenzied. “The wall. The floor. The bed. Just—”

That sentence is cut off sharply when he angles himself between us and pushes inside me in one hard thrust.

“Big,” is the word I choose to say.

It hangs between us and he actually laughs.

LAUGHS.

Then he pulls out of me slowly and thrusts back in again just as hard. Again. Our hips meet and I emit the most pitiful cry of “I’m dying.”

He covers me with kisses, finds my mouth, and keep us together as he moves inside me, doing the work. Every thrust keeps me pinned against the wall. Every little brush of his thumb sends me full-force toward the edge of existence.

He knows it. He knows how to grind against me, over and over, harder and harder and I’m telling him I love him. I don’t know when I started. It might have just been in my head at first, but it’s repeated over and over again until it comes to life between us, the words sealing us together.

“I love you,” I say again, right before my eyes pinch closed and my toes curl. My thighs grip his and my heels dig into his back and I’m lost to the waves racking through me.

“Whitney,” he moans, sounding as if he’s in pain.

I’m killing him. I am. He’s pumping so hard and his face is buried deep in my neck. His sweat clings to me and then I feel him come too. It’s so all-consuming I fear we’ve lost ourselves in it. We don’t exist anymore. At least not the way we did before tonight.

I kiss his cheek as he catches his breath. I comfort him like he’s comforted me so much this evening. My arms cling to his neck, and without a word, he carries us into the bathroom and turns on the shower. I’m set down on the bench and he leans over me, hands resting on either side of my hips.

Our eyes are at the same level when he blinks those brown eyes and tells me simply, “I love you too.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Derek

I consider asking Whitney to marry me while we split the chocolate milkshake room service delivered after our shower. I’m tempted to just blurt it out with no preamble. No ring. A casual inquiry into whether or not she’d enjoy spending the rest of her life as my wife. Till death do us part. The urge intensifies when she leans over and steals a bite of the burger I have poised in front of my mouth. She’s greedy about it, taking too much and smiling mischievously while she wipes the ketchup from her lips.

Marry me, will you?

I nearly ask the question again later, in the middle of the night, when I wake up and scoot down the bed, tugging her t-shirt up and over her stomach so I can press kisses up her thighs, barely visible in the dark.

I spread them and she laughs and says, “What a way to wake up,” as my head dips between her legs.

I hold Whitney’s hand in mine on the way to her parents’ apartment in the morning. I look down at her ring finger and try to imagine what size she wears. 2? 10? I have no idea. I’ve never gifted a ring to a significant other.

I make a mental note to ask Carrie.

“Could you pull over right here?” Whitney asks suddenly.

She has the tone and sheer-panicked look of someone who’s about to be sick. Once the car has swerved over to the curb, she leaps out, tells the hired driver to give her “ten seconds”, and disappears into a donut shop.

I know she’s nervous to confront her parents, and I wouldn’t put it past her to bolt like she did last night. When her ten seconds have passed and then some, the driver looks back at me as if I’ll have answers for him.

She’s a mystery to me too, man. Sorry.

That’s when Whitney finally emerges again, carrying an unmarked white pastry box. I assumed she was running for the bakery’s restroom, but it appears she was buying a peace offering in the form of fried dough.

She slides back into the car and we all inhale deeply. That smell should be bottled up and sold.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” she tells the driver. “Want one?”

A few minutes later, we pull up outside her parents’ building and the driver waves us off with his half-eaten bear claw, assuring us he’ll wait right here for us to return.

We take the stairs slowly. She stops multiple times, turns around, takes a half-flight back down, mutters to herself that this is a stupid idea, suggests we leave the donuts outside a random apartment and leave.

“Like this nice lady. Look, she keeps a vase of flowers by her door. I bet she likes donut holes.”

I catch up to her, spin her in the right direction, and nudge her forward.

“If nothing else, you need to get your luggage,” I point out.

“Do I? Because you said we’re flying first class on the way home and I’m pretty sure they give you those little slippers and a robe.”

“Only for international flights.”

“Crap. No slippers?”

She seems really upset about it.

“But we’ll get other complimentary stuff, right?” she prods as I half-push, half-carry her up the stairs. “A warm hand towel?”

“Maybe.”

“Real snacks? Not just peanuts?”

“It’s usually one step above peanuts.”

“So…walnuts?” Her eyes light up with an idea. “Wait. Let’s tell the flight attendants it’s our honeymoon! We’re newlyweds! That’s when you get the really good stuff.”

I nearly choke, wondering if I’ve somehow broadcast what’s been on my mind all night and all morning. Did I accidentally mutter a proposal when I was zoned out in the cab?

“Whatever you want,” I say, appeasing her right as we arrive on her parents’ doorstep. “But you have to do this first.”

It’s important that we’re here. Last night, Whitney dumped two decades’ worth of baggage on her parents, and they deserve to have a turn to speak and make amends. If that’s not what they intend on doing, I’ll assure her it’s fine.

I’m her family now.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Whitney

Derek knocks with a heavy fist before I can chicken out.

Dishes clatter in the kitchen and then my mother’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.

“Just a minute,” she says quickly, the deadbolt rattling.

My heart is liable to explode. I’m sweating, though maybe that’s just from the box of warm donuts I’m cradling against my chest.

The door opens, and I hold my breath, knowing this is the moment that matters. My parents either listened and took to heart what I said last night or they didn’t. Either they’re willing to make a change, or this conversation is DOA.

My mom sees Derek first and her brows shoot up in surprise. She offers him a brief smile before turning to look at me standing there beside him. For two seconds, neither of us moves. Then her gaze flits to my chest and she shuffles on her feet, adjusting her grip on the door.

“I’m here to get my luggage,” I say quickly, guarding myself against the worst possible scenario. “And to drop these off.”

I hold out the donuts and her forehead wrinkles in distress. “You’ll come in for a second though, won’t you? Or do you need to get to the airport right away?”

I tell her I can stay for a little while.

“Good. Come in. Come in and we can talk for a second. I think there are a few things that need to be said.”

Derek says he’ll wait for me down on the street and tells my mother it was nice to see her again. I’m glad he’s not coming in. The next few minutes will be hard enough without an audience.

Dad is sitting on the couch with his coffee, and though he’s already showered and dressed for the day, he looks like hell. Dark circles sag under his eyes and when he sees me, he only offers a small pleading smile, like he’s not quite sure how I’ll react to him.

I want to go straight to him and give him a hug, but I hover near the door, waiting. My mom isn’t sure what to do with the donuts. She holds the box in her hands. My dad clears his throat, looks into his coffee for advice, and then chances a quick glance over at me. It breaks my heart to see them like this.

I never wanted to hurt them, and I think that’s why it took me so long to gather the courage to speak up and ask for what I needed.

My mom eventually sets the donuts on the counter and then walks into the living room, flattening a hand over her hair and then her dress. She turns to look at me and speaks suddenly.

“I don’t really know how to start,” she says, frowning at the ground in front of my feet. “I know you don’t have long, so maybe we should just cut to the chase? Yes?”

She looks to my dad for backup and he nods.

“Whitney,” she continues with a weak voice. “I want you to know that your dad and I are sorry for how we’ve handled things. After what you said last night…well, we got to talking and we realize we messed up—” She looks away and takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. When she turns back, there are tears brimming in her eyes. “Your dad and I, we love you very much, and we’ve done a poor job of showing you that sometimes. You were always our easy child—good grades, never got in any trouble when you were growing up—and I think, in some ways, we took you for granted.”

Pretty soon, there’s not a dry eye in the room.

*

Fifteen minutes later, when I return to the sidewalk, tears drying on my cheeks, I feel a hundred pounds lighter. Like if I’m not careful, I might just float away on a breeze. Derek’s leaning against the brick wall beside the door, and when he sees me, he straightens up and pockets his phone.

Without a word, he walks straight for me, takes my luggage out of my hand, and hugs me. His hugs are my favorite thing about him. More than his kisses. More than anything we did in that hotel room last night. His body eclipses me and it’s as if I’ve just slipped behind an impenetrable shield. The world can’t hurt me as long as he’s there.

“Everything good?” he asks hesitantly.

“Better than good. They’re going to come down next month for a visit. Just a short weekend trip, but they want to see the park and get to know you a little better too.”

He nods and leads me toward the street, where our driver is still waiting.

*

In our terminal, while we wait for our flight to take off, I search the toy section of a store and find one of those machines that eats quarters and spits out junk in return—temporary tattoos, plastic kazoos, Chinese finger traps. I have to feed it over eight dollars before I finally manage to secure two plastic rings. One has a large diamond, the other a princess cut emerald.

I distribute the excess tchotchkes to two excited kids lingering near me whose parents are less than thrilled with their kazoo-filled future. Mom! Listen! Then, I walk back to where Derek is sitting at the gate with his laptop out, catching up on work. For a second, before he sees me, I admire him as if he were a stranger. I’m not the only one. I pass two curly-haired women, well into their 80s, who are talking about him in near shouts.

“Sheryl, you weren’t kidding. He’s a dead ringer for that actor we used to love. What’s his name?”

“Oh who cares. Just let me admire him while I can. And turn your hearing aid down—it’s ringing again.”

Derek glances up and sees me, unleashing a smile that devastates us all.

“Oh, she must be the girlfriend,” one of them says.

“Isn’t she lucky,” the other agrees. “Lord, if I were forty years younger…”

I’m still grinning at this exchange by the time I reach Derek.

He asks why I’m so happy. I kiss his cheek then nod my head toward the two women.

“They were talking about you.”

He arches a brow. “Think I have a shot? The one on the right is cute. I like her cat shirt.”

“Should I excuse myself?”

He shakes his head as if coming out of a stupor. “Oh, you’re still here?”

“Yeah, now focus because I need to propose to you so I can get free stuff on this flight.”

He looks heavenward. “It’s like you’ve never left the house before.”

“What?! This is first class we’re talking about. Excuse me, but I grew up poor, so just let me have this.”

I retrieve the rings from my jeans pocket and hold them out to him.

He stares at them almost as if they’re real. In fact, he stares so long, unflinching, that I feel compelled to tell him they were twenty-five cents apiece. Don’t get excited.

Eventually, he reaches for the emerald one. “Think it’ll fit me?”

He tries it on his ring finger, but it doesn’t make it past his knuckle. He tries his pinky next and even that’s a stretch. He leaves it on then nods for me to don mine.

It’s a little tight, but I push it onto my ring finger.

Derek is visibly impressed. “Aren’t these meant for kids? How does that fit you?”

I shrug. “I have small hands.”

“What’s your ring size?”

“Not sure. Now listen, when they ask us about our wedding, you need to act really enthusiastic.”

Spoiler: he doesn’t. Later, after I gush to the flight attendant about our recent nuptials and honeymoon in the Big Apple, Derek looks up from his laptop and says, deadpan, “I don’t even know this woman.”

When the attendant walks away, I swat him with the safety trifold I wrench from my seatback pocket.

“Are you serious? We could have gotten free snacks!”

He’s smirking. Clearly, he thinks he’s funny. I ignore him, push up on my knees, and survey the aisle for the flight attendant. “Okay now, when she comes back, I need you to feign amnesia. Tell her you remember me now and—”

My sentence cuts off when Derek sighs and holds up his hand. A new flight attendant swoops down on us within seconds. I nearly shriek. One second, the aisle’s empty. The next, she’s there—like a hawk.

“Yes, sir? How can I help you?”

She’s all smiles and I think, Wow. No more economy slop for me. Only first-class luxury from here on out.

“I think my wife would like to order something.”

He’s joking and yet my body thrums with energy hearing him refer to me that way.

“Can I ask, what’s the fanciest thing you have to eat on this flight?” I lean over, halfway covering Derek’s lap. “Like if Bill Gates were here, what would he eat?”

Her brows knit together. “Oh, um…we serve Beluga caviar—”

I do a poor job of quelling a gag. Then I aim a careful smile her way.

“How about cake?” I suggest.

“Cake?” She’s confused. “We have a flourless torte with a layer of chocolate mousse and whipped cream.”

“Yes.” I snap my fingers. Torte is just fancy cake. “That. I want that. Please.”

It’s 9:45 AM, mind you. When Derek points this out to me, I ignore him.

“Also, congratulations on your first flight with us, Ms. Atwood,” the flight attendant says with a wide smile. “The cake is a gift from all of us here in first class.”

Derek doesn’t even look in my direction as she walks away. He doesn’t need to. My smirk has a 50-foot radius. I have a gloating aura that permeates the air between us. While I wait for my delicacy to be served to me on a gilded tray, I crack open my paperback. He types on his laptop. When they arrive with the cake, he has no choice but to help hand it over to me. When our eyes lock, I can tell he’s fighting amusement. With every lick of that chocolate torte lathered with mousse and dripping with whipped cream, he tries hard to focus on his work.

I only let him have two bites.

The rest is mine. I earned it.

When we land, Derek tells me Cal wants us to meet him for a late lunch.

“Are you up for it or do you want me to drop you off?” he asks.

“No, let’s go.”

I have things to discuss with the two of them.

I was productive on the flight home. After I finished my cake, I used a cocktail napkin slightly smeared with whipped cream to map out my five-year plan. The one Derek is waiting for.

It reads as follows:

- Have a kickass job

- Married ??

- Start a family ?!

- Save lots of $$$ for retirement (okay…at least one $)

- On that ^ note…learn the difference between a 401k and a SEP-IRA. Same thing??

“No, they aren’t,” Derek said casually during the flight.

“What?! Stop! This is private.” I turned my shoulder to block him from reading the rest of the list.

- Floss regularly!
- Build a better relationship with my parents
- Learn how to change a tire

At lunch, I decide it’s best not to show Derek and Cal the actual list, but Derek insists on seeing it.

“Hand it over.”

I hold it just out of his reach. “No. Really, it’s—”

Yank.

My face floods with color as he scans it.

“You scratched out ‘married’ and ‘start a family’. Did you change your mind about those things? If so, you better take that ring off.”

I clutch my pretend diamond to my chest.

“No. I just didn’t want you to freak out.”

Cal sits quietly at the head of the table, wearing a little smirk as he watches us.

“I’m more concerned with the fact that you don’t know to change a tire,” Derek says. Typical dude.

I snatch the napkin back out of his hand. “Right, well, I don’t even have a car, so it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, let’s stay on task.”

Ava lays out a lunch spread of chicken salad sandwiches and fruit then excuses herself even though we all insist she stay. I wanted to use her as a buffer between me and these two Knightley men keen on holding me to my promise of radical change.

“I told Whitney about Thomas’ promotion to Head of Entertainment,” Cal says. “I think she should replace him.”

They both look at me. I shake my head.

“I’ve thought it over and I’m grateful for the opportunity, but I don’t think I want his job. I want to—”

“There’s an associate manager position open in Food and Beverage,” Derek says, cutting me off.

“Or what about something in Costuming?” Cal chimes in, and they volley back and forth as if I’m no longer at the table. I eat my chicken salad sandwich, chewing lazily.

“Guest relations,” Cal suggests.

“Casting.”

“Training. We need to overhaul that system anyway. Whitney could help with that.”

“Ahem.” I clear my throat.

I go unheard. They continue listing off departments and open positions.

“We could shift personnel over in the Enchanted Forest. The team over there could use some organization—”

I stand then, leaning over the table and waving my hands like a referee calling a foul. “Excuse me! Hi! It’s me, Whitney, the person you two are discussing. I just thought you’d both like to know that I already know where I’d like to work.”

“Well then, speak up,” Cal insists.

I crumple my five-year-plan napkin and throw it at him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Whitney

One month later

In my new job, I no longer wear a huge ball gown. Instead, I wake up and don the sort of clothes you’d find at a tech startup: smart casual jeans and sweaters from J.Crew, a blazer if I’m feeling fancy. It no longer takes me an hour to do my hair and makeup in the morning. My duties no longer include posing next to toddlers and politely declining the advances of weird uncles.

I am the Associate Director of Mentorship within the Knightley College Program. I help facilitate and foster mentor relationships for incoming freshmen, which is a pretentious way of saying I bully my friends until they agree to be mentors and then I pair them with freshmen who have similar interests.

I like my job. I’m good at it. I have my own office on the second floor of a bakery on Castle Drive. There’s a placard outside my door that has my name on it. I didn’t even have to hang it up there myself. My desk is made of some kind of thick wood and I got to pick my chair from a catalog. I’m an adult now.

I thought I’d miss working as Princess Elena more than I do. Sometimes I walk by Elena’s Castle, peer in, and see Ryan standing next to the new princess. I helped train her and she was a natural fit. In my head, no one was ever going to replace me in that role. In reality, it’s done rather quickly.

The absolute best perk about my new position is the jump in salary. In Character employees make jack-diddly-squat, a couple dollars over minimum wage, which was part of the reason why I took on the job as the residence hall manager as well.

Today is my last day of my duties in the dorm. I’ve been clearing my room out all week after work, packing up years of my life. I’m finally finished. The girls are waiting for me at the door, blocking my way out.

“You can’t leave us!”

“You’re one of us!

“We’re only on season four of Friends!”

I’m worried they’re going to cling to my legs and hold on for dear life. I’ll show up at Derek’s apartment with them in tow.

Please can we keep them?!

Fine, but they’re your responsibility.

“I’ll still see you guys around,” I promise.

It’s true. They’re all in the mentorship program. As it is, they already come by my office once a day to steal the candy I put out on my desk and to spy on the guests inside the park from my second-story windows. It’s the easiest way to find me considering I haven’t been at the dorm much lately. Something about Derek and his brawny frame has made it impossible to drag myself back here at night. For the last month, since we returned from New York, we’ve been mostly living together. Today, he and I are making it official.

“But don’t you like living here?” one of the girls asks, grasping at straws.

“Yes, you guys are wonderful, but I’m ready to shower in a noncommunal bathroom.”

“And she’s in loOoOve,” another one adds.

They all join in with the taunt and I laugh like, Ha ha ha, you really got me.

I am, though. In love, that is. Just like Savage Garden said, truly madly deeply.

“Are y’all done making fun of me? This box is getting heavy.”

They disperse with promises to come see me in my office in the morning. Then I turn back to survey the empty dorm room behind me, taking a moment to soak it in one more time. I’ve cursed this shoebox more than I’ve appreciated it. I hated the lack of storage and the cinderblock walls. I hated my hard mattress and the fact that my window was bolted shut. I can’t deny how much I’ve grown in this space, though. This is where I got to know Carrie and first fell for Derek. On that bed is where I would lie, reading the books he’d lent me and daydreaming about the possibility of a real future with him. Turns out, I wasn’t all that delusional.

I flip the light off and close the door behind me.

*

The walk to Derek’s apartment is a good one. Winter in Georgia means it’s in the low 60s, sunny even though it’s close to dinner time. I have a spring in my step. Butterflies gather around me. Bunnies hop along at my feet—or so I assume. I’m too busy heading into my future to be bothered to look down.

The receptionist inside the exec apartments’ lobby smiles at me as I pass. She knows me now. I belong. I take the elevator up to the top floor, and the scent of roasted garlic and herbs hits me before I open the door and find Derek in the kitchen, making dinner. He’s wearing slacks and a button-down, prim and proper except for the fact that he’s pushed the sleeves to his elbows and there’s a splatter of some kind across the front of his shirt.

He’s leaning down, studying an iPad. Eyes narrowed. Jaw locked.

“Honey! I’m home!” I shout with an exaggerated 1950s flair. I’m the first person in the history of the world to make this joke upon arriving home to a significant other. Still, Derek looks up and smiles, walking over to take the box from me.

I tilt my head up and he responds with a kiss hello.

“Smells really good in here.”

“Ava sent me this recipe,” he says, returning to the kitchen with me on his heels. “She said it’d be a no-brainer.”

“Let me guess…it’s a brainer?”

He throws me a look over his shoulder. “I think she sabotaged me on purpose. There’s something like fifty steps. I already burned the sauce.”

“Well, it still smells good.”

“That’s the chicken in the oven. The sauce was stinking up the kitchen so I threw it in the trash and put the bag down the garbage shoot. Now we’ll be eating our chicken with a little secret ingredient I’d like to call ketchup.”

I laugh.

Burned sauce aside, he’s gone out of his way to give me a warm welcome. There’s cheese and crackers out on the counter. Beside that, two champagne glasses sit, waiting to be filled.

“So is this what I can expect to come home to every day?” I ask as he sets my box down on the island and heads back to check on some sautéing vegetables.

“Barely edible food?” he quips.

I grin before turning for the fridge. Inside, I find the groceries we purchased over the weekend and smile at the memory. A routine I’ve done once a week for the last one thousand weeks turned into something New! and Exciting! with Derek by my side. Strolling those aisles, I found that each of his selections was like a tiny window into his soul.

Celery? Huh…a negative-calorie food. Must be how he maintains those abs.

Sharp cheddar? Interesting choice. I’ve always been more of a mild girl myself.

Double fudge chip ice cream? You dog.

We playfully fought over peanut butter selections. He wanted crunchy. I demanded smooth, sweeping two jars into the cart and moving along before he could protest. In the dairy aisle, he pointed to the whole milk. I nudged my head toward skim. We compromised.

Now, our groceries are arranged in perfect rows. Our yogurt lids kiss, my mild cheese nestled right beside his sharp. In the middle of it all is a brand-new bottle of Dom Perignon. It wasn’t there this morning.

I hold it up in question.

“That’s from Cal.”

I smirk and start to unwrap the foil around the cork. “I told him last week that I was moving in with you officially.”

“I know. It’s all I heard about today. He thinks we should look for a bigger place, something with more room.”

My eyes go wide. “More room? This apartment is massive. There are four bedrooms!” I sweep my hand across the sprawling kitchen as if to further prove my point.

“He thinks we need a big house. He said something like ‘My brood of grandchildren deserve to have a yard where they can run around and get dirty.’”

“Wow. Brood. That sounds like a lot.” I laugh and turn to set the champagne bottle on the counter. My hands find their way around his middle while he stirs the vegetables. My cheek rests against his sturdy back. I feel his muscles ripple while he moves. I inhale deeply, not quite believing my luck.

“What do you think ‘brood’ translates to, roughly?” he asks. “Five?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Think we should start practicing now?”

“Definitely. If we’re aiming for five, we really need to have a strategy.”

With this, he kills the gas to the stove and turns off the oven. I’d assumed we were just playing around. Apparently not. Derek spins, scoops me up so my feet dangle off the ground, and starts walking us over to our bedroom. Yesterday it was his bedroom. Now it’s ours. My bra spills out of the top drawer of the dresser. My book lies flat on the nightstand. He stumbles over some shoes I left out yesterday and we’re headed for an awkward emergency room visit right before we land in a heap on the bed.

“Derek! Now? What about your chicken?”

“It was going to suck anyway. I’m not a good cook.”

He reaches down for my shirt, shimmying it up and over my head while we talk.

“Oh hell.” I sound distraught. “Neither am I. I’ve lived in a dorm without a kitchen for the last few years. I have no practice. We’re doomed!”

“No. We have Ava. We’ll eat at Cal’s or we’ll order takeout.”

His hands are starting to work on my pants. I think if he weren’t worried about hurting me, he’d just tear them off. The zipper gives him a little trouble and he growls.

“Frozen pizza is good too,” I point out, trying to be a team player. We’ll subsist on DiGiorno and Totino’s.

“Yes. We’ll survive,” he says, reaching behind his neck and yanking his shirt off in one clean swoop. Why is that so damn sexy? Is it the show of dexterity? The dramatic magic-trick delivery?

He drops down over me, kissing me while we continue mapping out our future together.

“I hope our kids like cereal.”

*

In the morning, Derek wakes up before me.

“Want to come down to the gym with me?”

I pat his cheek like he’s adorable and promptly go back to sleep. An hour later, he returns with a freshly minted row of abdominal muscles and drags me out of bed. I let him because I know a shower is in our future. We steam up the glass like we’re trying to compete in a raunchy-morning-sex competition and then we towel off like perfectly civilized adults, private smiles in place. At our respective sinks, we brush our teeth. I go for thirty seconds longer than usual just so he thinks, Wow, that Whitney—she’s got great oral hygiene.

In the mirror, I can see my chest is still flushed from his lips and hands. The curse of fair skin. He sees it and smirks before turning, dropping his towel, and walking into his closet to get dressed. My eyes bug out before I catch myself and hop to it. Corporate America awaits!

After slipping into a navy pencil skirt and white blouse, I head into the kitchen and whip up some scrambled eggs for us. They’re plated beside slices of melon and I garnish them with a sprig of some kind of leafy green I found inside one of the refrigerator drawers. Derek raises his brows when he joins me, impressed by my domestic abilities right up until he takes the first bite.

“That’s mint,” he says, drawing a half-chewed sprig from between his teeth.

Oops.

“This is how eggs are served in France,” I assure him before slyly pushing all the mint off my eggs and onto the side of my plate.

After one more half-attempt at eating the remainder of our breakfast, I say, “Should we just—”

“Yup,” he says, scooting back his chair so we can grab our things and fly out the door.

Derek’s new office is close to mine—on the second story of Castle Drive as well—but he sits on the corner and has expansive views of the park. Last week, I stood at the window of Cal’s penthouse and called him.

“Can you see me waving?”

“No.”

I swept my hands over my head, really putting some energy into it. “Now?”

“No.”

I jumped up and down. “Now!?”

He laughed. “I saw you the first time.”

I hung up on him.

“What time do you think you’ll be done today?” I ask him as we stroll into the park, hand in hand. The air is brisk. His hand is warm around mine. It’s still an hour before Fairytale Kingdom opens, and Castle Drive is all but empty except for a few employees bustling around. They tip their heads to us or wave as we pass.

“I have a meeting that might run a little late, but I should be home by 7. Don’t forget we have poker tonight.”

How could I forget?

Carrie and I have been preparing ever since Thomas and Derek first invited us. All week, during lunch, we’ve joined online poker games, laughing at our immature screen names. Oddly enough, BuffDude23 and 69Holdem69 blend right in. We only lose most of the time, and though Carrie suggests we give up and just teach ourselves to cheat—Here, try to stuff this ace down your bra—I suggest we just use good ol’ fashioned distraction methods. I already have the perfect shade of lipstick picked out. Derek won’t know what hit him.

At the door to the coffee shop, Derek ushers me in so we can grab breakfast, and like it always does, my gaze sweeps to our old table, the one Derek used to occupy while he waited for me to arrive for our mentorship meetings. I can almost see him sitting there now, head down, brows furrowed in concentration, attention on his notebook while he waits for me to arrive. My heart falls back on old memories. I feel a pang of residual gut-clenching longing, as if I’m still standing in this spot, eight years younger, desperate for that old version of Derek to look up and notice me.

Now, he squeezes my shoulder, unaware of my thoughts.

I look up and he smiles like this is nothing—just another day of us being together—but I don’t take it for granted. Not for a single second.

Derek ushers me toward the counter to order, his hand still on my shoulder.

“The usual?” the barista asks us, already in motion to make our drinks.

“The usual,” we say in tandem.

Epilogue

Whitney

Ten years later

“MOM. Katherine stole my Sugar Babies!”

“No I didn’t! We traded!” Katherine protests with conviction. “I gave her Dots!”

I’m inclined to call Katherine out on this gross act of injustice since Dots are at the bottom of the candy totem pole and we all know it. Instead, I hold up my hands as if this issue is out of my jurisdiction. “Girls, work it out.”

Mom is off duty. Halloween night is officially over. We’ve returned from trick-or-treating inside the park and the annual candy dump-and-sort has commenced on the floor of the penthouse living room. If I attempt to leave my post at the window, there’s a good chance I’ll step on something gooey and half-melted, so I stay put.

Annie locks eyes with her sister, shooting her the toughest grimace she can manage while dressed up as a pink woodland fairy—an exact replica of her favorite character from the Enchanted Forest. Her Aunt Carrie made the costume for her and she looks ridiculously cute in it, but I don’t think that’s the effect she’s going for at the moment while she and her sister have this very serious life-and-death standoff.

“Okay, fine. You can have these Nerds too,” Katherine says, shaking the tiny purple box like a maraca before tossing it onto Annie’s candy pile. Annie considers this new peace offering for a moment with narrowed eyes then nods once, accepting her terms. Crisis averted. All is well.

They immediately dive back into their candy organizing. Only a year and a half apart, the two of them could be twins with their dark auburn hair and big green eyes. Going off of appearances alone, it’s as if Derek had no hand in their creation, but they have so much of him under the surface, it’s eerie. Most days it feels like I’m dealing with two mini-Dereks.

Three, if you count Charlie.

“And remember,” Derek says, walking into the living room, “you can’t forget to pay your annual Halloween tax.”

Katherine and Annie roll their eyes as if their dad couldn’t be more ridiculous if he tried.

“I get two Reese’s from each of you,” he says, fingers pointed menacingly at one daughter and then the other as if to say neither of them is exempt from his demands.

“Yeah right!” Katherine protests.

She and Annie hurriedly start to shove their candy back into their Halloween buckets, worried their dad will steal all the good stuff before they’re done.

Charlie, sweet, quiet Charlie, sits between them with his mop of dark brown curls, pretending to sort his candy like his older sisters. At three, he’s just happy to be along for the ride. When he sees them picking up their stashes, he immediately hurries to join in. Stray candy flies across the room. Derek bends down and retrieves two Snickers, holding one out to me as he comes to sit on the window seat beside me.

We sit for a moment, watching our kids.

Katherine reaches up to fix her faux emerald tiara, ensuring it’s perfectly in place, and Derek chuckles. She’s wearing a miniature version of my old costume, a pale green gown with a skirt so poufy she’s been having trouble walking all night.

“You look so much like your mom in that costume, Kat,” Derek says. “Did you girls know your mom used to play Princess Elena in the park?”

We’ve explained to them before that we used to work In Character, but neither of them believed it.

Annie and Katherine know the current Princess Elena. She’s eighteen, sweet as can be, and so much cooler than us according to Katherine. The few times she’s come over to babysit the girls, they talked about it for months afterward. MOM, PRINCESS ELENA READ ME A BEDTIME STORY! SHE BRAIDED MY HAIR! SHE HAS A BLOG! I WANT A BLOG!

“Mommy wasn’t Princess Elena! She helps run the park with you, Daddy,” Annie corrects Derek, shaking her head as if saying, Gosh, my parents are so dumb.

They know that for work, Derek does something important—“He’s the president or something.”—and “Mommy is his trusty sidekick.” However, to them, Aunt Carrie has the coolest job because she “dresses all the princesses”.

“I have a picture somewhere to prove it,” Cal says from his perch on the couch.

He stands up slowly, using his cane for support. He’s careful to navigate around Charlie, who’s now running at full speed out of the room with candy clutched to his chest. Stray pieces slip from his grasp and rain down across the floor. Ava goes after him and I mouth, “Thank you,” before turning to see the photo album Cal retrieves from the cabinet behind the couch.

“It’s in here somewhere,” he mumbles. “I think.”

I’ve never seen the album. I didn’t realize Cal was much of a scrapbooker. Upon closer inspection, it’s clear he’s not. The photos are just clumped together in a pile behind the front cover, not yet protected behind the thin plastic film. I’ll give him credit, though—he bought the album and printed the photos. That’s more than I’ve done for poor Charlie. He’s the third child; what can I say?

Cal rifles through the photos carefully and I peer over his shoulder, noticing there’s no real order to them. In one photo, I spot a young Derek with a hardhat on, breaking ground on the London theme park. Another photo is a candid of the two of us on our wedding day, smashing cake into each other’s faces. We really went for it. Derek still had some icing up his nose the next morning.

Cal keeps scrolling and Annie exclaims, “Wait! There’s Uncle Thomas and Aunt Carrie!”

It’s a photo of them in the hospital when Logan was born. Carrie looks exhausted but happy. Thomas just looks terrified, on the brink of a panic attack. I’ll have to send the picture to them later for a laugh.

Another photo is of Katherine as a toddler, taking her first steps down in the Underground. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. Half of our staff was down there cheering her on. When she finally managed to take three steps without falling, everyone exploded in a chorus of cheers, thus scaring the bejesus out of her and causing a nuclear meltdown. The photo was snapped at the exact moment the wailing began.

All of our kids have grown up inside Fairytale Kingdom. They think it’s totally normal to live inside of a theme-park castle. They do their homework in my office above Castle Drive. They play tag down in Elena’s Village. Annie’s first word was “park”, pronounced with an h instead of an r, like she was a Long Islander. It took her forever to learn how to say it the right way, and I was devastated when she finally got it. Why do they grow so fast?!

After shuffling through a few more photos, Cal finally finds the one he’s looking for.

He holds it up with a shaky hand and the girls immediately snatch it.

I try to see it, but they press their little heads together and hide it from view. It takes a few seconds for them to piece together what exactly they’re looking at—no doubt they’re confused by this ancient form of non-digitized photography—but then then they erupt into giggles. “That’s Mommy! And…Daddy! Look! He’s dressed up as His Royal Highness!”

They whip around, looking at Derek with fresh eyes. Before this moment, he was just Dad, the dude with the terrible jokes. Now, he’s a former royal. They’ve never been so impressed. Their eyes go wide. They keep glancing down at the picture and then back up, as if trying to identify how exactly we’ve changed.

Well, you see, when you carry three children…

I yank the photo out of their hands and take a look for myself. Derek comes up to stand beside me and the two of us immediately bust out laughing. Tears soon burn the edges of my eyes.

“How?” I ask Cal, completely perplexed by the fact that he has photo evidence of this moment in his possession and he’s managed to keep it a secret until now.

He smiles and winks before asking the girls to lug him back to his feet. They do it, because second to Princess Elena, Cal is their favorite person.

“Grandpa, can we look at the other pictures in here?” Katherine asks, picking up the photo album.

He nods, walking back over to the couch. “Bring ’em over. We can look together.”

Derek steps closer and wraps his arm around my waist. “Do you remember this?” he asks, voice low so only I can hear.

How could I forget?

In the photo, Derek and I are dressed for our fictional wedding as Princess Elena and His Royal Highness. We’re standing up on the holiday parade float, and while it’s festooned with roses and garland—a work of art someone took a lot of time to create—Derek and I couldn’t care less. We’re at war.

In front of an out-of-focus crowd, we stand inches from each other. My neck is craned so I can have a clear view of where I need to poke if I want to permanently blind him. His hands are fisted at his sides as if having to restrain himself from pushing me overboard.

In the background, a hazy red arch looms.

The arch.

The exact location where Derek finally kissed me senseless and all my nerve endings threw confetti. FINALLY!

I smile.

I want to blow this photo up and frame it.

I want to send it to the Smithsonian and tell them to archive it.

It’s a national treasure.

“I knew I had you that day,” Derek gloats quietly. “I knew in that moment you were in love with me.”

I roll my eyes as I hand over the photograph. “So spoiled. His Royal Highness always gets what he wants.”

He winks. “You’re right, and I want you.” His gaze drops to my mouth before he gives me a quick chaste kiss. “Always.”

I hope you loved stepping into Derek and Whitney’s fairytale! If you love friends-to-lovers, off-the-charts steam, and witty banter, keep reading for an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy

Not So Nice Guy.

SYNOPSIS

“Oh my god. Who is that?”

I get asked this question a lot.

“Oh him?” I reply. “That’s just Ian.”

Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century. Just the Mona Lisa. Just the Taj Mahal. Just Ian, with his boring ol’ washboard abs and dime-a-dozen dimpled smile.

Just Ian is…just my best friend.

We’re extremely close, stuck so deep inside a Jim-and-Pam-style friendzone everyone at work assumes we’re a couple—that is until one day, word spreads through the teacher’s lounge that he’s single. Fair game. Suddenly, it’s open season on Ian.

He should be reveling in all the newfound attention, but to our mutual surprise, the only attention he seems to want is mine.

He’s turning our formerly innocent nightly chats into X-rated phone calls. Our playful banter sports a new, dangerous edge.

I want to assume he’s playing a prank on me, just pushing my buttons like always—but when Ian lifts me onto the desk in my classroom and slides his hands up my skirt, he doesn’t leave a lot of room for confusion.

I’m a little scared of things going south, of losing my best friend because I can’t keep my hands to myself. So, I’m just going to back away and not return this earth-shattering kiss—oh who am I kidding?!

Goodbye Ian, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal!

Helloooo mister not so nice guy.

Chapter One

SAMANTHA

This morning, we’re having sex inside the army barracks again. It’s hot and heavy. The enemy is advancing—we might not make it out alive. Explosions rumble in the sky and in my pants. I’m sweating. Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. That’s how I know I’m dreaming—my mouth isn’t that skillful. In real life, I’d chip a tooth on his zipper.

My alarm clock fires another warning shot. My waking mind shouts, Get up or you’re going to be late! I burrow deeper under my covers and my subconscious wins out. Dream Ian tosses me over his shoulder like he’s trying to earn a Medal of Honor and then we crash against a metal bunkbed. Another indication that this is a dream is the fact that the fleshy part of my butt hits the corner of the bunk yet it doesn’t hurt. He grinds into me and the frame rattles. I scrape my fingers down his back.

“We’re going to get caught, soldier,” I moan.

His mouth covers mine and he reminds me, “This is a war zone—we can be as loud as we want.”

A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupts just outside. Heavy boots begin stomping toward the locked door.

“Quick, we’ll have to barricade it!” I implore. “But how? There’s nothing useful in here, just that standard-issue leather whip and my knee-high combat boots!”

He hauls me up against the door and we lock eyes. The wordless solution suddenly becomes clear: we’ll have to use our own writhing bodies as a sexy blockade.

“Okay, every time they kick the door, I’m going to thrust, got it? On the count of three: one, two—”

Just as my dream gets to the good part, my phone starts blaring “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Cool 80s country pop serenades me at max volume. There are synthesizers. I groan and jerk my eyes open. Ian changed my ringtone again. He does it to me every few weeks. The song before was another silly throwback tune by two old kooks.

I reach out for my phone and bring it beneath the covers with me.

“Yeah yeah,” I answer. “I’m already showered and heading out the door.”

“You’re still in bed.”

Ian’s deep, husky voice saying the word “bed” does funny things to my stomach. Dream Ian is blending with Real Life Ian. One is a hunky lieutenant with arms of steel. The other is my best friend whose arms are made of a metal I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling.

“Dolly Parton this time? Really?” I ask.

“She’s an American treasure, just like you.”

“How do you even come up with these songs?”

“I keep a running list on my phone. Why are you breathing so hard? It sounds like you’re over there fogging up a mirror.”

Oh god. I sit up and shake off the remnants of my dream.

“I fell asleep to reruns of M*A*S*H again.”

“You know they’ve continued making television shows since then.”

“Yes, well, I’ve yet to find a man who titillates me like Hawkeye.”

“You know Alan Alda is in his 80s right?”

“He’s probably still got it.”

“Whatever you say, Hot Lips.”

I groan. Just like with Major Houlihan, that nickname annoys me…kind of.

I sweep the blankets aside and force my feet to the ground. “How long do I have?”

“First bell rings in thirty minutes.”

“Looks like I’ll have to skip that 10-mile morning run I was planning.”

He laughs. “Mhmm.”

I start rummaging through my closet, looking for a clean dress and cardigan. Our school’s employee wardrobe requirements force me to dress like the female version of Mr. Rogers. Today, my sundress is cherry red and my cardigan is pale pink, appropriate for the first day of February.

“Any chance you filled up an extra thermos with coffee before you left the house?” I ask, hopeful.

“I’ll leave it on your desk.”

My heart flutters with appreciation.

“You know what, I was wrong,” I tease, affecting a swoony lovesick tone. “There is a man who titillates me more than Hawkeye, and his name is Ian Flet—”

He groans and hangs up.

Oak Hill High School is a five-minute bike ride from my apartment. It’s also a five-minute bike ride from Ian’s house. We could make the morning commute together, but we have drastically different morning rituals. I like to roll the dice and push the limits on my alarm clock. It thrills me to sleep until the very last second. Ian likes to wake up with the milkman. He belongs to a gym and he uses that membership every morning. His body fat percentage hovers in the low teens. I belong to the same gym and my membership card is tucked behind a beloved Dunkin’ Donuts rewards card. It leers out at me each time I make a midday strawberry frosted run.

Those barbaric contraptions at the gym intimidate me. I once sprained my wrist trying to change the amount of weight resistance on a rowing machine, and have you seen all the different strap, rope, and handle attachments for the cable machine? Half of them look like sex toys for horses.

Instead of subjecting myself to the gym, I prefer my daily bike rides. Besides, there’s really no fighting my physiology at this point. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman still riding the wave of pretend fitness that comes naturally with youth and the food budget of a teacher. The only #gains in my life come from binge-watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on Fixer Upper.

Ian says I’m too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely-filled B cups. On good days, I’m 5’3’’. I think I can shop at Baby Gap.

When I make it to school (ten minutes before the first bell), I find a granola bar next to the thermos of coffee on my desk. In my haste to make it to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. I’ve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find something—nuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. There’s even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. I’m the hangriest person you’ve ever met. When my blood sugar drops, I turn into the destructive Jean Grey.

I scarf down the granola bar and sip my coffee, firing off a quick text to thank him before students start filing into my classroom for first period.

SAM: TY for breakfast. Coffee is LIT.

IAN: It’s the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?

SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. I’m not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.

“Good morning, Missus Abrams!” my first student sing-songs.

It’s Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the Oak Hill Gazette. He’s the kind of kid who wears sweater vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriously—even more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.

I level him with a reproving look. “Nicholas, for the last time, it’s Miss Abrams. You know I’m not married.”

He grins extra wide and his braces twinkle in the light. He’s had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.” The kid is relentless. “And may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming. The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, you’ll be a missus in no time.”

“No, you may not say that. Just sit down.”

Other students are starting to file into my class now. Nicholas takes his seat front and center, and I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible once I begin my lesson.

Ian and I have drastically different jobs at Oak Hill High.

He’s the AP Chem II teacher. He has a master’s degree and worked in industry after college. While in grad school, he helped develop a tongue strip that soothes burns from things like hot coffee and scalding pizza. Seems stupid—SNL even spoofed it—but it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. He’s the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.

I’m just the journalism teacher and the staff coordinator for the Oak Hill Gazette, a weekly newspaper that is read by exactly five people: me, Ian, Nicholas, Nicholas’ mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the “if you can’t do, teach” category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and I’m not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists don’t make very many friends. They jump into the action, push, prod, and expose important stories to the world. In college, my professors chastised me for only churning out “puff pieces”. I took it as a compliment. Who doesn’t like puffy things?

As it is, I’m proud of the Gazette and the students who help run it.

We start each week with an “all-staff meeting” as if we’re a real, functioning newspaper. Students pitch their ideas for proposed stories or fill me in on the progress of ongoing work. Most everyone takes it seriously except for the few kids who sought out journalism for an easy A—which, off the record, it is. Ian says I’m a pushover.

I’m talking to one of those students who falls into that second category now. I don’t think she’s turned in one assignment since we got back from Christmas break. “Phoebe, have you thought of a story for next week’s newspaper?”

“Oh, uhh…yeah.” She pops her gum. I want to steal it out of her mouth and stick it in her hair. “I think I’m going to ask around to see if the janitors are like, banging after hours or something.”

“You leave poor Mr. Franklin alone. C’mon, what else you got?”

“Okay, how’s this…School Lunches: Healthy or Unhealthy?”

Inwardly, I claw at my eyes. This type of exposé has been done so many times that our school’s head lunch lady and I have worked out a system. I keep students out of her kitchen, and in return, I get all the free tater tots I want.

“There’s no story there. The food isn’t healthy. We all know that. Something else.”

There are a few snickers. Phoebe’s cheeks glow red and her eyes narrow on me. She’s annoyed I’ve called her out in front of the entire class. “Okay, fine.” Her tone takes a sassy and cruel edge like only a teenage girl’s can. “How about I do something more salacious? Maybe a piece about illicit love between teachers?”

I’m so bored, I yawn. Rumors about Ian and me are old news. Everyone assumes that because we’re best friends, we must be dating. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. I want to tell them, Yeah, I WISH, but I know for a fact I’m not Ian’s type. Here are four times this has been made clear to me:

-He once told me he’s never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!

-He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.

-We’re both massive LOTR fans and guess what—SAM IS THE BEST FRIEND, NOT THE LOVE INTEREST.

-Oh, and then of course there was that one time I forced myself to dress up as slutty Hermione (his weakness) for Halloween and tried to seduce him. He told me I looked more like frizzy-haired Hermione from the early years and less like post-pubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.

Ian and I became friends three and a half years ago, close to 1300 days if some loser out there was keeping count. Upon accepting teaching positions at Oak Hill, we were placed in the same orientation group. There were fifteen new hires in total, and Ian immediately caught my eye. I can remember the first time I saw him, recalling specific, random details more than anything: how big his hands looked holding our orientation handbook, how tan he was from summer vacation, the fact that he towered over the rest of us. My first thought was that he should have been incredibly intimidating what with the sharp blue eyes and short, slightly wavy brown hair, but he cut away the pretense when he aimed a smile at me as our eyes locked over the crowd of new teachers. It was so disarming and easygoing, but most importantly, it was seriously sexy. My heart sputtered in my chest. He was the boy next door who’d grown into a man with a chiseled jaw and solid arms.

He was wearing a black t-shirt I focused on as he made his way toward me through the crowd.

“You’re a Jake Bugg fan?” he asked. “Me too.”

I responded with a poorly executed, “Huh?”

His Crest smile widened a little farther and he pointed down at my shirt. Oh, right. I was wearing a Jake Bugg concert t-shirt. We struck up polite conversation about his last US tour, and I kept my drool in my mouth the entire time. When it was time to get started, he asked if I wanted to sit with him.

For a week straight we endured instructional videos about sexual harassment and workplace protocol together. While choppy VHS tapes from the 90s played on a rolled-in TV stand, Ian and I passed cheeky notes back and forth. Eventually, we just pushed our desks together and kept our voices barely above whispers as we got to know each other. We had so much to talk and joke about. Our words spilled out in rapid fire like we were scared the other person would go up in a POOF and disappear at any moment.

We didn’t pay attention through the entire orientation, but the joke was on us.

They gave us a test at the end of the week and we both failed. Apparently, it was an Oak Hill first. The test is ridiculously easy if you had paid the least bit of attention. We had to retake the orientation class for a second time and our friendship was cemented through the shared embarrassment and shame.

At the end of the second week, we celebrated our passing scores with drinks—Ian’s idea. I tried not to read too much into it. After all, we were both inviting plus ones.

That’s when I met the girl he was dating at the time: a gazelle-like dermatologist. At the bar, she regaled us all with interesting stories from the exam room.

“Yeah, people don’t realize how many different types of moles there are.”

She gave me unsolicited advice such as, “Due to your fair skin, you really ought to be seeing someone for a skin check twice a year.” She, by the way, didn’t have a visible pore or freckle on her. When we both stood to use the bathroom midway through the evening, my inadequacies multiplied. Our size difference was obscene. I could have fit in her pocket. To anyone watching, I looked like the pre-teen she was babysitting for the night.

The only silver lining was that I had her check out the smattering of freckles on my shoulders while we were waiting for the stalls to open up. All clear.

At the time, I was dating someone too. Jerry was an investment banker I’d met through a friend of a friend. This outing was only our third date and I had no plans to continue seeing him, especially after he droned on and on about Greek life back at UPenn.

“Yeah, I was fraternity president my junior and senior year. HOO-RAH.”

Then he proceeded to holler his fraternity chant for the entire bar to hear. I think he thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like I was in on the joke. I wanted to press a red button and exit through the roof. Ian’s eyes locked with mine over the table, and it felt like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He could tell how uncomfortable I was, how much the situation made me squirm. We both proceeded to fight back laughter. My face turned red with exertion. He had to bite his lip. In the end, I caved first and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again so I could crack up in private.

Ian’s date later told him she was concerned I had an overactive bladder.

By the time lunch rolls around at school, I’m ready for a break. My journalism classes are interspersed with on-level senior English classes. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but it’s the only way Principal Pruitt can justify keeping me on full-time. The students in these classes are already checked out, blaming their late homework and poor quiz scores on senioritis. I type the illness into Wed MD to prove it isn’t a real thing. They don’t look up from their cell phones long enough to listen.

Most of them wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.

Last week, one kid thought I was a student and asked for my Snapchat.

Ian doesn’t have this problem. His classes are filled with overachieving nerds, the kids who’ve already been accepted to Ivy League schools but still feel the need to take 27 AP classes. Most of them intimidate me, but they treat Ian like he’s their Obi-Wan.

“Tell us more about the tongue strip, Mr. Fletcher!”

“Bill Nye’s got nothin’ on you, Mr. Fletcher!”

“I wrote about you in my college admissions essay, Mr. Fletcher. I had to pick the one person who’s inspired me to pursue learning the most!”

I sit down for lunch in the teachers’ lounge and puff out a breath of air, trying to move the few strands of hair from my forehead. They are evidence that I’ve tugged at my ponytail in distress too many times this morning.

Ian slides into his designated seat across from me and his positive energy clogs the air between us. It could also be his delicious body wash.

“Let’s see it,” he says.

“It’s not my best haul.”

I’ve got a cheese stick, pretzels, grapes, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He has a multi-layer turkey sandwich with avocado and alfalfa sprouts, sliced watermelon, and almonds.

Without a word, we start the exchange. I take half his turkey sandwich. He takes half my PB&J. My cheese stick gets divided in two. I let him keep his nasty almonds—they aren’t even salted.

“Let me have some of your pretzels,” he says, reaching over.

I slam my hand down on the bag, effectively cracking most of them in half. Worth it.

“You know the rules.”

His dark brow arches. “I have chocolate chip cookies from one of my students back in my classroom. His mom baked them as a thank you for writing him a rec letter.”

In the blink of an eye, my threatening scowl gentles to a smile. My dimples pop for added effect. “Why didn’t you say so?”

I turn my bag of broken pretzels in his direction.

Even though the teachers’ lounge is packed, no one sits at our table. They know better. We’re not rude, it’s just hard for other people to keep up with us. Our conversations involve a lot of shorthand, code, and inside jokes.

“All-staff go well?”

I try for my best local news anchor tone. “Ian, is the food in our cafeteria healthy?”

He groans in commiseration.

“Yeah, then I had another student try to threaten to expose our relationship.”

“You mean the one that doesn’t exist?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. All right!” Mrs. Loring—the drama teacher—shouts near the fridge, cutting through the noise in the lounge. “Guess what today is…”

“The first of the month!” someone shouts enthusiastically. “Confiscation Station!”

For the next few seconds, there’s an overwhelming amount of applause and chatter. Confetti might as well be raining down from the ceiling.

“Okay. OKAY! Settle down,” Mrs. Loring shouts excitedly. “Does anyone have late entries?”

Ian stands and withdraws a crumpled note from his pocket.

People clap like he’s a hometown hero returning from war.

“Snatched it up during first period,” he brags.

A few female teachers act as if they’re going into cardiac arrest as they watch him cross the room. Mrs. Loring holds out her mason jar and he drops it inside.

He reclaims his seat across from me and suddenly, it’s time for The Reading.

On top of the fridge in the teachers’ lounge sits a medium-sized mason jar, into which we drop notes we’ve seized from students during class. The moon waxes and wanes and that jar fills up. At the first of every month, Mrs. Loring interrupts our lunch for a dramatic reading.

It might sound cruel, but don’t worry, we keep the notes anonymous. No one knows the source except the confiscator. As a result, Principal Pruitt doesn’t really care about our ritual. It’s good for our morale. Think of it as team bonding.

Mrs. Loring swirls her hand into the bowl like a kid searching for candy on Halloween, and then she comes up with a neatly folded note.

I turn to Ian, giddy. Our gazes lock. Last year I sat in while he did an experiment with his students. He burned different elements to show that they each produced a different color flame. Calcium burned orange, sodium burned yellow. The students were amazed, but then so was I, because when he burned copper, it produced a dark, vivid blue flame—the exact color of Ian’s eyes. I’ve kept a little bowl of shiny pennies on my nightstand ever since.

Mrs. Loring clears her throat and begins. She’s the best person for the job. There is no half-assing on her part. She’s a classically trained actor and when she reads the seized missives, she affects different accents and performs with a convincing earnestness. If I could, I’d bring my parents in for an evening showing.

“Student #1: Hey, did you see that [name redacted] sat by me during first period?”

“Student #2: YES! I think he likes you.”

“Student #1: We’re just friends. He’s not into me like that.”

“Student #2: C’MON! YOU JUST NEED TO GO FOR IT! Next time you hug, push your boobs up against him. That’s my secret weapon.”

A smattering of snorts interrupts the reading before Mrs. Loring restores order.

“Student #1: Let’s say that actually works—what if it changes everything? What if it messes up the friendship?”

“Student #2: Who cares? We’re about to graduate. You need to getchasome.”

“Student #1: Okay, sleezeball. I, for one, actually think it’s possible to have guy friends without banging them all.”

“Student #2: You’re delusional. It’s only a matter of time before best friends of opposite sex morph into LOVERS.”

The bolded final word, read with overblown dramatics, produces uproarious laughter. But, at our table, there is conspicuous silence. Crickets. The note parallels my life too closely. I fidget in my chair. Heat crawls up my spine. I’ve broken out in hives. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to Ian’s turkey sandwich. In fact, I wish I were—anaphylactic shock sounds wonderful compared to this. It feels like someone just transcribed the thoughts of the little angel and devil on my shoulders.

I hate this game.

I hate that Ian is trying to get me to meet his blue-flame gaze, probably trying to make some friendly joke.

When lunch is over, I’ll stand and make a break for it. I’ll decline his invitation to accompany him back to his classroom for cookies, and when we part ways, I’ll try hard to keep my tone and my gaze calm. He’ll never know anything was wrong.

I’ve had to tread lightly for the last 1300 days. Ian and I have a relationship that depends greatly on my ability to compartmentalize my feelings for him at the start of every school day and then slowly uncork the bottle at night. The pressure builds and builds all day.

It’s why my dreams are filthy.

It’s why I haven’t dated anyone else in ages.

This whole tightrope walk is getting harder and harder, but there’s no alternative. For 1300 days, I’ve been best friends with Ian Fletcher, and for 1300 days, I’ve convinced myself I’m not in love with him. I just really, really like pennies.

Chapter Two

IAN

Sam and I have been friends for a while now—so long, in fact, that I know she isn’t into me. Here are four times she’s made that perfectly clear:

-She once told me she feels nervous whenever we’re too close. “You’re the bull and I’m the china. You could probably sit on me and squash me to death.” The last guy she dated was short enough to fit into her jeans.

-She goes for boring business types, guys who spend their first month’s paycheck on an expensive frame for their MBA certificate.

-I once overheard her on the phone swearing to her mom that we were “never, ever, ever going to be more than friends.” It sounded like a Kidz Bop version of Taylor Swift.

-Oh, and there was the Halloween party last year when she dressed up like Hermione and I tried to kiss her and she laughed in my face…and then puked on my shoes.

Today is Wednesday, which means Sam is already at my house when I get home from soccer practice. I’m the head coach of Oak Hill’s men’s JV team. We’re undefeated, and Sam’s never missed a game even though sports aren’t really her thing.

“Please say you’ve already started dinner, Madam Secretary,” I say when I walk in and drop my bag.

“It’s in the oven, Mister President.”

She’s at my kitchen table, hunched over with her back to me. I can’t tell what she’s doing until I get closer and lean over her shoulder.

She’s sprinkling glitter onto poster boards, adding the finishing touches to bright neon signs. They say, GO OAK HILL SOCCER and COACH FLETCHER IS #1! Construction paper and glue and markers litter my table. It’s a complete mess.

“Are those for the game tomorrow?”

“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”

I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.

Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.

This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.

When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.

Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.

She’s caught me staring.

Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.

“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”

I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.

“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.

I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.

“Looks good.”

“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”

She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.

We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.

Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.

“Did I just get a match?”

I check. Some guy named Sergio sent her a message.

“I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”

She huffs out a sigh of annoyance and marches over to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”

My dick stirs and I ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now.

“Well I’m not sure this Sergio is up to the task. He looks like he waxes his eyebrows.”

“So? That sounds like a great first date idea. Mine are overdue.”

I quirk my eyebrow at her, so she deflects.

“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”

I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”

She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”

“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”

“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”

I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”

One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”

Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…

Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”

“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”

She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.

SERGIO: Hey QT

SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.

“Ian!”

“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”

She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”

I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.

Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.

Maybe I should start using dating apps too.

It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.

She groans in annoyance.

“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”

She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.

“What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”

“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”

“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”

“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”

“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”

Who does?

She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”

“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”

“She’s 68.”

“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”

She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”

“You use them,” I point out.

Her expression makes it clear she thinks I’m teasing her. I want to haul her up onto the copier and prove my point. Her ass would press against the glass, the bright light would scan past. I’d laminate the copies and hang them up in my shower.

“It’s different,” she says as she sighs, almost sounding sad.

“How?”

“I’m not everyone’s type. Your face is deemed universally good-looking.”

I sidestep her compliment.

“Did Sergio ever respond to you the other day?”

She scowls up at me. “Yeah, he told me we wouldn’t work out even after I tried to clear up the mess you made. Why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking of what I’m going to eat for lunch.”

After school and on weekends, I’m usually with Sam. We spend 99% of our time together. This seems odd to my parents and our other friends (the one or two that have stuck around), but it happened gradually. Weekly dinners became biweekly dinners, and so on. At this point, we’re codependent. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal for one—oh wait, yes I can: it was that time I bought myself Jimmy John’s on the way to Sam’s apartment a few months back.

“Shit, I should have brought you something,” I said right as she opened the door and glanced down.

“No, it’s fine. I have plenty of food here to eat.”

She joined me on the couch a few minutes later carrying a plate that contained the following: one carrot, a moldy piece of cheese, and half a slice of expired lunch meat. It was turkey, from the looks of the sad pale color.

“How’s your warm sub?” she asked, reaching for the carrot.

Obviously, I tore my sandwich down the middle and gave her half. Lesson learned.

We usually have a lot of grading to do on school nights: essays and edits for her, chemistry exams and lab reports for me. Tonight, though, I’ve talked her into going to the gym with me. She hates it so much. In the car on the way there, she works her way through an entire monologue about how it’s commendable that I care so much about my physical health and wellbeing, but she thinks it’s more important to focus on the mental and emotional health benefits of a sedentary lifestyle.

“Why do you think there’s a whole genre of clothing called athleisure? I’m not alone.”

I push her into the gym and we start to head our separate ways. We’ve tried to work out together, but it’s too distracting. I’m actually here for a purpose, while Sam just wants to talk and sip on a drink from the smoothie counter. She also likes to wear tight workout tops and yoga pants, and maybe I find that a little more distracting than the conversation. She steps back and sends me an over-the-top wave. “If I don’t meet you back here in an hour it’s because I’m hiding in a corner somewhere crying! Have fun!”

A beefy gym rat hears her as he walks by and offers up a greasy smile. “Are you new? I can take you through a few machines if you want. My name’s Kevin. I work here.”

Her eyes go wide and she looks petrified.

“Oh, no thank you, Kevin,” she says firmly and quickly before turning and breaking out in a run-walk in the opposite direction.

Kevin looks to me for an explanation, but all he gets is a scowl.

Tonight, Sam’s opted for a workout class lead by a spunky pink-haired teacher. For an hour, I work out on the machines while stealing glances of her inside the studio near the back of the gym. Glass windows stretch from floor to ceiling. There are a dozen other women dancing and kicking and pushing-up alongside her, but Sam’s near the back and it’s easy to watch her through the glass as she tries desperately to keep up. She’s really not so bad. What she lacks in physical strength, she makes up for in enthusiasm, her red ponytail swinging wildly.

I finish up on a machine and drag a towel across my forehead as the teacher takes them through some cool-down stretches. Sam steps her legs out into a V and bends forward at the hips so she can reach down and touch the ground. Her butt is displayed in the tightest pair of black stretchy pants she owns. I need to stuff my towel into my mouth and bite down.

The bicep machine closest to that back studio has had a steady line for the last hour. The machine is rusted and old and yet everyone wants a turn. The guy there now isn’t even pretending to use it. There are no weights hooked up, and he’s just tugging at the limp rope while he gawks at Sam. I want to wring his neck.

Sam’s upside-down head falls between her legs as she stretches, and when she sees me looking, she grins and waves enthusiastically.

“Hi!” she mouths.

The guys hovering near the bicep machine jerk their gaze in my direction, and when Sam turns away, I wave them off. They scatter like cockroaches.

I’m in the middle of leg presses when she finds me later. I have headphones in so I don’t notice her until she’s right there, a few inches away, sweaty and breathing hard.

I reach up and cut my music, but I continue with my set. She watches, eyes studying my legs like they’re wild animals, about to pounce.

“How was the class?” I ask, dragging my gaze slowly down her flushed cheeks and neck, down the front of her tight black top. She looks up and I jerk my gaze away before she catches me.

“Really fun, actually. Did you watch?”

Was I that obvious?

“I think I might’ve seen some in passing.”

She tries to hide a little smile. “So you saw when we did the cardio dance stuff in the beginning?”

Yes.

“No, must have missed it.”

“Ugh! It was my favorite part! Anyway, I’ll definitely go back. I hate doing the machines out here, but that class didn’t even feel like a workout. I mean, obviously it was…” She pinches her sweaty tank top for proof.

I pause my leg presses and reach for my water.

“See, feel. I think I got stronger just in that one class.”

She’s holding up her flexed bicep. I don’t think it’s a good idea to touch her right now.

“Ian! Appreciate my gains!”

“I can appreciate them from here, macho man.”

She reaches out for my hand and places it on her bicep. She feels delicate and warm. My hand closes around her upper arm, not tightly, but it feels strange…intimate. I watch her smile waver and I nearly say, You asked for this, remember?

She jerks away and rubs her arm like she’s trying to expel cooties from her skin. “Swole, right?”

I humor her. “You better watch where you aim those things.”

“How much longer do you have?”

“Just one set of these.”

“Okay, continue. I’ll just stand here and watch.”

I arch a brow, but true to her word, she watches quietly as I finish out my last round of leg presses. In fact, she’s staring so intently I have to grind my molars together to keep from pulling her down on top of me.

Apparently, I’m not the only one struggling. She fans her face and I aim a mocking smile in her direction.

“What?” she groans. “I’m overheated from the class!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

She doesn’t buy it. She throws her hands in the air and turns away, offering me another glimpse of the rear view that’s been killing me all night.

“I’m waiting in the car!”

“You’ll need the keys. They’re over here in my bag.”

She doesn’t turn around as she sends a wave over her shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside then!”

Like hell.

I cut my last set short and take off after her.

On the way home, she’s silent until we pass her favorite ice cream shop and she insists we go in. While we’re sampling flavors she turns to me, blue eyes staring straight at my chest. “Just to be clear, I wasn’t checking you out back there. I was considering the possibility of moonlighting as a personal trainer, now that I’m a gym rat.”

“Noted.”

“And sure, I was sort of impressed by you, that’s all. You’re an impressive guy.”

Still, her gaze won’t meet mine.

“Sam?” I say, trying to ease whatever weirdness is happening between us. “You’re impressive too—so impressive. Really, how’d you get so impressively…impressive?”

She pushes me playfully, turns to the kid on duty, and tells him I’ll be buying her three scoops of chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream with rainbow sprinkles on top.

“In a waffle cone—oh, and with a cherry on top!” she adds, turning to face me. “Impressed?”

The next morning, I wait for Sam outside the main conference room. We have a staff meeting with the rest of the upperclassmen teachers. Today, Sam’s wearing a delicate yellow dress. I flick the lapel.

“Very prim and proper.”

“Uh huh, save it. You hate this dress. The last time I wore it, you told me I looked like I was headed to my first day of kindergarten.”

I did tell her that, but it was because it looked so good I needed to keep her from wearing it again, for my sake, and that of all of Oak Hill’s male staff members.

These staff meetings are brutal, and Sam and I usually end up passing the time by playing tic-tac-toe underneath the table. We’ve only been caught twice. Now we’re more careful.

Today, George, our vice principal, is running the show, and it takes him 15 minutes to get everyone to quiet down. He started teaching the same time we did, but he turned administrative when a well-paying position opened up. Deep down we all know he’s just one of us, though. As a result, he’s never really commanded the respect he deserves.

Like right now, he’s trying to get volunteers to run a sex-ed course. They usually do this sort of thing in middle school, but apparently the district thinks our upperclassmen are in need of a refresher course.

No one offers their assistance, and then Sam’s arm shoots into the air.

“Why doesn’t Ian run it? He can present the abstinence portion based on firsthand experience—or lack thereof.”

Everyone laughs and I smile good-naturedly. One of the PE teachers catches my eye, positions her hand like a telephone against her ear, and mouths, Call me.

George frowns. “Very funny, Ms. Abrams. Still, I’ll take the recommendation. Ian, you’ll head the course. Would anyone else like to volunteer to help him?”

Every hand attached to a single female teacher hits the air except Sam’s. The PE teacher puts both her hands up and shakes them wildly.

George grins. “Well, what a wonderful sight to see so many eager beavers this morning!”

“Literally,” Sam whispers to me.

I smile.

“Tell you what, I’ll just leave it up to Ian to decide who he’d like to accompany him during the course.”

There are audible groans as everyone realizes at once who I will drag down with me.

Sam tells me my Cheshire grin is unbecoming.

Chapter Three

SAM

At the end of the staff meeting, Ian and I stand at the same time. Today, in my flats, I make it to the middle of his bicep. I’m made aware of this when we try to move around one another and my nose smashes against muscle. It hurts as much as if I’d just walked into a brick wall.

“Ow, Jesus.”

He reaches out to stabilize me and I stare intently at his chest before wriggling free.

No. There can be no touching, not if I’m expected to maintain the status quo: friends, with a capital F.

“Ms. Abrams, may I have a word with you?” George asks from the front of the conference room.

I don’t know who he’s kidding with all the formality. I’ve seen him shotgun light beer after an intramural kickball game.

Ian mumbles something about my yellow dress I don’t quite hear.

“What was that?”

He shakes his head. “Want me to wait with you?”

I smile. “Think I’m in big trouble for the abstinence comment?”

“Either that or we’re busted for tic-tac-toe again. You shouldn’t have thrust your fist in the air after that last game.”

“I’d just won the third and final sudden-death showdown. What was I supposed to do? Win with grace and aplomb?”

“Aplomb? You humanities teachers use the most bizarre words.”

“Ms. Abrams?” George calls impatiently.

Ian tugs on the end of my loose braid. “Good luck. Don’t hesitate to bribe him with a case of Natty Light.”

I feign a look of grave concern. “Okay, and I’ll tell him tic-tac-toe was your idea.”

Turns out, I’m not in trouble. George has a task for me.

“As you’ve probably heard, Jen is going on maternity leave earlier than expected, so her long-term sub is arriving tomorrow morning. I’d like you to show her around, y’know, give her the lay of the land.”

I hiss. “Oh man, wish I could, but I’m on carpool duty.”

His time as an administrator has clearly taught him some tricks, because he’s already prepared for my go-to excuse. “I’ve already got someone covering for you this week and next.”

I grin, flipping through my rolodex of get-out-of-jail-free cards. “Ooh, I could use that time to prepare for the sex-ed thing—”

“Prepare? All the material comes from the state. You’re just there to put a condom on a banana and answer questions.”

My brain trips up, and I run out of options. You win this round, George.

“Fine. What’s the sub’s name?”

“Ashley. I’ll tell her to meet you at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

True to his word, the long-term sub is waiting for me outside the main office bright and early. She’s overdressed in a black blazer with matching pencil skirt. She looks like she’s going to represent me in a Supreme Court case. Looks wise, I can’t help but notice that she’d fit right in among Ian’s old girlfriends. Blonde and tall, there’s no way she’s a day over twenty-three.

Apparently, she thinks the same about me, only younger.

“Excuse me, student, do you know where I can find Ms. Abrams?”

When I tell her who I am, she blushes at her blunder.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re so…petite.”

I straighten my shoulders. For the record, I’m not that little.

“Right, well, I’m supposed to give you a tour, so let’s get going.”

The high school is massive, and it’s easy to get lost. I decide to keep it simple and avoid places like the band hall and theater room. She’ll never remember it all, so I just stick to what’s important.

“That’s the server room. The campus IT guy sells weed out of it, I’ve heard.” We turn down another hallway. “And here’s the art room. You’ll notice that the art supply room smells a lot like the server room,” I hint with a wink and a nudge.

Ashley’s childlike eyes widen, and I think maybe I should have taken her to the band hall instead. She looks horrified.

“Err, just kidding. Come on, I’ll take you to your classroom.”

Our tour is over pretty quick, but it’s not so easy to shake Ashley. At lunch, she’s at my classroom door waiting for me. She’s ditched her black jacket and looks marginally less stuffy. In her hand is a monogrammed Vera Bradley lunchbox.

“Mind if I eat lunch with you?”

I know Ian will groan when he walks in and finds her at our table. He hates new additions, thinks they mess with the sacred casualness of the lounge. Still, I shrug and smile. “Sure thing.”

When we arrive, I take my seat and start lining up my food. Today’s provisions include leftover spaghetti, green beans, and half a Hershey’s bar. We’ll fight over the chocolate for sure.

Ashley’s hand hits my arm and she pinches hard. “Oh my god, who is that guy?”

I don’t know who she’s referring to because my focus is on her fingers. She’s about to tear my skin off. I extricate my arm and soothe the ache. All the while, Ashley straightens her shoulders and fluffs her hair. Her finger brushes against her front teeth to confirm nothing is lodged there and then she smiles extra wide. I follow her gaze and find Ian over in line for the microwave. It looks like he brought leftover spaghetti too. That’s what happens when we eat the same dinners most nights.

“Is he a teacher?” she asks, all breathy and bothered. She sounds like she’s having a hot flash.

“That’s just Ian.”

Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century and Ashley knows it. He looks like a Hollywood actor trying to portray a normal teacher, and he’s not even doing that great of a job. Her gaze cuts to me and she frowns, deeply confused about how a man as handsome as him could have a modifier like “just” before his name.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah. He and I are good friends.” Best friends.

“Oh, okay.” Her smile slowly spreads even wider, and it makes my stomach hurt. “Is he single?”

NO. No. Nah. Nope.

I look down at the table and force the truth out. “Yes.”

A record screeches to a halt as all eyes whip over to me. Forks pause midway to mouths. Gazes widen. Birds turn their heads to look and smack into buildings.

A chair grinds beside mine and I glance over my shoulder to find the Freshman Four staring in my direction. They’re the popular posse all grown up—the teachers who run the cheerleading and drill team programs at Oak Hill. They also have never met a Botox needle they didn’t like.

Their leader, Bianca, leans her eyelash extensions closer and hisses, “Wait, I thought you and Ian have been dating for like…ever?”

I turn in his direction, worried he can hear this conversation. Thankfully, the PE teacher has engaged him in some kind of discussion over near the microwave. She’s the only woman I’ve ever seen who could challenge him in the height department.

“Yeah. What are you talking about saying he’s single?” her minion, Gretchen, chimes in. “You’ve been dating for years!”

“What?” I shake my head adamantly. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. “No we haven’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“We all just thought—”

Clearly, there’s been a misconception about us. Because we’re friends and we spend so much time together, everyone naturally assumes we’re an item. I am horrified to think this rumor has circled back to Ian. What if he thinks I perpetuated it?

“No, no, Ian and I are just friends.”

Gaping mouths shift into curling pleased grins. My words are a waving checkered flag. Game on.

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Acknowledgements

Thank you to all my loyal readers! I couldn’t do any of this without you guys!

Thank you to my editor, Caitlin, at Editing by C. Marie! Thank you to my two proofreaders, Jennifer and Alison. I’m fortunate to have you all on my team.

Thank you to my agent, Kimberly Brower!

Thank you to all the bloggers who help spread the word about my books! Vilma’s Book Blog, Book Baristas, Angie’s Dreamy Reads, Natasha is a Book Junkie, Southern Belle Book Blog, Typical Distractions Book Blog, A Bookish Love Affair, Swept Away by Books, Library Cutie, Hopeless Book Lover, and many, many more!