Page 76 of Rags to Royals

Bill studies me for a moment. “As an educator, and a student of history, I’m sure you can appreciate that I think these discussions can be healthy. I think it’s good to discuss differences of opinion, and different beliefs. Societies are built—and torn down—based on a variety of ideas. Our beliefs about where we belong in the world, and what should guide and motivate us, are the basis for conflicts of all kinds, from small ones in the lunchroom at school to global ones that span continents.”

I nod. “The things we believe in, and the things that motivate us to live our lives in certain ways, are the most intimate parts of us. They are the things that make people the most passionate.”

Bill smiles. “Exactly. So, I don’t shut the conversation down. Even when it gets contentious, I try to redirect theminto expressing what they’re feeling and thinking in more constructive ways. It doesn’t always work. But let’s face it, being a part of this world means you’re going to run into people who think differently than you do and believe things that you don’t. Listening to them, trying to understand them, and learning to express yourself in a way thattheycan understand, is really valuable. And if they can practice that at age sixteen, even if it’s clunky and ineffective, I think something good can come from that.”

I like Bill Emerson. “That’s why school and teachers are so important,” I tell him sincerely. I realize it sounds like I’m building myself up as well, but the truth is, I admire the hell out of what he does. “This is maybe the safest space these kids will have to learn these concepts and, as you said, practice for these conflicts. If they can have someone they like and trust and respect there as a referee, they can learn a lot from that.”

Bill leans across the desk with his hand outstretched. “I think this is going to go very well. I really appreciate you coming in for these two weeks, Professor.”

I feel a twinge in my chest at the title. It’s a harmless lie. These kids will be fine. Iwillactually teach them something. No harm is being done here with this little white fib.

But what Bill does is important. I respect him. He’s doing good work every day and dammit, I kind of wish I wasn’t misleading him so that his respect for me felt legitimate.

Chapter 16

Scarlett

As I step through the back door of my house, I pause but only kick off my boots rather than stripping down like I usually do. The delicious smell of dinner cooking hits me and my stomach growls. I hear voices in the kitchen, and I smile. I love coming home to this.

I don’t hear Cian, but I know he’s here. The car he and Henry are renting is out front. And he texted me. Three times today.

At eight a.m. I gotdreamt about you last night.

Just after noon he sentmost worth it mosquito bite ever.He included a photo of his muscular upper thigh where he did, indeed, have a mosquito bite. I find myself grinning stupidly at that. And wishing he’d included a wider shot.

About an hour ago he textedcan Henry and I come over for dinner? Want to show you something.

I said of course. Not only did I agree to see him every day while he’s here, but I’ve admitted to myself that Iwantto see him.

That complicates everything, of course, but I’m not actually stupid enough to think I can avoid being a little heartbroken when this is all over. Whether he realizes I’m not the girl he thinks I am and that I’m not princess material, or he just finally needs to leave Emerald to live his life, there will come a time when this will be over.

But he’s here for now. And that seems like all the more reason to enjoy the hell out of the sixteen days and six hours I have left with him.

“Hey, Mom,” Mariah greets me as I step into the kitchen from the mud room.

“Hey. How was your day?”

“Good.” She shrugs.

I’m glad there’s no drama to tell me about.

“It smells great in here,” I give her and Greta both a grin.

They’re studying at the breakfast bar. They have a plate of sliced vegetables between them with ranch dip. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and then reach over and dunk a piece of cucumber into the dip. “Which casserole did you pick out?”

“It’s not one of Diane’s,” Mariah tells me. “Cian made that.”

I stop with the cucumber slice halfway to my mouth. A drip of ranch dressing hits the counter. “Cian cooked?”

“I’m offended that you sound so surprised.”

I turn quickly at the sound of his voice. He’s just coming into the kitchen from the dining room.

A wet drip hits my foot, and I look down to find ranch dressing dripping from my fingers. I shove the piece of cucumber into my mouth and then grab for the paper towels.

“You cook?” I ask him.

He comes to stand directly in front of me, looking down at me with a smile. It seems that he came into the kitchen just for me.

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