Page 34 of Prince of the Palisades

Reiss groans like I’ve offended generations of queer filmmakers. Within seconds, he launches into his favorite parts. The gorgeous imagery. Moments where the cinematography left him speechless. The way the movie speaks with very little dialogue.

“And the wall scene!”

He’s all animated hand gestures, wild expressions. It’s fascinating. A little funny, too.

“It’s the reason I got into directing,” he says, his voice softening. His ankle shifts away. Mine instinctively follows.

“Go on,” I request.

“I’m applying to USC’s School of Cinematic Arts.” He drums his fingers on the table’s edge. “I worked so hard to earn my scholarship to Willow Wood. It’s gonna look great on my college app. Going to USC is my dream.”

“Wait.” I jolt. “USC? My mom graduated from there.”

“I know,” he admits with a guilty smile. “Imight’vegoogled you. Low-level shit only. No wiki pages.”

I flex an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Tell me, Reiss Hayes, are you secretly writing fanfic about me? What’s your AO3 username?”

His mouth opens, another admission so close to his lips. He stops, shaking his head. “You’re a certified asshole.”

“I prefer Your Royal Asshole, thank you.”

He snorts. For a moment, I stare at his mouth. The way histeeth pull on his lower lip, leaving it redder and fuller.

Eventually, he says, “What do you dream about?”

Homealmost crosses my tongue. I swallow it back. Telling him that could ruin everything I’m working for.

Truth is, I don’t have another answer. Royals don’t get to dream. It’s the crown, first. Duty and service to your people above everything. Just because Iwantto go to university, spend four years discovering myself like Mom did, doesn’t mean it’ll happen.

What would I even study?

And I can’t have what two movie characters had. Or what Papa and Mom had either—falling in love over macarons during a one-week holiday. Look at my history. It didn’t work with Léon, and we live in the same country. What normal boy wants to suffer through all the drama of dating a royal?

“Hey”—Reiss nudges my ankle—“what’s with that expression?”

Reflexively, I reach up to touch my cheeks and brow.Oh.

“My sister calls it RPF,” I say, self-conscious. “Resting prince face.”

Reiss chokes on a laugh. “Wow. That’s…awful.”

I kick his shin.

“Ow. Fine.” He edges his chair back. “I don’t care what you dream about.”

My shoulders relax, relieved he’s letting it go. But then he stands, picking up the plate. We reach for the mug at the same time, fingers brushing. His knuckles are soft. I steady his hand when he almost drops everything.

His stare is like a wildfire under my skin.

“Uh,” he stammers, “my break’s over.”

Before he’s too far away, I ask, “Does this mean we’re…okay? I can stop avoiding you?” My lips tick up. “For status purposes, of course.”

His mouth twists into that crooked grin. “No. We’re not okay.”

My expression falters. “Why not?”

“You still haven’t apologized,” is all he says, adjusting the dishes in his hand. He starts to leave, then pauses. “But at least I know you’re not the monster everyone says you are.”

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