Page 38 of Prince of the Palisades

“And don’t talk until I tell you to,” he yells instead of answering my question.

“Bossy,” I mumble.

He resettles behind the camera, yanking his headphones on. After we record the short intro script Headmaster Parker composed, Reiss explains, “She wants this next part to be organic. Candid. Just talk about the school. What you like. Why you came here.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need a minute? Think about what you want to say?”

I shake my head. “Sounds simple. I can handle it.”

Except, the second he signals me to start, my body goes rigid. I stare blankly into the lens. Being a prince isn’t just a title. It’s something you’retaughtto be. Decorum, how to handle situations, when and what to say.

It’s also something I’ve always resented. I’m not a robot. I act on impulse. The second I’m uncomfortable, every little method I’ve learned goes out the window. Filter off, defensiveness on.

Annika’s so much better at playing the part. She’s politeand magnetic. Never met a question she couldn’t answer diplomatically. The kind of face Willow Wood would love welcoming new students to their prestigious establishment.

I’m not bitter toward her. I just wish I could be myself.

In moments like this, I wish being myself was enough for everyone else.

Maybe Kip Davies is right. I’m nothing but a rebel. The wrong kind of prince.

“Any time you’re ready,” Reiss singsongs.

I flinch. “I—so, like. Tell you what I love?”

“About the school.” There’s a hint of frustration behind his voice. “Why you came here.”

“I love…” I swallow. Stare into the lens again. “The weather. And architecture.”

Reiss’s head pops up. “Six whole words,” he says dryly. “I like it. Raw. Minimalistic. To the point.”

“I’mtrying,” I grit out.

“I can tell,” he shoots back.

When I glower, he raises his hands. “My bad. You’re obviously not a fan of cameras.”

“Obviously,” I repeat tersely.

“Pretend it’s not here.” He waves a hand in front of the camera like a magician attempting to disappear a rabbit. “Pretend you’re staring at someone special. Someone you care about. A boyfriend, maybe.”

My eyes narrow even more. “Considering my last relationship didn’t end well, I’ll pass.”

Reiss winces. “That was an awful suggestion. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or been on a real date. Unless you countbowling with Paxton Shen, which I don’t.” He rakes a hand down his face. “Why do people even say that? ‘Stare into the camera like it’s your lover.’ No thanks. I’d rather look at a chicken taco that way.”

As he rambles, I tilt my head. It’s not the no-previous-boyfriends admission that amuses me, though my brain immediately saves that information for later. It’s his unfiltered openness. The self-deprecating voice. That embarrassed wrinkle in the middle of his nose.

All of it smooths a smile across my lips.

“Ah, there they are,” Reiss says almost fondly. “The dimples.”

My brow rises again.

“Don’t act like you don’t know their power,” he accuses.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, smiling harder.

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