Page 69 of Prince of the Palisades

After a deep breath, I say, “None of this feels like it’s working. Like it’s…me.”

“How so?”

I tell him the things I’ve tried. Willow Wood, and the interview, and now a baseball game. All the little tricks that were supposed to make people like me.Respectme. But nothing is showing the Jadon I want them to see.

“Which is?” Léon asks.

My brows knit.

“How do you want them to see you?” he clarifies.

Over the occasional car driving by, I hear thesnapsnapsnapfrom cameras. Quickly, I adjust my expression. Force out the biggest grin while considering Léon’s question.

HowdoI want them to view me? Every second in America has been dedicated to countering the Jadon from the video. The prince I can’t be known as. But I never thought about theone I want to show everyone. I haven’t figured out whoIwant to see myself as.

“Oh, mon Dieu.” Léon laughs. Not in a mean way. Surprised. “You don’t know.”

“I do!”

He eyes me skeptically. “Where’s the pain-in-the-ass prince I’ve known forever? He had no problem telling me who I was.”

“You’re a dick.”

“There he is.” That sparkling smile again. “Remember how our papas really thought they were doing us a favor? Setting us up on a ‘date.’ ” He air-quotes theatrically.

“In Madrid,” I put in.

“Before that climate event. We’d already been making out for a month!”

“Six weeks,” I correct, ignoring his little eyebrow raise.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth.”

I guffaw. “They were so proud.”

“Bringing our country even closer together by uniting our two gay sons,” he says, mocking his papa’s voice.

I do my best not to flinch. Not to remember what else Prime Minister Barnard said. Or how Léon never stuck around long enough for me to tell him.

His hand touches mine on the table. I look up at his sincere smile.

Snapsnapsnap.

I almost forgot about the cameras. This is just acting. Right?

“They were clueless,” he insists. “So are they.”

With a practiced nonchalance, he shrugs a shoulder in the direction of the photographers.

“Instead of rushing home,” he says, tapping my knuckles with his index finger, “maybe give yourself time to figure out who you are. LA’s not Réverie. But it’s decent.”

A quiet laugh escapes my lips. “And then what?”

“Then…” He drags his hand away to lift his empty glass in a salute. “Pay for my lunch. A better hotel too. My services aren’t free, Your Highness.”

Cameras or not, there’s definitely going to be some bloodshed between us before this is all over.

13

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