Page 91 of Prince of the Palisades

“Walking, again?” Ajani says impassively. “They say it takes two months to form a habit—”

“This is not a habit,” I promise. “I didn’t want to be seen.”

We couldn’t walk out through the front of the restaurant. Samuel tipped off the press in advance about the dinner. Photographers were waiting outside. Instead, we exited through the kitchen. I left the waiting SUV for Annika and Luc.

“—and if this continues,” Ajani is still saying, “I’ll need better shoes.”

“Fine,” I say, exasperated. “I’ll approve them at the next royal budget meeting.”

“Which is?” She’s testing me. We’re both aware I only know about things when they’re listed on my itinerary, usually the day of.

I tug out my phone. It’s buzzing nonstop with texts from Annika. Messages like:A protest AND dragging an American Senator in the same week?! What’s next? Setting the Hollywood sign on fire?

Then:Please forget I said that. Don’t get any ideas.

Followed by:Be safe, okay?

I smile, replying with,as you wish Your Majesty, and a winky face emoji. She responds with a middle finger emoji. It’s enough to finally make me laugh.

We pause at a crosswalk. It’s dark out, but the neighborhood is dusted in ivory streetlamp glow. Without thinking, I guided us here. To a cozy row of Santa Monica shops.

To The Hopper.

Other than the still hanging Halloween lights, the interior is cast in shadows. An older man emerges, locking up. He turns, and my breath catches.

I’ve never met Mr. Hayes. Part of keeping our dating secret meant Reiss didn’t formally introduce me to his family. This close, he’s a taller, older version of his son. Same dark eyes, jutting lower lip. Deep wrinkles form in his forehead when he notices me and Ajani.

“Whoa. Shit, it’syou!”

“No, wait,” I quickly say as he starts to bow. “Please, don’t do that.”

He straightens, wiping his face. “Don’t tell Dom I swore. I already owe him like twenty bucks from last month. Our plumbing was screwed, and I might’ve let some four-letter words fly and—Oh, I’m Greg Hayes. Reiss’s dad.”

I hold in a laugh. So, this is where Reiss gets his rambling from.

“Jadon,” I say, offering my hand. “I was hoping to, um…see him?”

Mr. Hayes has a strong handshake. He also has a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. Like Reiss might’ve mentioned what happened.

Perfect.

“No, he cut out early. Working hard on that film project.” A proud smile softens his face. “Kid’s gonna be the next Barry Jenkins.”

I nod, fighting the disappointment pooling in my stomach. What did I think? Reiss would still be here? That he’d see me and suddenly forgive me? That I’d get another chance—

“But my wife just texted,” Mr. Hayes says, looking at his smartwatch. “We’re having a late family dinner. You two hungry?”

The Hayes family lives nearby in a six-story building made of sharp geometrical lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. Laurel trees sprout up from the sidewalks outside.

“It’s only a three-bedroom,” Mr. Hayes explains while unlocking the front door. “Small for LA. The boys share a bathroom. Mornings are kind of…violent.”

I press a hand to my mouth to hide my snort.

“Michaela?” Mr. Hayes calls out. “I’m home, babe. I brought guests!”

Around a corner, a voice says, “Greg, my hair’s a mess. I haven’t cleaned and—”

Mrs. Hayes has Reiss’s cheeks and jawline, the same complexion. Her hair is hidden behind a silk scarf. When she sees us, the plastic bowl she’s drying slips from her hands, clattering on the hardwood floor.

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