Page 20 of Go Luck Yourself
“I’ll be an ambassador,” I expand. “My term at school is almost over; I can finish up my courses early. I’ll visit a few Holidays.”
I’m still a part of Christmas. I’m not just moping along the edges, the spare gravitating around the heir.
My own callousness makes me recoil. I hide it by running a hand through my hair, but my eyes catch on Iris, who’s watching me maybe too closely.
Coal grins. “Perfect! Look at us.Diplomats.We’re so mature.”
He passes me Wren’s tablet.
“Here—study up on their family,” Coal says. “We’ll figure out some other Holidays to ship you off to as a cover, and we’ll research them too. We won’t go in unprepared like when Halloween came calling.”
“Oh, but your face when you saw me in the ballroom was priceless,” Hex tells Coal with a teasing smirk.
“I’m pretty sure I haven’t unknowingly kissed anyone from St. Patrick’s Day.” I look at the first profile, one for St. Patrick’s Day’s king. Around Dad’s age, Malachy Patrick looks like a standard white businessman. It says he was the younger brother of the former king who died five years ago; the crown should’ve passed to that guy’s son, but it was decided that the heir wasn’t ready to handle the responsibilities. Malachy was originally an entrepreneur who owned—still owns—one of the largest whiskey manufacturers in Ireland, Green Hills Distillery. He’s unmarried, no kids, so on and so forth.
“You never know.” Coal waggles his eyebrows at me. “But you don’t have my level of decorum. You wouldn’t handle such a shock to the system with nearly the same level of grace.”
“Ha. Sure. We both know, of the two of us, that you’re the more level-headed”—I swipe to the next profile, the heir—“holy flipping fuck.”
I convulse like I got electrocuted, head to toe.
“What?” Coal tries to lean over the desk to see what I’m looking at.
My breath dissolves in lungs gone to stone. It’s all I can do to gape up at Wren.
“Who is this?” I point at the screen. The screen that clearly saysLochlann Patrick, Crown Prince of St. Patrick’s Dayover a picture, but horror is rising, rising up my throat so I can’t stop myself from going, again, “Wren, who the fuck is this?”
She blinks in veiled offense. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry. Sorry. I—Wren—who is this guy?”
“That’s their crown prince, Lochlann Patrick.”
“No,” I tell her.
“No?”
“No.”
“Kristopher, I’m quite certain—”
“No. No, you see, that cannot be their crown prince.He cannot be their crown prince.”
I laugh. It isn’t funny. And I drop the tablet onto the desk so the room can see the image.
Red hair. No beanie, the strands pushed back across his head in a slick wave. Pale skin, freckles, gray eyes. He’s smiling now, not glowering, which accentuates the shit out of his cheekbones, and it’s a headshot but he’s in a suit, not a tank top.
He’s also not covered in Cambridge blue tinsel.
Coal, Hex, and Iris are all staring at me like I was the one who spontaneously created a black cat in midair.
“Kris.” Coal leers. “Didyou kiss someone from St. Patrick’s Day?”
Chapter Three
“No. I—I know him.” My voice is creaky and shrill. “He goes to Cambridge.”
“Okaaaaay.” Coal drags out the word, confused, and I dig the heel of my palm into the bridge of my nose.
