Page 27 of American Royals
“I’m all right,” Beatrice said steadily.
Next to her, she felt Connor bob into a stiff bow. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, and hurried from the room.
“I just wanted to check in. How do you feel about the young men you met tonight?” the king asked, as the door shut behind Connor.
Beatrice’s ears were still ringing from what had happened. She had kissed her Guard. The knowledge of it echoed like the sound of the firework that had exploded several minutes ago.
Had it really been only a couple of minutes? It felt more like a lifetime.
“Can we talk tomorrow? I’m exhausted,” she asked her dad, with a wan smile.
“Of course. I understand.”
When her dad had left, Beatrice crossed her sitting room and bedroom and retreated into her final refuge—her closet. There was a deep bay window along one of the walls, with an old window seat piled high with cushions.
Climbing onto it, she kicked off her shoes and drew her knees up so that her skirt flowed over the cushions. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool silk of her gown, willing her pulse to slow down.
What did Connor think of what had happened? Was he still standing there, at attention outside her front door?
Beatrice couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
She was afraid that she’d messed things up with him forever, but even more afraid of herself—and the thrilling, terrifying new feelings that coursed through her.
Feelings for a person who would never end up in a manila folder of approved, appropriate options. A person who could never be hers.
SAMANTHA
Samantha pulled the coverlet over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but it was no use. She’d forgotten to close her drapes, and the gray predawn light seeped into her room, highlighting the delicate pillows that she’d kicked unceremoniously onto the carpet.
Her ears felt pinched. She reached up, realizing that she’d accidentally slept in the diamond earrings from the Crown Jewels collection. Oops. She unscrewed them and tossed them onto her bedside table, then lunged for her phone, suddenly desperate to know whether Teddy had texted.
He hadn’t. But then, had she even given him her number? She swiped over to her various social media handles to find his profile, but it was frustratingly unhelpful. Just a few infrequent photos: a lobster roll, a Nantucket sunset, pictures he’d taken last year at a friend’s birthday. She clicked through them all, burning with curiosity for any last shred of information about him.
Finally Sam flung back the covers and headed into her closet, changing into a pair of electric-pink workout pants and a matching top. She debated going down the hall to bang on Jeff’s door, but he was always so grouchy in the mornings. Instead she sent him a text: Movie later? If she put in a request now, they might actually get clearance to go to a real movie theater, with actual people in it, which was always more fun than watching something in the screening room here—even if they did get advance copies of all the films before their official release. She just needed a pair of security officers to sweep the theater about a half hour before their arrival.
Sam was unusually quiet as she headed toward the protection officers’ control room downstairs. The palace on the day after a party always felt curiously evocative, the empty rooms echoing with the aftereffects of the night before. Already maids were wiping down tables and unrolling carpets, retrieving misplaced champagne flutes from wherever drunk guests had forgotten them: on a shelf in the library, inside a potted orchid, or in Sam’s case, on the floor of the coatroom. She chuckled at the broken plaster and scorch marks out on the South Portico, where the firework had gone off. At least this accident, for once, hadn’t been her fault.
“Beatrice?”
Her dad was seated on the tufted bench at the foot of the stairs, leaning over to lace his running shoes. “Oh—Sam. I thought you were your sister,” he explained when he glanced up. “Have you seen her?”
“Not yet.”
“She must have decided to sleep in.” The king braced his hands on his knees and stood up with a sigh. His eyes lit again on Sam, in her all-pink workout outfit, and he cleared his throat. “What about you, up for a jog?”
Of course. Samantha wasn’t her dad’s first pick for a running partner, just the second-string option when Beatrice didn’t show.
“Um. Sure,” she muttered, and followed her dad out into the brisk winter morning.
A pair of security officers fell into step alongside them, wearing matching all-black performance gear, their guns holstered to their waists. They had long ago resigned themselves to the king’s running habit: he went out almost every day, on a preapproved loop through the center of town. Often he asked someone to come with him: a foreign ambassador, or a politician who wanted to lobby him on a particular issue, or most often, Beatrice. Invitations to run with His Majesty were more highly prized than an audience in his office.
That was the thing about Sam’s dad—he never stopped working. There was no clear division for him between office and home. His mind was never still. Even when they were on vacation, Sam would catch him at work, in the early mornings or late at night: composing speeches, reading reports, emailing his staff or his press secretary or the people who ran his charities about a new idea he’d had.
They headed out the palace’s discreet side exit, and the city unfurled before them, from Aviary Walk to the broad green strokes of John Jay Park. Past the blur of apartments and office buildings, the iridescent spire of the Admiralty Needle rose into the horizon, which was tinged with the saffron light of dawn.
A few other joggers passed their way, but aside from some curious glances and the occasional Good morning, Your Majesty, they left the king in peace.
Sam glanced over at her dad, but his gaze was fixed resolutely forward. He didn’t seem as fast as usual—normally he clocked four eight-minute miles—but maybe Sam was just running at top speed, hyped up on adrenaline. Daydreams of Teddy kept spinning through her brain. The very air felt heavy with possibility, as thick and tangible as the mist curling in off the river.
