And there are a few times I look at the new covers with Seb’s face on them and wonder if he did it for me. Maybe not. Maybe he just liked the chance to finally be himself, hot mess that he is, but we had gotten to be friends.
Kind of.
That’s probably crazy thinking, and this is just normal Seb behavior, but still—the timing is good.
My line is busy today, so I don’t even have time to look at magazines anyway, especially when some lady comes in with a massive coupon binder. I’ve just helped her load her roughly 500 boxes of Kleenex into her cart when I hear, “Is there a special on something called ‘Cap’n Crunch’?”
The voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I whirl around to see Miles standing there.
Miles.
In the Sur-N-Sav.
His hair is shorter now, not even touching the collar of his shirt, and he stands there, his arms full of . . .
I take a closer look at the stuff he’s pulled off the shelves, and a smile spreads across my face, so broad it actually hurts.
“There’s not right now,” I tell him, “but I think there’s a coupon for peanut butter.”
He drops his purchases all on the belt with a sheepish shrug. Not just peanut butter, but Cap’n Crunch, Goldfish crackers, two bottles of ranch dressing . . .
“American grub,” he tells me very seriously. “So I can blend in.”
I’m so busy staring at him, wondering why he’s here—knowing why he’s here, but wanting to hear it anyway—that I nearly miss that last bit.
And then I look up at him, eyebrows raised. “Blend in?” I echo, and Miles nods, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“The more I thought about next year, the less some, let’s see, how did a charming American girl put it to me? Ah, yes, some ‘stick-up-its-ass university where everyone wears striped ties and spits at poor people’ seemed to fit.” He smiles a little then, just the one side of his mouth quirking up. “Figured I might take the risk my ancestors never did and explore the colonies a bit.”
I shake my head, suddenly very aware of Isabel leaning over her own register and very happy there is no one in my line but him. Miles. Here in Perdido, Florida, wearing a jacket even though it is roughly a million degrees outside, his hair a mess from the humidity, smiling at me. A real smile from a real boy who, it seems, might really like me.
“Seb’s family—” I start, but Miles shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” he says. “Or it will be.” That dimple flashes in his cheek. “Turns out I don’t really like living my life at other people’s beck and call. Apparently the courtier genes skipped me.”
“Or maybe you were just under a bad influence this summer,” I suggest, and his eyes move over my face in a way that makes my heart flip-flop.
“Could be,” he agrees softly. “In any case, after you left, I kept thinking about you. About the summer. About how little I was actually faking anything when it came to you. So.” He lifts his shoulders. “America it is. For a little while at least.”
“You might need a guide,” I say. “Someone to show you the ropes. Make sure you don’t get in over your head.”
With a sigh, Miles leans against the belt. “That’s presumptuous,” he tells me, even as he reaches out to cover one of my hands with his. “Only a real ponce would make an offer like that.”
I lean closer. “I happen to like ponces.”
He leans closer, too, enough so that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth as he replies, “As do I.”
And then we’re kissing at my register at the Sur-N-Sav, no hiding, no sneaking around. Full-on snogging, as he would say, right there in front of everyone.
Okay, so everyone in this case is Isabel and the one old lady in her line, but still. So I lean even closer, awkward with the conveyor belt between us, but hey—
“NO BOYS!”
The cry is muffled but still very loud and accompanied by a frantic knocking sound.
I pull back and look up toward the window of Mrs. Miller’s office. She stands there, one fist propped on her hip, the other rapping the window. “NO BOYS!” she shouts again through the glass, and Miles looks up at her, brow wrinkled.
“Is that the norm here?” he asks as I waggle my fingers at Mrs. Miller.
“In America, no, but at the Sur-N-Sav, yes.”
He looks back at me, green eyes bright. “Then can we leave the Sur-N-Sav, please?”
I glance back up at Mrs. Miller, who’s turning away from the window now, purple smock fluttering, and probably on her way down here to lock me in a chastity belt or set Miles on fire.
Still, I grin and pull Miles back to me, my fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt. “In a minute,” I promise, and then we’re kissing again.
Maybe not in a palace or a bothy or a Rolls-Royce, but there’s no place else I’d rather be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to everyone at Penguin for letting me write my spin on a Princess Book! Thanks especially to Ari Lewin, whose guidance helped me turn this into the book I wanted it to be.
Thanks to my wonderful agent, Holly Root. This is book #10 we’ve worked on together, and I hope we have 10,000 more. (Okay, maybe like 30 more, writing is hard.)
To everyone on Twitter, specifically Stacey Kade, who went, “YEAH, DO THAT!” when I talked about wanting a book about a girl who gets famous when her sister marries a prince. Those immediate cheers and “I would read that” responses made this an actual book as opposed to This Cool Idea I Had for Five Minutes.
Thanks to Jennifer Lynn Barnes, Ally Carter, and Carrie Ryan, who plot busted like the pros they are with me and, more important, coined the term “Hot Tub Prince Harry.” I still can’t believe they didn’t let me call the book that, ladies.
To all my readers, whether this is the tenth book you’ve read from me or the first, I love and appreciate you more than I can say. I hope you’ve had fun!
And as always, thanks to my family, without whom none of this would be nearly as fun.
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