Page 17 of The Backup Princess

“Uh-oh. She heard us. Act naturally,” I say under my breath to Amelia while keeping a smile frozen on my face.

“I suggest it’s time to scarper,” she whispers.

“Run for your life while you still can?” I ask.

“More like inch away while we smile sweetly,” Amelia replies as she eases herself up off the sofa.

“You lead. I’ll follow,” I reply.

Sofia watches us and frowns. “Very mature, you two.”

“We never professed to be mature,” I rebuff.

By now Amelia and I have reached the door.

“Where do you think you’re going in that dress?” Mummy asks.

I can only assume she’s talking to Amelia.

She turns to face our mother. “I'm done with dress fittings for the day. This is the dress I want to wear to meet the new princess,” Amelia announces as she begins to unzip.

“Not in here, darling,” Mummy instructs. “Your brother.”

Amelia isn't listening. She's already peeled her dress halfway down, revealing the top of her plain white sports bra.

Quickly, I turn to look out of the window.

There are simply some things a brother doesn’t need to see, and my sister’s bra certainly falls into that camp.

“Alex and I used to have baths together, Mummy. And anyway, I'm pretty sure he knows what the female anatomy looks like, if all the photos of him with a bevy of beauties are anything to go by.”

“A ‘bevy of beauties’? You sound more and more like an octogenarian every day that passes,” I say from my position by the window.

I steal a glance at our mother.

She has a pinched expression. “Hmmm.”

I know my parents don’t exactly do cartwheels over my dating life. Well, not that I have much of a dating life these days. But, as they say, the sands of time don’t erase memory, and the fact I haven’t been romantically involved with anyone for well over a year doesn’t appear to have had any effect on my parents’ view of me—or the tabloid stories.

“You do know that you need to settle down at some point, don’t you, Alex?” Mummy asks.

“I do,” I reply.

If only she knew how much I want just that.

“Are you decent yet, Ami? I’m getting bored of looking out the window.”

“I’m never decent,” she replies. “But I am sporting a rather fetching T-shirt.”

I turn to see her wearing a T-shirt with the American flag I had thrust at me at one of my engagements in the past week. It’s so big on Amelia it could fit three of her.

I eye my open suitcase on the floor. “You went through my suitcase?”

“Don’t get all huffy about it. You were never going to wear this shirt. It doesn’t go with your smooth prince vibe.”

“I might have worn it.”

She arches an eyebrow at me.

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