Page 68 of The Backup Princess

Not getting the point here, Grandmama.

“But Alexander, isn't a part of our family and the government isn't his country’s government, so it makes sense that he sit this one out. Right?”

She studies my face for a beat. “Is there something you need to tell me about you and Prince Alexander?”

My grandmama, it would seem, is an astute woman, although it’s not what she thinks. But then who would guess the “thing” between us is that I punched him and he’s keeping it a secret and now I’ve begun to wonder what it would be like to kiss the guy?

“There’s no ‘me and Prince Alexander’, that I can assure you,” I reply with more force than I feel. “It’s just…I guess we’re not a fit, you know?”

“A fit?”

“He’s not my kind of guy.”

He’s not my kind of guy? I’m even making myself cringe.

Grandmama pulls her brows together. “Prince Alexander will be King of Ledonia and, if it so transpires, you will be Queen of Malveaux. Our two countries have a long history together over many centuries. You and the prince don't need to be friends, but it would help grease the wheels between our two countries if you were.”

“I think the wheels got jammed,” I admit.

She looks alarmed. “Oh? I know he has a certain reputation with the ladies, so I sincerely hope?—”

I raise my hands quickly, shaking my head. “Oh, no. Nothing like that,” I reassure her, and she looks relieved. “It's just I feel judged by him, I guess.”

“Judged? That simply won't do. I'll have a word with his father. He keeps a very tight leash on his son, although possibly not tight enough where you're concerned?”

My grandmama telling the King on Alexander is not only so very elementary school, but way too mortifying to even contemplate.

“Please don't do that,” I reply in a rush because that idea needs to be squashed right now. “I hardly know the guy. There’s a chance I rushed to a conclusion about him. I’m sure he’s a really great person and an awesome prince.”

I don’t mean a word, and anyway, what exactly makes someone an “awesome prince”? A good wave? Great ribbon cutting skills? Looking good in a jacket with a sash?

Okay, yes, he’s got that one nailed.

“As long as you’re sure?” she asks, her brow creased in concern.

“We'll work it out. No worries.”

“And become friends?” she asks hopefully.

I pull my lips into a smile as false as my high school science teacher, Mr. McClusky’s teeth. “Friends. You got it.”

Of course I have to sit next to Alexander at the luncheon, and of course he looks ridiculously hot in his suit and tie, all dapper and royal looking, not a hair out of place.

It seems wherever I go, Alexander is soon to follow, looking the way he does.

I could have him prosecuted for stalking where I'm from.

Here, it just seems to be royal protocol.

We're seated in a huge formal dining room with super high vaulted ceilings, large windows overlooking the formal gardens and the beautiful peacock fountain, and about 25 people, all dressed in suits, sitting at a long table decorated with the sorts of floral arrangements you see in magazines.

On my left is the Prime Minister, Margarita Grayson, an intelligent woman in her late 40s in a navy pant suit, with a black, bobbed haircut and bangs that make her look like Anna Wintour, only a lot more friendly. No offense to Anna Wintour, but she does seem super scary to me. I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada three times.

We’ve chatted about the weather in Malveaux and how it compares to Texas—a lot less humid—as well as how I’m finding Malveaux, and now she's busy talking to Grandpapa.

So, I’m stuck with Alexander, who seems intent on making nice, just as he did in the garden.

I sit and listen to him talking about where his family has palaces, and which one he likes the best and how drafty some of them can be in winter, and all his privilege, privilege, privilege. As I watch him, I remind myself how horrible he is. Simple fact.

---