Page 4 of Thrones We Steal

No, Mum, I didn’t forget. As if that had ever been an option.

And you got the wine?

Wouldn’t dare come home without it.

I lean against the side of my car. The sunshine-flushed metal warms me through the thin fabric of my trousers. I accept the ride that will get to me the fastest and ignore the price tag. Avoiding one of Rosalind’s guilt trips is priceless.

How soon will you be here?

TBD. My car broke down. Waiting for a ride. x

I imagine her irritation upon reading my text and stick the phone into my pocket. I lift my face to the sultry afternoon sun, let its rays seep into me. The scent of saltwater floats over and I inflate my lungs with it. If I squint hard enough, I can almost make out the jagged coastline in the distance. A bank of dark clouds hovers over the horizon. When you live in the middle of the ocean, storms that pop up out of nowhere are as much par for the course as pimples before a big date.

Wesbourne sits between the United States and the United Kingdom like a mid-Atlantic taunt. Our enemies-turned-barely-tolerated-allies neighbors have both tried to add our small nation to the united in their names at one point or another in history.

They underestimated the extent to which a Wesbournian will fight for what he wants.

The purr of an engine running much smoother than mine shakes me from my thoughts. It’s too soon for my ride. A sleek black sports car careens toward me down the hill. A quick glance at the app confirms my driver hasn’t even left the city limits yet. A trickle of fear wrestles with the desire for help. I’m all alone beside the road, with no one even remotely close enough to hear my screams. And it’s too late to hide now.

The car slows to a stop behind mine, its windows too dark for me to see inside. Then the door swings open and a familiar frame steps out. My heart plummets. No. No, no, no. I try bargaining with the universe for an ax murderer instead.

The waning sunlight highlights the jawline Buzzfeed recently dubbed the number one hottest in the world. I’ve always wondered about the kind of person with the inclination to evaluate things like that. Do they take anything else into consideration when ranking those lists, or are we liable to find Ted Bundy under “Men with the Sexiest Eyes” next?

Henry is literally Prince Charming, and I don’t mean that in the post-modern way that ignorant people use the word “literally” to mean “figuratively.” I mean he is next in line for the throne of Wesbourne, he’s obnoxiously good-looking, and his charm induces the gag reflex if you get too close.

“Celia.” He shuts the car door and makes his way toward me. “Car trouble?”

“No, just enjoying a picnic.”

“Interesting shoes for picnicking.” He swings the car bonnet up. No face full of steam for him, I note with disdain. He fiddles around with a few things then steps back. “It’s overheating, which caused a host of other issues. It’ll have to be towed.”

“And I should believe you because …?”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Have fun on your picnic.” He slams the bonnet down and heads back to his car.

I watch him walk away. He might be my only chance at making it home on time. I glance down at my phone once more. The blinking dot that represents my approaching ride is still in the city and it’s hovering in place. Is there a red light? I wait a few more beats but the dot doesn’t move. What if there’s been an accident or something else holding up traffic? Damn it.

“Henry, wait!”

I run after him as quickly as my heels allow. He continues walking but spins around at the last second. I have to catch myself to keep from crashing into him.

“Are you accosting me, C?” He pushes his sunglasses into his hair and stares down at me.

“Of course not.” I grit my teeth. “I need a ride home.”

He squints at the horizon and winces. “I don’t know. I’ve got a date tonight and I don’t want to be late …”

“Henry, so help me god—”

He grins, which reveals the small gap between his front teeth. I know this comes from not wearing his retainer after his braces were removed. I’ve worn mine religiously every night, but I’ll still never achieve that megawatt smile.

“Hop in,” he says.

After I collect my things from my own car, I slide into Henry’s luxurious coupe. A cocktail of leather, vanilla, and amber hits me. He flicks down the volume on Elvis’ voice pouring from the speakers. The car becomes quiet except for the whir of the engine.

“I don’t know why you insist on driving one of those,” he says as we pass my car.

“They’re not that bad.”

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