Page 8 of Wicked Royals
“Iknow.”
“We should take some time to considerit.”
“No. We’re doing it.” Mom folded her arms. “I’ve had enough of Rutherford trying to crush my projects for all the stupid parts of his own agenda. It’smyturn.”
Jamie lowered his voice again. “Ma’am, with all due respect, we’re talking about killing thepre—”
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” I said extra-loudly to announce my presence so it didn’t look like I was eavesdropping on them. Neither of them had noticed my approach at all, because the grass silenced myfootsteps.
Mom turned to look at me. Shock was written in every line on her face. “Willow… what the hell are you doinghere?”
I held up the plate. “I wanted to bring you some of this. The servers cut it early for somereason.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I asked for privacy outhere.”
“Your detail said it wasfine.”
“I see,” she said crisply. “Goddamned fucking idiots,” she added in a mutter under her breath. She obviously hadn’t intended for me to hear that part, but Idid.
My shoulders drooped slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s just that it’s your favorite cake. The raspberry and white chocolateone.”
“I hate white chocolate,” shesnapped.
“But you toldme—”
Jamie cut me off. “I’ll eat it, Willow. It soundsdelicious.”
“All right,” I said in a small voice. I handed him the plate. “What were you talking about, anyway? It kinda sounded like you were planning on offing the president.” I said the last part in the cheeriest tone I could muster, hoping it would lighten themood.
Mom glared at me. “We were discussing next month’s StateDinner.”
“And I was just saying that someone we know might have to kill someone else’s media image,” Jamie added with a genial smile. “That must be what youheard.”
“Oh.Right.”
“How’s college,anyway?”
“Good. I think I’m doingwell.”
Mom’s lip curled slightly. “You’re in the eightieth percentile of your classes. I’d hardly call that ‘doing well’. At this rate, you won’t even make it into lawschool.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from saying something snippy in response. I knew how stressful my mother’s job was, and that stress made her irritable and downright coldhearted on occasion. “I’m happy with how it’s going,” I mumbledinstead.
“Well, eightieth percentile means only twenty percent of the other students are doing better,” Jamie said, giving my mother a pointed look before turning back to me. “I think that’s great, Willow.Congratulations.”
“Now, if we can get her to stop talking like a street hooligan, we’ll really have something to celebrate,” my mothermuttered.
I frowned. “Streethooligan?”
“When you waltzed up here a minute ago, all I heard was ‘hey’ and ‘what’s up’. Not to mention all this talk of ‘offing’ thepresident.”
I raised my eyes skyward. “Mom, that’s how regular people talk. Trust me. No one thinks I sound like ahooligan.”
She bristled at me. “You aren’t a regular person. You’re my daughter, and I didn’t send you to a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year prep school for you to act like any old kid on thestreet.”
I sighed. This conversation was getting worse by the second. “Okay, Mom. I’ll leave you alone. Sorry for theinterruption.”
Jamie gave me an apologetic smile before I turnedaway.
