Page 8 of Royally Rivalled

Bianca sipped. “You doing it, too?”

“Yes. Just like helping. I have a few favourite students participating.”

“Should we have favourites?”

“Look, there are the very talented academic stars and then thereare the kids who got here on their parent’s coattails. Seeing the undergrads who deserve to be here grow into confident scholars legitimately makes me happy. It keeps me going.”

“That’s sweet.” Bianca looked bored.

I was fumbling.

“But, you know, they’re all undergrads… so…”

“Yeah! God. I don’t know how you manage teaching and grading! Ugh. I don’t care for it,” Bianca said.

A guy appeared. I didn’t know him. He didn’t introduce himself, just swept her away. She was off.

“Sorry, Parker, I gotta go for a sec,” she said.

The alpha types always won out. I’d never be that guy. I wasn’t disfigured but wouldn’t lift weights for hours a day. I leaned into nerddom, satisfied with my research. As Bianca hung over the fit shithead who’d pulled her away, I lost hope. Maybe I should have cut my losses months ago, but it hurt. She was painfully perfect—adorable, sweet, clever. She was more than just pretty.

Then, a spark of hope emerged. Bianca came back and threw her arms around my shoulders.

“Sorry about that, Parker. Can you get me a drink?” Bianca asked.

I couldn’t tell her no. Excited by the possibility of impressing her, I agreed to do her bidding.

“Of course, B,” I said. “What do you want?

“Gin and tonic. But like… with some aromatic gin and… vermouth.”

So not a gin and tonic at all?

People who believed they could alter the entire balance of a drink and still call it that annoyed the hell out of me. I wondered if they lived on another planet. There was nothing wrong with making a drink up, but just give it a name and be ready to annoy your next bartender. Did all girls do this to be difficult? Did they make their drinks this way? I didn’t know. The last time I’d had a serious girlfriend had been ages ago; she only drank wine. Still, if I argued with Bianca, I had not a shot in hell at making her seeIwas the guy.

Proceeding to the kitchen’s makeshift bar, I turned all the labelsaround. People had gotten them all out of skew. How could you even know what you were using? I found a more aromatic gin that someone must have bought because it was expensive—as it tasted like pine needles. I focused next on the vermouth. Anyone would have that, right? I spotted it, but a girl stood texting, blocking me.

I waited momentarily, pulled a face, made a grumbling noise, and tried to telegraph my annoyance. Nothing. So, I reached over. And, as I did, she turned to face me, leading my hand—now almost fully deployed—to brush her right breast.

I stared, deer-in-headlights. She looked stunned.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry. I was reaching for the ver?—”

“You felt me up!”

“No, no, I swear, I was just reaching?—”

“Has no one told you just wait your turn?”

“I’m sorry, I did. You were zoned out on your damn mobile phone and?—”

“That’s no excuse! You can communicate with me in English!”

She looked appalled, then even more annoyed.

“Oh. My. God! You’re him!”

---