Page 45 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

I pull it out. “Here we go. This is it.” I give it to him, and he stares down at it in horror, as if he had forgotten that he had ever owned such a hideous Hawaiian shirt at all.

“Really?”

“Yes. And we’ll add in… yeah, here. These shorts, then put on a baseball cap — backwards — sunglasses, and… socks and sandals. Perfect.”

“And you thought the straw hat was ridiculous!” he huffs, arms full of clothes, sticking his nose up at my idea.

“We’re aiming for an American tourist,” I say, “Nobody is going to think twice about a stupid American tourist. Definitely nobody’s going to think that their prince would ever dress like that. It’s the perfect disguise.”

“I take your point.” He frowns, then looks me up and down. “What areyougoing to wear?”

I shrug. “Let me see if I can get Maria to find me some leggings and a T-shirt, then we’ll both look perfect.” Against my will, Maria did go out and find me an entire new wardrobe. And, worst of all, she got my style spot on, so I love everything in my new closet.

What did I do to deserve this generosity?

“Perfect?” Paolo scoffs. “By whose definition?”

“The perfectdisguise,” I say. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

By the time we meet at the side entrance ready to go, I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing. “Wow,” I say as Paolo approaches me, looking less than pleased. “Don’tyoulook the part?”

“Do I?” he asks, perking up. His puppy-dog need for approval should be annoying, but I can’t help but find it cute.

“Unfortunately, yes. Everything about this—” I gesture at him “—could not be further away from royalty.”

“Good. I guess,” he says sadly.

“Cheer up,” I grin. “We’re going to have a great day today.”

He cocks his head at me, giving me distinct puppy-dog vibes again, but doesn’t say anything. He just gives me this look of intrigue, like he wants to ask how I can be sure. I guess I can’t.

But I have a good feeling about it.

Together, we drive into the city. He points more stuff out on the way, tells me his ideas for some things we could do. I have no real agenda. Not having to think about it feels kind of nice.

He pulls into a parking lot, then turns to me and says, “You hungry?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Right, then. Gelato time.”

“You can’t have gelato for breakfast!”

“Maybeyoucan’t, but I definitely can. And anyway, the crepes in this place are to die for. Just trust me, okay? Let’s go.”

I don’t argue with him any more than that — clearly his mind is set on this plan, and I am curious. Everyone likes crepes, after all.

He leads me through the city, taking my hand, a big dopey grin plastered across his face. The way he loves this city fills me with a lightness, a shared joy. It’s infectious.

I can see why he wanted to get home so badly.

And I can’t really argue with him when we get served, because these crepes are damn good.

“Do you come here a lot?” I ask before I eat a strawberry whole.

He shakes his head. “I get them to deliver. I’m not really allowed to come into the city that often. Especially lately.”

“Do you ever just wish you could do what you want?”

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