Page 62 of Royal Fling
“Is there anything I should know before we go in and I make a complete fool of myself?” I asked.
“You’re not going to make a fool of yourself.”
I raised an eyebrow to reiterate my point. I was no prince. I was no royalty. I was just… Luke.
“This gala is about educational reform across Europe,” he said. I nodded.
“Great. Can I go home now?”
“What?”
“Come on, August. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I don’t reform education. I just teach kids how to read and do math,” I said.
Everything was getting real now.
We had been fine in the guise of London. We’d had privacy and time to ourselves. Somehow, being here with August dressed… like he was, the clothes I was in started to feel foreign.
“Exactly. Your opinion is the most important of all,” he said, his hand reaching for my cheek and stroking me.
I couldn’t help leaning to his touch and closing my eyes, taking deep breaths, bracing myself for the evening.
“But if you want to go home, then we’ll just turn around now,” he offered.
“That’s sweet of you. But I couldn’t take you away from your work,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I’m just… will you please hold my hand through all this?”
August opened his mouth to answer, his smile immediately sinking into oblivion, but before he could say anything, I held my hand up.
“I know. I know. You’re not out. I meant metaphorically,” I said, although, no, I hadn’t meant metaphorically. At least not entirely.
Oh, Luke. The longer you see this guy, the bigger trouble you’re getting yourself in.
“Come on. Let’s go help you reform education across Europe,” I said as if it was the most natural thing to do on a Friday evening. “Do these people really make such important decisions at a party with unlimited alcohol and edible gold canapes?”
August walked beside me, and I held back the urge to cling to his arm. He did laugh, however, and graced me with his intense grey eyes.
“Of course not, Lucas. This is more of the… social part of it. Building relationships with these people. And more often than not, getting them drunk enough to agree to certain things.”
I nodded.
“Pfft. That’s easy. I can get everyone here drunk in no time. Do we have tequila on hand?”
August burst in laughter but covered his mouth when he drew attention.
A few people bowed at him and, for some strange reason, at me, and he introduced me as a prestigious American teacher. The title was complete and utter bullshit, of course, but they didn’t know that.
There was nothing prestigious about Cedarwood Elementary School. But after I was handed a champagne flute—which tasted as good as it cost, actually—I was game for anything.
“How long have you been in private education, Mr. Karagiannis?” a guy who looked a step away from his own grave asked me.
“Oh, I’m not in private education. I work in a public school,” I said.
He bobbed his head with his bushy white eyebrows knotting up over the bridge of his nose.
“He’s an excellent teacher, and his school is part of a test program so he can tell you firsthand how incredibly beneficial it can be to have one teacher follow the kids every year until they graduate to high school,” August said with a wave of his hand, and did his accent sound a lot more British than it had ever before? Did he have a public voice that was completely different to his real one?
“I can tell you for sure that the kids and I have a great bond, and I’ve adjusted my lessons to their collective and individual needs, and they often confide in me when they have trouble with their homework,” I said, taking August’s prompt.
The white scarecrow of a man didn’t seem impressed, however.
