Page 71 of Prince Charmless
Cassie is technically still fifth in line to the throne. The reason why she fled St. Claire is a lot more mundane than the public thinks. She moved to the States to be with her American boyfriend, now husband, and isn’t interested in socialiting.I don’t like playing dress-up and pretending to be Catholic, she’d said, which is fair enough. I’m not a fan of it either. She and her husband run a sailing charter and ferment their own kombucha. The press thinks we’ve completely ostracized her, which isn’t the case. She visits St. Claire all the time, enough that I know how to cook with tofu. The whole ‘Cassandra is the black sheep of the royal family and we’re banned from talking to her’ narrative is utter nonsense.
Melina scratches her head. “I thought she was like, living in the woods or something.”
“She’s not living in the woods. I have no idea where that rumor came from. Is that all of your conditions?”
She nods and holds up her little finger.
“What is that?”
“It’s a pinky promise you’re not going to break them.”
I interlock her finger with mine. “And you’re calling me the child.”
22
Melina
For some reason, I don’t seem to know how I got into this bed. My last memory involves climbing into the back of a car at a tiny municipal airport. It was late when we landed, and I must’ve fallen asleep at some point. I do remember Taylor’s private jet, however. I could get used to traveling like royalty. I felt very important being driven right up on the runway of a military base. When we landed, an officer came on board and checked our passports for about two seconds as a formality of international travel.So you’re like a prince or something?he asked, looking through Taylor’s documents.Or something,Taylor replied before quickly adding,uh, yes, I am,when realizing we’re not in his kingdom anymore and being sassy to American cops isn’t advisable.
I guess when you’re rich, you don’t have to shuffle through TSA. Maybe that’s why Taylor’s so cocky. He’s never had to go through the dehumanizing experience of putting your shoes in a bin, and sometime later, putting them back on as fast as possible to not hold up a line of disgruntled passengers just trying to get home before New Year’s.
I sit up in the mystery bed and swipe its mystery quilt off my sweaty body. There’s a small pool just outside the bay window beside me. Cape Cod.That’s where I am. As I scan the light blue bedroom, I’m sprinkled with flashbacks from last night. God, did Taylor tuck me in? Like a baby? I think he might’ve been in here, or did I just dream that?
It’s been an interesting past couple of days. I’ve done a lot of explaining to my friends and family about how ‘Yeah, thatis me in the picture’, and ‘No, we’re not together’. and ‘Stop calling mePrincesa Melina,Mom!’ Everyone online is posting whatever mundane detail they can find about me, from my age being twenty-nine, to me being the president of my high school’s robotics club, to where and when I went to university. They stopped short of probing into the lives of my family members. I’m hoping these ‘journalists’ assume they’re too boring to look into.
Thankfully, I haven’t been recognized in person. Or if I have, no one has said anything. Though I haven’t been outside much. I’ve been holed up in my apartment getting work done, so I could take a few days off. To be honest, I don’t think most real people care about royal gossip. Social media tends to inflate situations, so it seems the whole world is talking about it. So far, the only thing that’s made my nostrils flare is when a client (Mark, sends emails with no exclamation points) asked if this will ‘affect my work’. Mark needs to mind his own damn business is what he needs to do.
As per this vacation, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it’s a terrible idea. I might be lying to myself if I say that was a drunk kiss at the party. I was drunk, but I wasn’tthatdrunk. The fact that a small, tiny, minuscule part of me might be falling for him, is a fact I shouldn’t be exploring. I can’t seriously date the future king of St. Claire, Prince Taylor, so I shouldn’t let myself get worked up over Taylor. I need to remember how rude he can be and not focus on the moments when he’s not, like when he made that little girl happy, or gave me his jacket, or made me dinner multiple times. Yep. None of that stuff I’m going to focus on. None of it at all.
I climb out of bed and stand in front of a vanity. I’m still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. I don’t remember bringing my duffle bag in here either, but there it sits by the door. I walk over to the bookshelf full of vinyl recordsand nautical knick-knacks. A small wooden box engraved withPrincess Cassandrain tiny gold letters is being used to prop up a dried starfish. When my curiosity gets the best of me, I open the latch. Amongst the velvet sits a small diamond tiara ornamented with tiny pearls at the top. The jewels are laid out in a style that reminds me of Art deco.
“Do you want it?”
I shut the box and pivot to the woman standing in the doorway. “Oh my God. No. Uh, I’m, uh—”Who am I?
“Breakfast?”
“What?”
She smiles. “I’m making avocado toast. Would you like some? I’m Cassie, by the way.”
Cassie looks different from the pictures I saw when I looked her up. Instead of the pristine updo, her brown wavy hair is kept back by a Boston Red Sox hat. The jewel-toned dresses have been replaced by holey jeans, a tank top, and a sleeve of tattoos on one bicep. I read ‘Friends not Food’ in between some abstract designs of flowers and leaves. Her face reminds me of Taylor’s, except less harsh and prettier. She also might be pregnant, but you want to be sure of facts like that before asking.
“Sure. I’m Melina.”
“Yes, Taylor’s told me all about you.”
I raise a brow. “He has?”
Cassie’s laugh is airy and bright. “No,” she says, then leaves.
After changing my clothes and brushing my teeth, I explore the living room of the New England colonial. The walls are made with white vertical shiplap and the furniture of oak. “Your place is gorgeous,” I say to Cassie in the other room.
“Thank you. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but we made it work.” I walk in on her putting groceries away in the kitchen that’s just as adorable as the rest of the house. All the cabinetsare pale green, and the wood ceiling beams have plants hanging from them. “We’re vegans,” she adds. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Fine by me. What can I help with?”
She gestures to the table. “Nothing, have a seat.”
