Page 74 of Prince Charmless
Ah yes. I didn’t think he’d pay attention to my decor.
“You also just seem like the person who would enjoy a tacky fridge magnet.”
I don’t know if that’s a criticism or a compliment. I’ll take the latter.
Helplessly, I watch as Taylor grabs another strawberry off my cutting board and the beating heart out of my chest.
So much for keeping our hands to ourselves.
23
Taylor
I stare out of Cassie’s spare bedroom window into the void of the ocean. A sense of freedom always washes over me when I leave St. Claire. Not freedom in a tacky American dumping-tea-into-the-Boston-harbor type way, but freedom in the sense that I can go outside and not have to worry about security and press. Obviously, I don’t hate the country I’m the prince of. I like St. Claire. We have good drinking water and air quality. Our national animal is a phoenix, which isn’t a real animal. I’m not sure who messed that up, but it’s pretty badass. We have a lot of things going for us, I just want to walk into a room and not be the center of attention. Though I try not to voice these opinions out loud because no one wants to hear the winner of the generational wealth lottery whine about being too famous. Thankfully, the rest of the world only seems to care about one royal family, and it’s not mine. This is all to say I’m in a rare good mood today, and Melina is the cherry on the top.
I look down to see she’s reading a book on a chaise longue by the pool, her tan skin glowing in the sun. I should probably go bother her. She looks way too peaceful reading out there with her comically large sunglasses. Climate change has made it a warm day for early October, it’d be a shame if I let it go to waste.
“Is that one of your novels about the bedless society?”
Melina flinches at my voice from behind. “I don’t actually read a lot of romance.”
Romance? I thought she was reading dystopian.
I sit in the chair next to hers. She’s wearing a skirt today. It’s a muted green with tiny white flowers on it. I fucking love skirts.
“Do you think the one-bed-trope will happen before or after the quadruple murder?” She shows me the cover.
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote.
“Do you read true crime as well?”
She nods. “I only read love stories when I need a fluffy break from my usual murdery endings. What are you doing?”
I take the joint Cassie gave me out of my lips. “Sorry, didn’t know you were the type.” I gesture it out to her. “Ladies first.”
She scoffs. “Oh,Idon’t seem like the type?”
Just as I figure she doesn’t want me to smoke around her, Melina swipes the joint from my hand and coughs as soon as she inhales. My point stands.
“I don’t think I took it,” she says, inspecting the paper between her fingers.
I steal it back before she can make a classic mistake. “Wait first,” I say, exhaling the smoke, then setting it down on the small table between us.
“So how often do you do this then?” she asks.
“Maybe a couple of times a year on particularly stressful days, when I get more uptight and insufferable even for my own good.” I could tell her I was a bit of a stoner at university, but I don’t want her to ask me about my piece-of-shit, chronically-in-need-of-a-haircut, sex-hipster college days.
“Thomas told me you cook when you’re stressed.”
“Sometimes there’s no time for cooking.”
“But there’s time for baking?”
I laugh because she’s very funny.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” She shuts her book, then pins me with a look above her sunglasses. “Did you carry me to bed last night?”
“Yes. You fell asleep on my shoulder in the car. You’re very peaceful-looking when you’re not all talky.”
