Page 8 of The Dandelion Princess
“What do you say?” he prods. “Be her big brother?”
3
Official Portrait
ELLA
Alix’s hair is the color of pink cotton candy. She jumps off the edge of the fountain outside the gates of Aldo Gardens and hauls me into a fierce hug. My best friend is model-slim and striking, one of the rare private school girls to shake off the title ofnepo babywhen she became an international fashion muse.
She doesn’t hug like someone who has a luxury handbag named after her. (The Alix is as surprisingly capacious as her heart.) She hugs like she did in kindergarten, squeezing the breath out of my lungs, and squeals into my ear, turning us into a spectacle for a crowd of onlookers.
“Alix,” I protest, words muffled.
She leans back, holds my chin, and tilts me this way and that, finally uttering a guttural sound at the back of her throat. “It’s a crime your mother doesn’t permit you to wear winged eyeliner everyday.” She frowns, glancing over her shoulder. “You’re notwasting all your hotness on one of these inbred aristos are you? I won’t allow it.”
“Hotness?” I dimple at her generosity. Tonight I’m wearing a cropped sweater, distressed jeans, and a comfortable pair of trainers. Tortoiseshell glasses perch on my nose and a leather cross-body bag is a callback to my favorite Seongan anime,Roar’s Mansion. Calling me hot is ridiculous, but my standing policy is that I’m never too good for compliments.
I peel out of Alix’s arms and get a peek at her other guests. An odd mix. Modeling friends pose for selfies on the other side of the iconic fountain, making the most of long legs and good angles. Girls from Saint Sissela’s gossip languidly behind expensive sunglasses, cigarette smoke wafting gently above their heads. There is the usual assortment of weedy men from old families wearing high-waisted cream trousers and silk shirts open to their pasty chests, prepared to behave like cads given the smallest encouragement.
Loud American men who look like the only time they read is to skim the AI search results on Performance Maxing are engaged in a pull-up competition in the branches of the trees lining the grand avenue. What if I brought home a Tucker or Brody to meet my mother? A giggle escapes me. She would die. With gleaming eyes, I adjust my bag, not at all opposed to being very foolish with a man in chinos and a fleece vest. I’ve spent eighteen arduous months trying to find a new type. Maybe tonight is the night I finally do it.
“Ready?” Alix asks, halting my prowl.
“Did you really rent out the whole park?” I ask. Royals are rarely allowed to indulge in lavish gestures without an opinion piece inThe Holy Pelicandecrying the waste, and I feel a pinch of jealousy.
Alix nods. “We gave away a thousand tickets to low-income families for the mid-term holiday. Tom’s idea.” That would explain the noise coming from the amusement park.
“That’s very sweet.”
“He got a group discount. Tom is very good with money, even though he has none of his own.”
I choke. “Alix, he’s an investment banker and you met in the Hamptons. He’s not exactly—”
“He’s not lavish, I mean. His car is a used 2006 Toyota Corolla, and he went to an actual junkyard to find a replacement motor for the passenger side window when my blowouts kept wilting.” She looks over my head and finds Tom in the crowd. When he gives her a wave, her whole face lights up. “His love language is informative YouTube home repair videos,” she hisses. “Don’t tease him about it.”
“You wound me,” I reply. The weather on this April night is cool but dry, and a light breeze ruffles my hair, sending thousands of fairy lights dancing. “If he has a brother, set me up.”
“He has three sisters,” Alix laughs, tugging me up onto the edge of the fountain. A summer dress skims her bare legs and I worry for her. She’s the kind of person who trust-falls into relationships, and I wonder if Tom has learned to bring layers.
“Do one of your big whistles,” she asks. I pinch my fingers against my lips and let out a piercing sound, cutting through the cigarette smoke and ennui. More than five hundred heads turn in our direction and Tom threads through the crowd, reaching for Alix. I see that he is wearing a sensible sweater and carries an extra jacket slung over his arm.
She catches his hand and laces her fingers through his. “We are sharing the park,” she calls. “If anyone acts like some spoiled princess— Oh, no offense Ella.”
“None taken.”
She continues. “—you’re dead to me.”
As one body, the crowd surges towards the open gates, weaving around the fountain like fish in a stream. My security officer, Thor, is keeping his distance, and I take my phone out, framing the bright lights of Aldo Gardens, my best friend, the ridiculous crowd…
Alix pauses at the gates. “If any of you gets into a scrape, don’t come looking for the bride,” she laughs. “Find Ella or Marc.”
At the sound of his name and the implication of his presence, a crisp, electric current prickles along the back of my neck. Marc? I hunt the streaming crowd for a familiar figure, half Sondish, half Seongan. I go up on my toes to look, my fingers working through my curls, and brush away the sensation.
“I’m right here, Ells.”
My heart stops and I close my eyes, hoping for a reset.
This nervousness is just my limbic system. Those early-formed neural pathways always herd me toward specific reactions like a rabbit following a game trail through a forest. It’s science, and when I turn around, it’s going to disappear. He’ll be what I have decided he should be—Noah’s best friend.
