Page 24 of A Princess for Christmas

“My mom had one of the early models. She thought it was ugly, though. But there were these Kate Spade band things. Like a container you wrapped around the actual Fitbit. She thought one of those would class it up. But they were expensive.” Well, they were expensive to the Riccis. For all he knew, Kate Spade was actually a ghetto brand when you were a royal. But his point stood, so he pressed on. “My dad kept telling her to go ahead and buy one, but she said she couldn’t justify it. She told us to go in on it for a Christmas present for her. But then—”

Ah,shit.

This was why he avoided talking about his parents. He could force himself to keep his shit together to do it with Gabby because he knew it was important for her to be able to talk about them. But on his own? No. He just didn’t go there.

Because it made his throat close up.

Her hand was on his, suddenly. She was wearing nail polish. He hadn’t noticed that before. It was super pale pink—almost beige. It was an ugly color, actually.

A princess with ugly nails. The thought anchored him. Stopped the drowning.

She was going to say something. Something kind, probably. He didn’t want that, so he rushed to finish the story. “One day—just a normal day; it wasn’t a special occasion—my dad came home with one for her.”

“Oh, that’s so—”

“The point is”—he hated to interrupt her, but he couldn’t let her get all moony over his parents, or he’d embarrass himself by joining her—“the addition of the Kate Spade part made all thedifference. I don’t know if it was the brand—the idea of it—or if it made an actual aesthetic difference to her. But she wore that thing every day until she . . .”

“Until she died?”

Leo was too tired, suddenly, to fight Marie’s quiet empathy, so he nodded. “I almost had her buried in it, actually. But then I thought maybe Gabby might want it. ButthenI thought...”

Gah. Shutup. Why was he babbling like this?

“Then you thought what?” she prodded gently. She was looking at him like she genuinely cared about the answer.

“Well, I don’t know. She was only nine. Who puts a Fitbit on a nine-year-old? They’re supposed to run and play because they like it, right? Not because they need something to remind them to get up and move their bodies. So I thought I’d save it for later, but...” Well, fuck it, he’d come this far. “She’s older now, but the last two years have been kind of a crash course in parenting a girl in the modern world. I see all this... shit she tries to live up to. Already! Like, she wants to wear all this makeup. For what? So she can look like she’s twenty-five? We had a major blowout this past Halloween because she wanted to be an angel and I stupidly agreed, not realizing that what she actually wanted to be was aVictoria’s Secret angel. She’s eleven! Where is that coming from?”

“The patriarchy.”

He barked a surprised laugh but she was right. He wouldn’t have said it like that, but watching—watching closely—as Gabby grew up had opened his eyes to a lot of shit he had not seen when he was just her semiabsent big brother. “So anyway, with the Fitbit, I thought no way am I giving her anything that’s so . . . prescriptive, you know? That tells her to be a certain wayor to do things a certain way?” God. He needed to stop talking. “Listen to me. I’m—”

“A good brother. A good surrogate father.”

The ugly-nailed hand was back on top of his, squeezing this time.

He’d been going to say “an idiot,” but hell, he’d take her assessment, even if she was incorrect. He wastryingto be those things. Did that count?

Leo cleared his throat and pulled his hand back. “Anyway. We were supposed to be talking about your watches. Maybe you should consider making a smart watch.”

Marie nodded. “And selling our products online. Or at least letting retailers do so. That was another thing Marx was upset about.”

“You don’t sell your watches online?” That was hard to believe.

“Most luxury brands don’t.”

“Is that some kind of weird exclusivity thing? Because no offense, that’s just dumb. I’m the last guy to climb on board any tech trend. I still read the physical newspaper and listen to records—and not in a hipster-ironic way. But I’m not your market. How much do your watches cost?”

“They start at around ten thousand US.”

He snorted. “And where do they end?”

“The top model right now retails for four hundred thousand US.”

He blinked. This was where the termsticker shockcame from, he supposed. He had an idea that there was a category of watches—like Rolexes—that were really expensive, but he’d had no idea. “Well, to my mind, not selling your stuff online is stupid. Stubborn-mindedly ignoring a huge market. It’s like . . .” He castaround for a metaphor. “I don’t know, it’s like the Islanders not selling Islanders merchandise.” He pointed at his hat, which was lying on the table next to her.

She burst out laughing. He laughed along with her. It felt good.

He simply wasn’t capable of wrapping his mind around spending so much for a watch, even if you had that kind of money to burn. “No offense, Your Exalted Loftiness, but in my opinion, this is all a load of shit.” He reached for her hand. He’d noticed earlier today that she was wearing the same big watch as yesterday. It was a good-looking watch, silver—platinum?—with a few small diamonds on the face, but not worth anywhere near what it no doubt retailed for. “This is a watch, not the cure for cancer. You can’t just—oh, shit. How did it get so late? I have to go.”

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