Page 48 of A Princess for Christmas

Marie:How does everyone know about this? Did a “Marie fails at America” memo go out?

Max:IDK, but I heard it from Mother. Anyway, re the PhD/reprieve, don’t get too excited. The duke is NOT pleased. When I originally floated the idea, he said no, but apparently now he’s thinking about it.

Marie:Is that why my father was there?

Max:I have no idea. But they made me Skype with them, and they seemed rather fixated on finding out if my sudden interest in the social history of the Blitz was genuine. I felt like I was being examined. Sebastian, of course, is hard at work in the mines and can do no wrong.

Poor Max. His younger brother, Seb, worked in the family mining business, though of course not literally in the mines. He was definitely the favored son. Too bad he couldn’t have been born first.

Marie:The irony is I bet you could do a really amazing PhD on the social history of the Blitz if you applied yourself to social history as much as you apply yourself to other social activities.

Max:I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Marie laughed. Talking with Max always made her happy. That was another irony. Max wouldn’t make a bad husband, at least when it came to the compatibility part. It was the romanticpart. The love part. Thesexpart. Having grown up with their families so close, Max was like her annoying brother.

Hence the turkey baster plan. But their underlying compatibility was why neither of them had provoked an outright confrontation with either set of parents. They both knew it could be worse. Much worse. So they rubbed along in denial while Max finished school.

Or, more accurately, kept going to school. Which, in addition to avoiding the marriage their parents had been talking about since they were children, would allow him to tomcat around, as was his wont, free from the prying eyes of his parents and countrymen.

Marie:You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re lucky you’re only a minor royal, or your exploits would be all over the tabloids. If this were the nineteenth century, you’d be a rake.

Max:So since it’s the twenty-first century, I’m what? A slut?

Marie:You said it, not me.

Max:You wound me.

Leo:Is that walk still on offer?

The simple question—and the identity of its sender suddenly appearing as a notification—sent a bolt of electricity through Marie, making her fingers clumsy as she pecked out an answer.

Marie:Yes! The moon is almost full, so it’s an ideal night for a walk.

Max:What???

Oh, no. She’d seen Leo’s message in the preview notification, and in her haste hadn’t backed out of her stream with Max.

Marie:Sorry, that wasn’t for you.

Max:Who was it for? Who are you going on moonlit walks with????

Marie:We have guests for Christmas.

Max:Guests? What guests?

Marie:Someone I met in New York.

Max:Oh. Okay. Who is she?

Marie hesitated over whether to correct him. On the one hand, he’d be like a dog with a bone if she told him about Leo, and she didn’t need that kind of scrutiny. On the other,hisexploits were legendary, and aside from a little good-natured teasing she didn’t get on his case. She felt like this might be a “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander” situation. But no. It was better to noncommittally agree.

Max:And more importantly, is she single?

Marie:You’re more than a thousand kilometers away.

Max:So? Maybe I *should* come home for Christmas.

All right. She could not resist.

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