This rehearsal dinner was a damn minefield. My father was still here, Mom and I were avoiding him, he was presumably walking Dusty down the aisle, and I was kind of avoiding Dusty. Oh, and Dusty was, of course, pregnant. But to the best of my knowledge, she remained secretly pregnant. I was sure the cameramen had told Pamela. I mean, how could they not? This was definitely “the most dramatic season ever” material—even if there had only been one season of Prince in Disguise so far. But Pamela hadn’t done anything with it yet. Not even a hint of anything remotely baby-related. I probably should have been more terrified because something was definitely coming, but I was too relieved that nothing had happened yet to really let that terror sink in. I was still pretty pissed at Dusty, too, but not pissed enough that I had any intention of outing her little bundle of joy in front of the assembled company.

Tilly had really outdone herself. The Atholl Arms looked like it had been decorated by a legion of drunk elves. I doubted that even the North Pole looked this Christmasy on December 23. Greenery, twinkling lights, and plaid bows adorned every available surface. The mistletoe hanging from the ceiling kept getting caught in my hair. Real candles cast a soft light over the room. It seemed inevitable that something in the overstuffed pub would catch fire, but nothing had yet.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Jamie announced as he found me tucked into a corner, hiding behind a large velvet wing chair featuring a throw pillow embroidered with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. I’m not sure what, exactly, I thought I was hiding from. Cameraman Mike had been practically glued to my elbow the entire evening. I’d seen a lot of him recently—I was now positive he’d been officially assigned to me. He must have gotten some pretty good footage on our date to have been promoted from the breakfast beat. I decided not to think about how good.

Jamie extended empty hands, palms up. “I thought it was too hot for chocolate, so I tried to get fizzy drinks, but the crush at the bar was absolutely mad. I couldn’t even get close.”

“I think Dusty and Ronan invited all of Dunkeld and Birnam. And Dusty’s whole sorority. And Ronan’s rugby team.”

“And probably the entire population of Scotland as well.”

“Seriously. I can’t even see anyone I know.”

“Neither can I.” He scanned the crowd, until his eyes caught on something—or someone. A jolt of recognition crossed his face, and he went suddenly pale. Even paler than usual.

“Darling!” A tall woman in an impressively large fur coat was waving her arms vigorously. “Darling, over here!”

“Oh bloody hell,” Jamie cursed fervently under his breath.

“Who’s that?”

“My mum.”

“Your mum,” I marveled. Now that I knew, of course, it seemed obvious. The height, the pallor, the black hair—I just hadn’t expected to see her here. Jamie had only mentioned his parents once, and I’d promptly forgotten that they existed. Or that they might be coming here for the wedding.

“Darling!” She kept waving. “Gillecroids! Gillecroids, darling! Over here!”

“What?” I heard her, but she wasn’t making sense. “What is she calling you? Guh-something? What’s that?”

“My name.”

“Your name is Jamie,” I said, stating the obvious.

“No, it’s not. It’s Gillecroids Edmund Alexander James.”

“Guh-what?” I stammered. “What are you even saying? Is that even a word? Is that even a name? Can you spell it?”

“G-I-L-L-E-C-R-O-I-D-S,” he spelled slowly.

“Huh.” I chewed it over. “Gillecroids. What kind of name is that?”

“Gaelic. It means servant of Christ.”

“Gaelic? So then you are Scottish?” I poked him in the chest. “What was with all the pretensions of Englishness? I feel like I don’t know you at all now,” I teased.

“My mum is Scottish. But my dad’s English. I grew up in England.” Weirdly, Jamie had started sweating. Visible drops stood out on his forehead. It was warm in here, but not that warm.

“Cool. Well, Gillecroids is sort of weird, but you didn’t have to hide it. You could have told me your real name, Eugene,” I joked.

“Eugene?”

“Eugene Fitzherbert? Tangled? For someone who knows all the words to a song from Frozen, the rest of your Disney knowledge is shockingly lacking.”

An older guy in a sharp gray suit appeared at Jamie’s mom’s side, holding two flutes of champagne.

“Is that your dad?” I asked. Jamie nodded. “Should we go say hi, then?”

Why was Jamie just standing there like he was glued to the floor as his mom waved maniacally? I started to push my way through the crowd toward his parents.

“Dylan, wait!”

His grip was too tight on my arm, and he was still sweating profusely. I’d never seen anyone have a panic attack before, but I might have been witnessing one.

“Oh.” Realization dawned as a wave of mortification washed over me. Of course. He was embarrassed. “I get it. You don’t want them to meet me.” With some difficulty, I disentangled myself from his viselike grip. “That’s cool, Jamie. I’ll go find Heaven.”

“No!” He emitted a strangled cry, his eyes wild. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all—It’s just—Oh, hell.” He awkwardly mopped some of the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve. “I should have told you. Should have told you ages ago. This is the worst possible way for you to find out.”

“Told me what?” I demanded, searching his eyes for answers I couldn’t find. “Find out what?”

“Gillecroids!”

Well, it was a moot point anyhow—Jamie’s parents had made their way over to us. Cameraman Mike maneuvered himself into a better position behind us. He must have been thrilled—Pamela would surely be able to spin this meet-the-parents moment into something unbearably awkward. Or more likely, I’d make it unbearably awkward by just being myself.

“Oh, darling!” Jamie’s mom enveloped him in a furry hug. “Are you frozen to the bone? I forgot how cold and ghastly it was up here! It’s practically Siberia!”

If Jamie’s mom was Scottish, I could barely hear it in her voice. She had the same cut-glass accent Jamie did, with only the faintest hint of a burr around her Rs.

“I’m sure the boy’s plenty warm. You packed him enough sweaters, Margaret.” There was a good-natured teasing in Jamie’s father’s voice. The man looked like a movie villain—like a business executive who would try to buy up a small town or something—but he sounded nice enough. He also had the shiniest shoes I’d ever seen.

“Have you been eating enough, Gillecroids?” Jamie’s mom held him at arm’s length, as if assessing him for signs of starvation. “You’re thin as a rail! A stiff breeze would knock you over!”

“Please call me Jamie, Mum,” he muttered, blushing.

“Oh, what a lot of tosh,” she said dismissively. “Jamie is a plain name. Gillecroids is special. Like you, darling.” She tousled his hair affectionately.

“Mum,” Jamie croaked, red as a beet.

From the very brief picture Jamie had painted for me, these were not the parents I’d been expecting. I suppose all he’d said was that they traveled a lot, but I’d drawn conclusions about distant, frosty mothers and cold, absent fathers. Clearly I’d been wrong.

“Well, hello.” Jamie’s mom’s eyes lit on me for the first time. “Who’s this, Gillecroids?”

I smiled awkwardly at Jamie’s parents.

“Mum, Dad, this is Dylan,” he introduced me.

“Why, darling, she’s lovely!” Jamie’s mom said emphatically. “So tall! A real, proper-sized girl. And those cheekbones! She’s like a Roman statue!”

“Thanks,” I stammered. “Um. Hi.”

“Aha!” she crowed. “I thought I spotted American dental work!” She raised her glass in a toast to dentistry.

“She’s not a horse, Margaret.” Jamie’s dad sighed. “Please refrain from examining her teeth.”

“I wasn’t examining her teeth!” she protested. “I merely happened to notice they were lovely and remarked upon them. You are American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Bride’s side, then?” She jumped right in before I had a chance to say anything else.

“Yeah. I’m Dusty’s sister.”

“Of course you are.” I was so surprised that she wasn’t surprised that my mouth fell open a little bit. Had dyeing my hair and putting on a little bit of makeup really made that much of a difference? This was the first time I could remember that someone hadn’t said “Really?” after I’d said I was Dusty’s sister. “The two tallest, loveliest girls in the room! That dress is charming. Girls these days all dress like slappers. So nice to meet a modest young lady with class.”

Jamie had groaned slightly at “slappers.” I made a mental note to find out exactly what that meant, but I had a pretty good idea from the context.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mrs.…” I trailed off awkwardly, realizing I still didn’t know Jamie’s last name.

Jamie’s mom turned toward him and raised an eyebrow. He pressed his lips together firmly as if answering an unspoken question.

“Call me Margaret,” she said warmly, after a brief pause. “This is James.” She indicated her husband with a nod of her head.

“James, who is incapable of introducing himself, apparently,” he said.

“I’m simply better at it, darling.” She gesticulated wildly toward the ceiling with her glass. “So, are you two…involved?”

“Mum!” Jamie croaked. He seemed to be unable to do anything but say “Mum!” and turn red.

“I knew it! Finally!” Margaret cried triumphantly. “Do you know he’s never brought a girl home before?”

“I can’t imagine why, with this kind of response!” Jamie hissed. “Checking her teeth and eyeing her height like she was a…a…broodmare for the purchasing!”

I made a face at Jamie. He shrugged helplessly.

“I’m being welcoming, darling!” Margaret said, offended. “It’s called a compliment. A phenomenon you might wish to become better acquainted with if you intend to keep a precious treasure like the lovely Dylan.”

Margaret’s many votes of confidence were flattering, but confusing. So far all I’d done was be tall, have straight teeth, and say a half dozen words. I wasn’t exactly setting the room on fire.

“Mum, please,” Jamie said in a strangled voice. “Just. Be. Normal.”

“This obsession with normalcy is tedious, Gillecroids.” Margaret exhaled forcefully through her nose.

“Let’s not mortify the boy, please,” Jamie’s dad said. “It would be a shame for him to die of humiliation at such a tender young age. He’s barely reached his potential.”

Jamie’s mom was unlike anyone I’d ever met before, the kind of person I didn’t think was real, like Auntie Mame. She needed one of those long cigarette holders and a pair of opera gloves.

“Well, then,” Jamie said. “This was just…excellent…all around. Mum and Dad, thank you, as always, for being horrifyingly embarrassing. But I’m afraid at the moment Dylan and I are urgently needed in another room. Far away from here.”

“Gillecroids—”

“Let them go, Margaret,” Jamie’s dad said gently, placing a restraining hand on her arm. “We’re not the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Jamie and his dad said in unison. I goggled at the two of them.

“Right.” Jamie exhaled an enormous sigh of relief and grinned hugely. He finally looked back to normal. “Thanks, Dad. See you later, all right?”

“Your Royal Highness!”

I heard a voice that was unmistakably Florence’s, but it couldn’t have been her—she sounded happy. And yet, it was her. Florence barreled her way into our little corner of the pub, almost unrecognizable because of the wide grin splitting her face. I’d never seen her smile before. Somehow, it did nothing to make her look friendlier.

Whatever had improved Florence’s mood had drastically deteriorated Jamie’s. He’d gone all weird and white again. I poked him experimentally in the arm, but he didn’t react.

“Your Royal Highness,” Florence simpered with delight, arriving in our little group in a cloud of lavender water.

Your Royal Highness?! Excuse me, what?! I shot Jamie a hard look that he studiously ignored.

“We are absolutely honored that you’ve joined us this evening. What a delight.” She was making googly eyes at Jamie’s dad. It had been bizarre watching Florence treat Jamie so nicely these past couple weeks, but that was nothing compared to the way she was sucking up to his father. “And you’ve brought your lovely duchess as well.”

Duchess. Your Highness. What. Was. Happening.

“How’s it hanging, Florence?” Jamie’s mom swallowed the rest of her drink noisily. Florence made a little moue of distaste, then immediately turned her attention back to Jamie’s dad.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Jamie’s dad said politely. “Congratulations on the wedding. You must be terribly pleased.”

“It is…what it is,” Florence said crisply. Even though I was mad at Dusty, she didn’t deserve that. A tiny rage-fire started kindling itself deep within my belly. “My, my, my.” Her eyes landed on me, standing perhaps slightly closer to Jamie than was normal. “You Leigh girls certainly don’t waste any time.”

I could feel the insult beneath her words—or maybe in her words—but I had no comeback at the ready. Florence was scary. And Jamie was no help. He was as stiff and cold as if I’d bumped into a wax figure at Madame Tussauds.

“Careful, Your Highness.” Florence smiled coldly at Jamie’s dad. “Or you’ll end up with a gangly American duchess in sweatpants.”

“I adore sweatpants!” Jamie’s mom interjected, brandishing her glass threateningly at Florence like it was a weapon.

Gangly American… duchess? Florence throwing shade was the least of my problems. Was Jamie a duke? A prince? A king? What was he? Florence had called his dad a Royal Highness. And his mom was a duchess. Which made him, what, a pre-duke? Also a Royal Highness?! I didn’t know enough about hereditary titles to know what any of this meant, but I knew enough to know that Jamie was royal. Even more royal than Ronan. I felt extremely confused, and wrong-footed, and stupid—did everyone else know except for me? Had they known the whole time?

“Excuse us, please,” Jamie’s dad said smoothly. “Lovely to see you again, Lady Dunleavy. Looking forward to the wedding.”

He steered Jamie’s mom away in a somewhat forceful manner. She was gesticulating wildly and muttering “Sweatpants.” Florence sniffed at us once, and left.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me your real name,” I said woodenly.

“I was going to, Dylan, I swear, I just didn’t want to—Damn.” He exhaled loudly, hair flopping out of his face. “Can we go somewhere quieter? Please? Just—Here. Come on.”

He grabbed my arm and towed me out of the pub, into the lobby, and up the stairs. The cameraman followed us, of course, and I let him, just like I’d promised Pamela I would. This was exactly what Pamela had wanted, right? Drama. Romance. A friggin’ prince in disguise.

We ended up in a deserted hallway, right in front of a bookcase filled with paperback romance novels. Stupid romance novels. They were probably bursting with princes in disguise. I had an irrational urge to start chucking them at Jamie’s head. Well, maybe not so irrational.

“Dylan. Please. Just let me explain. I am so, so—”

“What is it?” I interrupted him. “Your real name. Your full name. The title and everything.”

“His Royal Highness Prince Gillecroids Edmund Alexander James,” he said heavily.

“His Royal Highness,” I said faintly. “Prince? Did you say prince?! Oh my God. You’re a prince in disguise!”

“Absolutely not!” he said emphatically. “That is a construction created solely by this insane television program. I’m not in any sort of disguise.”

“Oh God. Is everyone on the show a prince in disguise?” I asked hysterically. “Is Kit Kirby the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“That’s not a hereditary title—Kit Kirby’s not ordained—not even Church of England, come to think of it—”

“Forget Kit Kirby! You’re a prince, Jamie.”

“I’m hardly a prince, Dylan! Well, technically, I am, I suppose, but—”

“Explain. Now.”

“My father is a prince,” he said quickly, all in a rush, like he was pulling off a Band-Aid. “Not one of the important ones. A younger son, you know.”

“A younger son of who? Queen Elizabeth?!”

Jamie nodded, almost shamefacedly.

“Queen Elizabeth is your meemaw?!” I shrieked.

“We really only ever see her on holidays,” he mumbled, “and not for very long. Mum hates the Christmas lunch at Sandringham. She’s trying to dodge going on Sunday—it’s one of the reasons she was so keen on coming to the wedding. She only really gets on with Harry.”

“Harry. You mean Prince Harry?!”

“Yes. He’s my, er, cousin.”

“Cousin?!” I realized I was doing nothing but shrieking the names of various relations, but I couldn’t believe any of this. How could Jamie—my Jamie—possibly be a prince?

“I hardly ever see him, either! Honestly, Dylan, I’m a very normal, boring prince. I’m not Harry. I’m never in the papers.”

“The papers?” I repeated incredulously. “Are you, like, famous?”

“Certainly not. I never do anything. They call me ‘His Royal Shyness.’”

“His Royal Shyness.” It all clicked into place. “Just like Kit said on the first day I met you! God, I am dumb.”

“You are not dumb, Dylan, why on earth would you be familiar with British tabloid culture—”

“You’re just proving my point. You’re famous enough that the tabloids gave you a nickname.”

“Just really that one time when I was doing some work with Sentebale.”

“And that is…” I prompted.

“A charity in Africa founded by, er…Harry,” he finished lamely. “And Prince Seeiso. Of Lesotho.”

“Oh my God.” I leaned against the bookshelf, half-afraid I was going to collapse. Jamie was a prince. People took his pictures for newspapers. He had Christmas lunch with the Queen. He was palling around Africa with his cousin Prince Harry. And the prince of Lesotho. And who knew how many other royals. The divide between us was so much bigger than just the continents that separated us.

“I am so stupid,” I said emphatically. I felt seconds away from banging my head against the wall. “Did everyone know except for me? Were you all sitting around laughing, like, ‘Oh, ha-ha, you know nothing, Dylan Leigh’?”

“Not at all,” he assured me. Except I was in no mood to be assured. “Well, everyone from here knows, but they no longer think of it as anything other than a, uh, job that I didn’t apply for. The only person who had ever even brought up my title was Pamela, in her horrid confessionals. Asking how it felt to be prince, whether or not it was hard to date as a prince, all these ridiculous, stupid…It’s not something I’m particularly keen to discuss, unprompted.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cameraman Mike circled around us, getting closer to my face. Too close.

“I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

“Did Pamela put you up to this?” I asked sharply, pulling myself up to my full height, trying to ignore the intrusion of the camera’s lens. I wanted to look Jamie in the eyes. “Did she tell you not to tell me? So it would be a big, shocking revelation? A double whammy of princes in disguise? One last big plot twist on Dusty and Ronan’s Royal Happily-Ever-After Hootenanny?”

“Of course not!”

I couldn’t even hear him anymore. I felt like I was drowning in the warm stuffy air. I groped desperately along the shelf, looking for something to hold on to, my fingers scrabbling on the shiny book covers. Had anything with Jamie been real? Or had our entire relationship been set up by the show?

“Did Pamela tell you to pretend to like me? To kiss me? To lie to me?”

“No! I never lied to you!”

“But you didn’t tell me the truth.”

“No.” He sighed heavily. “I didn’t.”

We looked at each other warily. This was usually the point in the movie where I threw something at the TV, yelling at the stupid chick-flick heroine who was devastated because her love interest lied about something dumb. But right now it didn’t feel dumb.

“Pamela didn’t make me do anything. I swear. I swear on my life. This is real. Everything we have, everything we are. It’s real. I swear it.” He reached for me, but I shrank back against the bookshelf. He dropped his hands despondently. “Do you believe at least that much?”

I took a deep breath and looked at him, really looked.

“Yes,” I admitted, grudgingly. Upset as I was, I couldn’t imagine Jamie as the type of master manipulator who would engineer an entire romance for TV ratings. He couldn’t be that cruel. I knew it. Also he was too weird to not be real. If he had been playing a part, the network would have made him much more generic. And given him more manageable hair and a spray tan.

“It was just…so…nice to meet someone who knew nothing about my family. Who cared nothing for my title. Who knew me only as Jamie. And somehow you liked me only as Jamie.” He shook his head. “It seemed impossible. Too good to be true. I couldn’t tell you who I was. Selfishly, I liked you not knowing who I was far too much. And I was terrified the truth would change things between us. That you would feel different, or uncomfortable, or intimidated.”

“Intimidated? Because I’m such a classless American hick?”

“No!” he shouted. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me. People behave differently around royalty. You saw what Florence was like! Honestly, it’s not a big deal, Dylan! I swear it isn’t.”

“It is a big deal!”

“It is absolutely not!” he insisted. “I’m something like sixth in line for the throne.”

“Sixth?! Sixth?! Normal people aren’t in line for the British throne, Jamie! They’re in line for, I don’t know, a hot dog!”

“It could be worse,” Jamie said weakly. “I could be the next Duke of Atholl.”

“This is not the time for an Atholl joke!” I said shrilly. “Read the room, Jamie! Or Gillecroids! Or whoever you are!”

“I’m Jamie!” he said desperately. “I’m still Jamie. I’m exactly the same person I’ve always been.”

Was he, though? He’d probably grown up in a castle even bigger than Dunyvaig, riding polo ponies and driving Bentleys and eating caviar with golden spoons or whatever. What would he think if he ever saw my house? The tiny living room, and the bedroom I’d always shared with Dusty? It was probably smaller than his garage.

“Oh no. Dylan. I’m so very sorry.”

I felt something hot and wet on my cheeks and realized, to my horror, I was crying. Jamie looked equally horrified. He reached out a hand, and I flinched as he touched my cheek.

“Dylan?”

Mom stood on the stairs below us, resting a hand on the banister, looking very concerned. And confused. A second cameraman stood behind her. It felt like the cameras were converging on me from every angle. I wish they would all just go away. How had Dusty dealt with this for so many months?

“It’s time for the toasts, sweetie,” she said gently. “We need you downstairs.”

“How many toasts does a wedding need?” I said blearily, wiping my hand across my face.

“We’re just gettin’ started on that front, I’m afraid.” She climbed the last few stairs up to us and placed a comforting hand on my back. “Come on down, Dylan. It’s time.”

Wordlessly, I let her lead me down the stairs and left Jamie behind.