Pamela the dementor appeared behind my seat, clipboard at the ready, to steal us away for photos. I groaned in dismay as I scooted out of my chair. But not before I stuffed that dinner roll in my mouth.

Chewing contentedly, I took Jamie’s hand and obediently followed Pamela, with Anne Marie fussing over Kit’s shoulder behind us. Pamela led us to the grand sitting room, where Dusty and Ronan posed in front of the fireplace, a photographer clicking away surrounded by those big professional light reflector things like they had on America’s Next Top Model. I noticed Meemaw snuggled up in a cozy armchair, chatting with Mom, and barreled over to hug her, nearly startling her out of her seat.

“The photos are going to appear exclusively in People,” Pamela announced, silencing the room, the note of triumph in her voice unmistakable. “No confirm on the cover yet, but fingers crossed. So we’ll do some shots with the families, bridesmaids, groomsmen, then Jamie and Dylan for the sidebar.”

“What now?” I said as Jamie asked, far more politely, “Sorry?”

“You two are going to be the surprise hit of the special! The love story absolutely no one saw coming! We’re doing a sidebar on you two and how love can blossom in the most unlikely places with the most unusual people. Little bit of an ugly duckling transformation with Dylan, Jamie’s journey from geek to chic, the whole thing.”

“What? No. I—”

“Sounds great, Pamela, cheers,” Jamie interrupted me, a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Just play along,” he whispered. “I’m an epic blinker. There’s no way they’ll find a useable photo. Certainly not something that suggests I am now chic.”

So I let Pamela maneuver me around into photos, helping Dusty prop up a pretty loose-limbed Anne Marie in the bridesmaids picture, letting Meemaw pinch my cheeks as Dusty and Mom and I towered over her, and laughing as Kit kept trying to arm wrestle Ronan in the big group pictures.

And honestly, taking pictures with just me and Jamie wasn’t that bad. It was…kind of nice, actually. As I stood with his hands around my waist, trying to smile in the least deranged way possible, I realized with a thump that we would never go to prom together. So we’d have People magazine instead of a yearbook. I smiled, for real this time, hoping for one moment preserved forever where Jamie and I were still close enough to touch.

By the time we made it back to our table, the quails were gone, thankfully replaced by a cheese course to which I had no personal connection. I happily dug in, laughing and chatting with Heaven and Jamie and the nearly unintelligible cousins.

“There you are, darling!” I turned to see Jamie’s mom, resplendent in a silver cocktail dress, her husband at her heels. “Can we switch tables? Pretty, pretty please? I cannot endure Florence any longer. She is simply too horrid for words.”

“Sorry, Mum,” Jamie replied. “I quite like my table, actually.”

“Of course you do, with such a charming companion! You look lovely tonight, Dylan, as always!” She aimed air kisses at each of my cheeks. “Now, tell me. Has my darling, obtuse boy invited you to stay yet? I was thinking the Easter holidays. Bakewell in the spring is charming.”

“Mum!” Jamie exclaimed.

“Oh, fine, it’ll probably piss rain the whole time. James, let’s take them to Majorca!” she cried. “Isn’t that a much better idea? You’ll want to pack your sunnies, Dylan; it can get quite bright.”

“Majorca, Margaret?” Jamie’s dad asked. “Really?”

“Yes, really. You know my seasonal affective disorder gets quite bad that time of year. It’s a medical issue, darling. We must go to Majorca.”

“If you insist,” Jamie’s dad said wearily.

“I do. Ooo, is there brie on that cheese plate? Gillecroids, can Mummy have your brie?”

“Absolutely not,” Jamie said stiffly. “Eat your own brie.”

“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” Margaret wailed. “Fine, I suppose one can endure Lady Horrible Dunleavy if one must. For brie.” She sighed. “Dylan, someone will courier you the Majorca itinerary. À bientôt, darlings.”

With a flurry of air kisses, Jamie’s parents were gone.

“Majorca?” I asked. “Did your mom just invite me to Majorca?”

“Please tell me there’s a Heaven-shaped space in your suitcase,” Heaven said.

“Something could quite possibly be arranged.” Jamie took a sip of water, the tips of his ears pink.

“That was very, um, nice of her, but you realize this is, like, not normal, right?” I asked in an undertone.

“Nothing about my family is normal,” he said ruefully. “But I do hope you can come to Majorca. It’s quite lovely.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The wedding flew by at the speed of light, a happy blur of eating and talking. And as much as it annoyed me to admit it, I didn’t even mind that Dusty had totally bogarted Christmas Eve. This was just as much fun—maybe even more fun—than our usual routine of microwave hot chocolate and Christmas movies on Lifetime. Before I knew it, Dusty and Ronan were cutting the cake—a multi-tiered Funfetti creation. Somehow Dusty had gotten Funfetti in Scotland. Jamie and the redheaded cousins seemed very concerned and confused when Dusty smashed her piece of cake into Ronan’s face. Apparently, that was not a tradition over here. Ronan, for his part, just laughed and started eating globs of frosting out of his beard.

I had two pieces of Funfetti and zero pieces of the fruitcake Florence had insisted on for tradition—gross—and was floating away on a cloud of sugar and joy when Jamie approached me.

“You have frosting in your hair,” I said dreamily, pushing a dark lock out of his eyes as I attempted to dislodge bits of frosting.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked.

“Sure.” Heaven was in the middle of a dance circle, as per usual, and I was too full of cake for dancing. Or for more cake. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace new, someplace you’ve never been before at Dunyvaig. And I’ve got a surprise, too. Something I’m willing to wager you’ve never had before.” He patted a strange bulge under his jacket.

“I’m game.”

Jamie kept one hand tucked over the mysterious something, and placed the other on my lower back as he steered me toward the ballroom doors. But just as we were stepping past the dance floor, Cash Keller appeared in our path, looking particularly Brad Pitt–esque in a tuxedo.

“Can I have this dance, kiddo?” he asked.

“No thank you,” I said stiffly. Jamie squeezed my hand.

“Come on, Dylan. Cut me a break. Are you going to punish me forever?”

“I’m not punishing you,” I said. “I don’t know you.”

“Get to know me.”

“You’re too late,” I said simply. “I don’t want to know you.” As I said it I realized how true it was. I didn’t think he was evil, and maybe there was a chance he hadn’t come here just to promote himself, but I also didn’t want anything from him. Maybe that didn’t make me a good person, because I couldn’t forgive him the way Dusty could, and clearly had, but it was my choice, and that was the choice I had made. He wasn’t my family. He wasn’t anything to me. And that was okay.

“It’s just a dance, kiddo.”

I was about to leave. But then I saw Dusty looking at us, frozen next to the dance floor with a plate of Funfetti cake in her hands. And I thought about what Mom had said in the kitchen—about how his being here meant something to Dusty. And maybe there was a way I could do something meaningful for Dusty, too.

“Fine,” I snapped, as Cash Keller practically recoiled with shock. “But this isn’t for you.”

I walked over to Dusty as Cash followed, grabbed the cake out of her hands, and put it back on the table.

“What are you doing, Dilly?” she hissed as several cameras converged on the scene, clearly expecting something dramatic to go down.

“You told me that Cash is part of who you are. So you want him to be part of today. And I want to, um, support that.” I looked back at Cash, and beyond him to Jamie, waiting patiently by the ballroom doors, Cameraman Mike at his side. “So I told Cash I’d dance with him. But only if you dance with us, too.”

“Well, that’ll look goofy,” she said, but I could tell she was happy.

“All of my dancing is goofy.”

And yeah, it probably did look goofy, as Cash twirled me and Dusty around the dance floor. I saw Mom watching and hoped she didn’t think I’d betrayed her, somehow, that she knew I was doing it for Dusty. By the way she was smiling, I think she did. And damn if Dusty didn’t laugh as Cash reminded her of all the times she’d danced on top of his feet when she was little. I could see now, clearly, that there was something there for her that was worth remembering and holding on to. But that didn’t mean there had to be something for me to hold on to. Like Mom said—like everyone had said my whole life—Dusty and I were different. Maybe I’d change my mind about Cash one day, but for today, I knew what I wanted. One dance, for Dusty’s sake, and then Cash could go back to his life, and I’d go back to mine.

The song ended, and I gave Dusty a big hug.

“Thanks, Dilly,” she whispered into my hair.

“Dylan,” I said.

“Dylan,” she agreed.

I walked over to Jamie without a backward glance in Cash’s direction. At least I could say, honestly, now, that I hoped Dusty had a good time with him. I also hoped absolutely zero mentions of his radio show made it on air. I’m not that evolved.

Jamie smiled at me as I joined him in the back of the ballroom, and I thought that might be the thing I would miss most—the way Jamie smiled whenever he saw me. Fervently, I wished Cameraman Mike would disappear so I could have one moment alone with Jamie. But then Jamie walked just behind the camera’s lens so he was no longer on-screen, slipped a piece of paper out of his jacket, and unfolded it so Cameraman Mike could read it. Thirty seconds later, Cameraman Mike grinned hugely, nodded once, and turned back to film the dance floor.

“Adventure awaits,” Jamie said as he pushed open the ballroom doors and we slipped out, no cameras in sight.

“What the hell was on that paper?” I demanded.

“I had to communicate with him without the camera seeing or hearing anything.”

“Yeah, I get that. But what was on the paper?”

“Some things are better left unknown.”

Maybe he was right. So I followed Jamie up the stairs to where most of the rooms were, up another flight of stairs, then another, then down several long halls and around a few corners, and just when I thought it wasn’t possible to walk any farther, we stopped in front of a funny little door with a pointed top. Jamie pulled the door open to reveal a spiral stone staircase.

I thought nothing at Dunyvaig could surprise me anymore—after all, the place was chock-full of trapdoors—but this did. Jamie gestured me in, and I climbed the narrow spiral staircase, up and up and up, until we arrived in a small stone room that bore a striking resemblance to Rapunzel’s tower. The only thing in it was a window seat with a plump purple cushion, just big enough for two to sit on.

“What is—How is—What is this place?” I asked.

“How much of an architectural history lesson are you up for?”

“Minimal.”

“Well. Dunyvaig was originally a castle—fortress—keep, I suppose, quite long ago back in the fourteenth century. Parts of that building still exist, but the bulk of the estate was built in the Georgian era. An addition far larger than the original building.”

“So this is part of the medieval castle?”

“Not at all. This was actually built during the Gothic craze of the nineteenth century. That Lord Dunleavy was terribly eccentric. History lesson now over, I swear.”

Jamie pulled a bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of his jacket. I gasped.

“This is very Humphrey Bogart of you.”

“Almost uncomfortably suave, aren’t I?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe Pamela was right and I went from geek to chic after all. Regardless, although I usually don’t go in for illegal activity, this seemed like the kind of night where it might be necessary to break the rules, just this once.”

I covered my eyes and ducked as the champagne cork ricocheted off the wall, the bubbles fizzing over the side of the bottle.

“Damn. I should have brought glasses. Stuck two champagne flutes in my pockets. That really would have put me over the edge into Bogart territory.”

“That’s okay. I’m not fancy.”

“Cheers, then.”

He held out the bottle, and I took a swig, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue. It was like nothing I’d ever tasted before—sweet and not sweet all at the same time. I handed the bottle back to Jamie and settled down on the window seat, drawing my knees up under me as I looked out over the grounds in the moonlight. It had stopped snowing, but everything I could see was blanketed in white. It must have been far later than I thought. There was a lightness to the night sky that suggested morning wasn’t far away. Jamie sat down next to me on the window seat, resting the champagne at his feet.

“What happens now, Jamie?”

“We keep taking illegal sips of this very expensive champagne and watch the sun rise.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ah, well, tomorrow, before we leave for Sandringham, I get your e-mail address. And find you on Facebook. Do you have Skype?” I shook my head. “And then I’ll talk you through how to get Skype. Or you can simply google it when you get home. It’s not terribly difficult. And it won’t be the same. It can’t ever be the same. But I can’t not talk to you. There will always be things I want to tell you. There is so much more I want to know about your life in Tupelo. I want to hear all about your adventures with Heaven. And anytime you eat something that should never be deep-fried but is unexpectedly delicious.”

He grinned, laughter dancing in those startling blue eyes, and I felt an ache deep in my chest, so painful it took my breath away for a moment.

“And if one day,” he said seriously, “you e-mail me to say you’ve a date with a Jayden or a Jackson or a Taylor or some other ghastly American boy, that’s all right, too.” I punched his arm. It seemed like the only logical response. “I’ll probably hide in the bathroom and cry like the big girl’s blouse I am, but I’d be happy for you. I’d be insanely jealous in a way that would make Heathcliff look relaxed, but I’d be happy—because I want you to be happy. And this—we—are not, er, viable for the moment. So don’t, erm, wait for me. If you were thinking on it. And maybe you weren’t. I lost the thread of this speech a bit, didn’t I? Damn. I’d written out note cards and everything.”

“It was a good speech, Jamie.” I squeezed his hand.

“Well. Thank you. And perhaps—perhaps I could come visit?”

“Are you kidding? That would be amazing. You would really come visit?”

“Absolutely. And perhaps you could come visit me as well?”

“According to your mom, I’ll be there in April anyway. Or in Majorca.”

“Ah, yes, Majorca. No matter where we are, I won’t let her torture you, I promise,” he said firmly.

“Your mom doesn’t torture me. It’s kind of nice, actually.”

“Nice? Her insanity is nice?” Jamie asked in disbelief.

“I like her. And I’d love to come visit, but it’s probably really expensive, right? I’m not sure…”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about that, I would—”

“Oh God.” I cut him off. “Don’t tell me you have a private plane.”

“Er, well…there are some perks to being a prince,” he said sheepishly. “Might as well take advantage, hey?”

“I liked you better when you were a peasant,” I said.

“I liked you always.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ears, his hand coming to rest on my cheek.

“I’m not ready to go,” I whispered.

“I’ll never be ready for you to leave.”

Sighing, I maneuvered my way under his arm, snuggling in close to him with my head resting on his shoulder. He stroked my hair gently, like he was afraid I might break. I closed my eyes.

“I could love you, you know,” he said softly.

“I know,” I replied. “I could love you, too.”

The first few rays of sunlight broke over the leafless gray branches of the woods. Orange pierced the gloom, illuminating the sky.

“Happy Christmas, Dylan,” Jamie said.

“Happy Christmas, Jamie.”

Together, we watched the sun rise.