Even though neither of us had any experience with royalty, Paige had done enough research for us both, and prepped me as we headed back to Aunt Suze’s to change for my date. A date I still couldn’t believe was happening.

“Emmy has a date!” Paige declared as we arrived at the flat, where Aunt Suze was sitting at the kitchen table in a kimono, eating cereal.

“A date!” Immediately, I was swept up into a cigarette-scented hug. Aunt Suze didn’t smoke, but all her bandmates did, so she almost always smelled like an ashtray. “Tell me everything.” She leaned against her counter.

I marveled at the difference between her and my dad. If you were judging them purely on facial features, their resemblance was obvious. Same nose, same eyes, same mouth. But everything that was of their own design was different.

My dad wore suits—usually wrinkled ones—that were either black or blue. Whatever tie he wore matched his suits, which was easily done because he only owned two of each. Aunt Suze wore every color. All the time. Her brilliantly colored kimono was actually one of the more subdued things I had seen her in. When she was on stage, she was leather pants and fringed vests and beads and glitter and lots and lots of makeup. We had the same dark, long hair, but hers was often streaked with red or blue or some other unusual color. Once she had gotten her entire head dyed in stripes like a zebra.

“It’s Charlie Davenport!” Paige shrieked.

I opened my mouth to give a few more details, but it was unnecessary.

My aunt’s eyes widened. “The prince?” she asked.

Did everyone know who he was?

“He’s a dish,” Aunt Suze said approvingly. “How did you meet?”

I slapped my hand over Paige’s mouth before she could answer for me.

“I’ll tell you all about it on my day off,” I told her. Aunt Suze was a famous gossip, and I didn’t want her letting slip to my dad about all my extra-curricular activities.

I ushered Paige into our room.

“Focus,” I told her. “I don’t have anything to wear to this date that you’re making me go on.”

She snorted and flopped down on the bed. “Please. If I had any control over whatever is happening between you and the prince, things would be progressing a whole lot faster.” She rolled onto her stomach. “And you have tons of stuff to wear. All of your clothes are fantastic because you have the boobs to fill them out.”

This time I was the one who snorted. “Boobs that don’t fit in anything off the rack.”

“Boobs that boys adore,” she countered.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

“Save it for your date,” she teased.

In the end, we settled on a blue jersey dress that draped in the back, while still giving a (modest) peek at the girls. I had painted glittery silver polka dots around the hem, which sparkled when I spun, and matched my favorite shoes, a pair of silver heels that gave me a few necessary inches but were actually comfortable. Paige braided my hair into some sort of sexy, loose braid that I could flip over one shoulder. Some bright red lipstick and a set of silver hoops and I was as ready as I’d ever be.

* * *

Thirty minutes later I was standing on a street corner, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot out of place. I kept comparing my GPS to the location listed on the note, confirming that I was in the right place, but it did nothing to alleviate the weirdness of standing in a date-worthy dress on a random street corner in the middle of London while people walked by and stared as if I might be someone important—or at least someone who thought she was important. I was about to turn around and go back to Aunt Suze’s when a shiny black car pulled up next to me.

“Emmy Anderson?” the driver asked.

I nodded, and he opened the door for me. Climbing inside, I half-expected to find Charlie there, but the car was empty. I thought about asking the driver where we were going, but if I was going to embrace the adventure of the evening, I might as well embrace it completely. So instead, I watched London speed past us.

The whole driving on the wrong side of the road thing was still unnerving to me, so I focused on the city outside the tinted car windows. We drove past the British Library and the British Museum—two places that were high on my list of must-sees while I was abroad. Then we drove along the Thames, catching sight of the London Eye, lit up, across the river and passing the London Bridge and Big Ben, the driver apparently taking the scenic tourist route through the city. Not that I minded—it was helpful to get an idea of where everything was in relation to Aunt Suze’s place, and I kept seeing restaurants or other sights that I made a mental note to research.

It was only when we drove past Buckingham Palace that the reality of my situation finally began to sink in. I was headed towards a date with someone who was a member of the royal family. Someone who had probably spent time in Buckingham Palace. Somehow who might even own a crown.

By the time we pulled up to what seemed to be our final destination, I was pretty sure I was halfway towards a panic attack. This whole thing was absurd, and became even more absurd when I realized we were at Harrods, the extremely famous, and extremely expensive, department store. I had a flash of that scene from Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts gets to have the shopping spree of her dreams.

I didn’t know whether the idea of doing the same was exciting or weird. If my mom was alive, I’d be texting her like crazy at this moment. I took a deep breath as the driver opened the door. Even though I couldn’t ask her what to do, I knew what she’d say. She’d tell me to embrace the romance.

Embrace the adventure.

So even though I was now walking through the alley behind Harrods, I took my mother’s advice and ordered myself not to freak out. Embrace it, I kept repeating. Embrace it.

Waiting at the back entrance was a familiar face—Charlie’s friend who had delivered the note. I realized as we got into a private elevator that I didn’t even know his name.

“I’m Emmy,” I introduced myself.

He regarded my extended hand with an amused smile, but still took it.

“Declan,” he said.

Da-amn. There was something about the British accent that made everything—and everyone—sound just a little bit sexier. Not that Declan—or Charlie—needed any help in that area. It just didn’t help when you were trying to keep your wits about you, which I was pretty sure was a losing game when it came to Charlie.

“So, have you known Charlie for a long time . . . ?” I couldn’t figure out how to ask how they knew each other.

He nodded. “We met at Eton. Been mates ever since,” Declan explained. “I’m also his bodyguard.”

I returned his nod, thinking how weird it would be to be friends with the person guarding you. Not that it would be any less weird to dislike that person. I guess I was just stuck on the weirdness of having a bodyguard in the first place. Because it was weird.

Embrace the weird, I added to my mantra. Embrace the weird.

We also went in through the back entrance of the restaurant so even though the place looked fancy as hell, with linen napkins and an abundance of forks on each table, I still had no idea what the name of the place was or even what kind of food it served.

Then I spotted Charlie, and all thoughts of food and forks disappeared from my mind. Holy shit, he looked amazing. He was wearing a suit that fit him impeccably—blue to match his eyes and a checkered shirt that no American guy would have been able to pull off. The first few buttons were open, and I found myself tempted to lick the hollow of his throat.

Down, girl, I told myself. Dinner first, dessert later.

He grinned as I approached and the sight of those dimples almost had me stumbling in my heels. Luckily, I was able to compensate and avoided face-planting on the expensive carpet.

“I’m glad you came.” Charlie came around the table and pulled out the chair for me.

Boy, they weren’t kidding about British guys having a whole different set of manners than Americans. I couldn’t remember Zeke sharing his onion rings with me, let alone holding my chair.

“Thank you.” I took my seat, realizing belatedly that we were in a private room.

There was a single waiter standing at attention, and Declan lingering by the door, so our privacy was limited, but we were still set apart from the rest of the restaurant. A restaurant that was still a mystery to me. It was when I looked down at the menu that my eyes widened. Pétrus.

“You’ve heard of this place?” Charlie seemed to notice my reaction.

“Isn’t this Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant?” There weren’t any prices on the menu, which I knew from watching enough movies that there were probably things that cost as much as my cell phone.

“It’s one of them.” Charlie unfolded a napkin and put it across his lap, looking totally at ease in the high-class surroundings. “Gordon is a good friend of the family.”

Gordon. They were on a first name basis. Of course. My mouth was suddenly dry. There was “embracing the weird” and “embracing the adventure” and then there was “being completely and utterly out of my league.” Which is exactly how I felt at that moment.

I was sitting in a private dining room at one of the poshest restaurants in the famous department store in London across from a prince. Suddenly, I realized just how not cut out for this I was. All my confidence and excitement had faded away, and now the dress that had seemed glamorous and beautiful in my aunt’s flat seemed cheap and silly.

The waiter came over, one arm behind his back—just like you’d see in the movies—his entire uniform starched to perfection. He looked as stiff as I felt.

“Would madam like some champagne?”

Madam? Oh, damn.

I somehow managed to keep it together as he poured us a glass, then my gaze fell on the starched white tablecloth—and the four different forks lined up in a perfect row. And the four matching knives on the other side. And the three different spoons set out at the top of my plate.

This was more silverware than we kept in our apartment at college—and I didn’t know what on earth any of it was for.

My chest got tight. What the hell was I doing there? Whoever Charlie thought I was, he’d gotten it all wrong.

“What would madam like to start?” the waiter continued smoothly. “I can recommend the beef carpaccio, followed by the poulet de Bresse with foie gras.”

The what now? I blinked at the stiff menu in my hands, suddenly terrified I was going to wind up ordering sheep entrails or rabbit because I’d learned Spanish in high school instead of French.

“Umm . . .” I gulped, feeling like an idiot. “Excuse me,” I somehow managed, getting up from the table, almost tripping over the long white tablecloth—which would have been an exit to remember—and getting halfway to the door before Charlie caught up with me, his hand on my arm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking truly concerned.

I faced him, twisting the strap of my bag in my hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

He frowned. “And why ever not?”

“Look around.” I gestured to the room, to the waiter—who was politely avoiding eye contact—and to Declan, who was doing the same. “I don’t belong here.”

I felt terrible. Charlie had gone to all this trouble for the wrong girl.

“You’ve got the wrong idea about me. All this—the fancy restaurant, the fancy dress”—I tugged at my braid—“the fancy hair . . . none of it is genuine.” I let out an almost hysterical laugh. “I’m a hot dogs and beer kind of girl, not a champagne and whatever those fancy French snail things that people order at places like this are.”

“Escargot?” I could see that Charlie was trying to hide a smile.

“Exactly!” I waved my arm. “I don’t even know what they’re called. Thank you for inviting me, but I’ll just get myself a cab.”

Charlie looked like he was trying not to laugh. It figured.

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” I was ready to just lie down on the floor and die from embarrassment.

“Just because I know what escargot is, doesn’t mean I like it.”

I looked up at him, and he grinned, those damned dimples growing deeper.

“And while the food is good here, I’d still take a pint and some chips at my favorite pub over it any day.” He moved closer. “How does that sound?”

He put his hand on my waist, his touch practically scorching me. God, he was so hot. My heart caught in my throat.

“Chips are French fries, right?” I managed.

“So they tell me,” he teased. “Though god knows why you Americans insist on renaming everything.”

I relaxed a little.

“We don’t rename everything,” I told him.

He raised an eyebrow. “You call lifts ‘elevators,’ flats ‘apartments,’ and don’t even get me started on your ridiculous use of the term ‘soccer’ for football.” He gave my braid a tug. “Let me show you the London I know and love,” he said, those blue eyes looking at me sincerely. “Instead of trying to impress you like a tourist.”

“A pint and some chips?” I asked, hopefully.

“A pint and some chips.” He grinned.

I let out a breath of relief. “Let’s go.”