Chapter 2

Heidi

“Shut up, you liar. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my life.”

Liza scrunched up her button nose, squishing her freckles into indents. She was sitting on our flower-tiled kitchen floor. I could’ve pointed out that her current floor-bound position was way more ridiculous than what I was telling her, but it wasn’t quite true. Besides, sitting on the floor was Liza’s thing. Whether we were shopping and she got tired or we were at the bus stop too long or even in our own home when there was a usable chair literally two feet away, Liza just liked sitting on the floor.

Last night, I’d been too beat to tell her about the craziness that had happened at the popsicle shoot. Today, I’d told her two different times and she still wasn’t buying it.

“Fine. Don’t believe me,” I said simply, flashing her a picture of Charles and me on my phone.

She stared at it for a long while before she said, in a less certain tone this time, “That was photoshopped.”

When I followed with a picture of Henry and me, her jaw dropped, showcasing her expensively veneered teeth. Her head then swiveled my way.

“So you mean literally two days after you had that crazy sultry, creepy dream about you and Charles—”

“I met him,” I confirmed with a swift nod.

I thought her jaw couldn’t gape any bigger, but as it drooped farther down, I was proven wrong. Gathering herself on her shaky feet, she said, “So you’re telling me that at the stupid candy photo shoot I turned down, the princes themselves were there?! What!”

I nodded, reaching into the freezer and producing two of those rocket popsicles: the purple, green, and pink ones I had copiously enjoyed in my childhood.

I waved one in her face.

“They gave these to us for free, too, at the end. Extras.”

She snorted.

“I figured that much. But no one mentioned anything about the princes, the Prince Henry and Prince Charles, stopping by.”

“I told you, it was totally unplanned. Some man who owned the building and was renting a room to Rita apparently called a friend who called a friend, who called Henry.”

“Prince Henry,” she said in hushed reverence, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was saying the words.

Her blue eyes darted to me suspiciously.

“And you said that Prince Charles himself asked for your number?”

“In a way,” I said, smiling at the mere memory of the banter I’d had with Charles. “The important thing is, I scrawled my number on his hand. I doubt he’ll actually call me up. The whole thing itself was like some kind of crazy dream, a fluke.”

She nodded without saying anything and grabbed the popsicle I’d offered her. With one tear, she released the purple tip and slipped it into her mouth.

“I want to be happy for you,” she confessed, “but I also want to stab you with the pointy tip of this popsicle.”

I couldn’t help but smile. That was Liza for you, full of hyperbole and exclamations. She was also the reason I’d agreed to come to London, which was so far away from home. I’d always been close with my family and my friends, but Liza made being away exciting and bearable. Not to mention we were in London, England for God’s sake.

“But what are you going to do if he does call you up?” she asked, tapping her lower lip with the popsicle.

“Is that even a question?” I asked, finally starting in on my own popsicle. “Of course I’d agree to do whatever he asks.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, leaning against the wall, assuming a sultry stance. “Whatever?”

“Okay, you can shut up now,” I said, slinging my wrapper at her halfheartedly. It only travelled about a few inches before swooping down to the ground.

With one big bite, she removed the purple portion of the popsicle. Chewing it, she said thoughtfully, “If you do manage to meet up with him, or even if he just calls you, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” I said in a British accent, slapping my hand to my heart.

Liza didn’t even notice. Her gaze was off in la-la land, probably imagining what she was going to say next.

“You have to get me Henry’s number.”

That wiped the smile clean off my face. She’d gone from disbelieving me entirely to demanding I get her a date with the prince’s brother?

“He hasn’t even called me yet,” I pointed out, “and probably won’t.”

She merely responded by biting the whole green trunk off the popsicle. With a mouthful of icy green sugar, she said, “Maybe not, but if he does…”

“Fine,” I said, hoisting my purse over my shoulder after having chucked my popsicle stick. “Anyway, before you accused me of being a ridiculous liar, we were going to go shopping, if you recall.”

With one big neat bite, she devoured the final pink part of the popsicle. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she pointed out, “I didn’t call you ridiculous. I said it was the most ridiculous thing I’d heard. I would never call you ridiculous, darling.”

“Aw, gee, thanks,” I said, sticking my tongue out at her. “Just a liar then.”

“Just a liar,” she agreed, hoisting her own briefcase of a purse onto her thin shoulder.

As we stepped out into the sun, Liza paused. Getting out her rhinestone-emblazoned Gucci frames, she dipped her head back and spread out her arms. I paused as well to soak in the welcome rays, smiling at the scene. Right now, on a posh London sidewalk bordered with well-trimmed hedges while wearing her extravagant cat-eye sunglasses, she looked like Audrey Hepburn—if the actress had grown her hair long and bleached it blond.

“How long are we staying here again?” she asked me in a breathless purr.

“Three months.”

As we set down the oddly spaced sidewalk, she continued. “And remind me why you like Charles better than Henry?”

“Why don’t you remind me why you like Henry better than Charles?” I shot back.

“Not fair,” she said, jutting out her chin with an aristocratic tilt. Nevertheless, she responded. “He seems so much more down to earth. He doesn’t try to put on this facade of being a good, responsible boy. He just does what he wants.”

“Which often involves drunken revelries around town, not to mention a new girl every week,” I pointed out, throwing her a look out of the corner of my eyes.

She threw up her hand and waved it around a little, as if she could physically push away my words.

As we stopped at a stoplight, she added, “You said it yourself after your dream the other night. That there’s some deep, dark, mysterious undercurrent to Mr. Perfect Charles Williamson.”

I was glad Liza had her gaze fixed on an adorable mahogany Yorkie-poo across the street so she didn’t see the frown on my face. Even yesterday, as Charles and I had chatted and flirted amiably, that sense had been there and remained. There was something about the prince that was far darker than met the eye. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Liza.

Just then, my phone rang, and I smiled. Saved by the phone.

“Heidi Sommers?” a slightly familiar British voice asked.

“Yes,” I said hesitantly. “Who is this?”

Because really, it felt…well, ridiculous to say who I was pretty sure it was. There was no way Prince Charles was actually calling me on my dinky, slightly cracked iPhone 6. It was probably some photographer wanting to meet me in person or maybe a fan who had somehow wrestled my name out of someone I knew.

“This is Charles,” the voice said, and my heart toppled out onto the sidewalk. I froze, clasping my chest.

“You okay?” Liza asked. I waved her away hastily.

“Hey, Charles,” I said, putting on my best rendition of a nonchalant voice.

Which was not great, to say the least. There was a reason I’d become a model and not an actress. Case in point: after a less-than-inspiring rendition of Puck in my middle school’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Murphy, had almost begged me, “Please, for the love of God, don’t ever make anyone watch you act again.”

“Are you busy now?” Charles asked politely. “I can call back later.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I have a minute or two.”

I could almost hear his challenged smirk over the line.

“Oh yeah? What if this takes more like five or ten?”

I laughed, glad he couldn’t see how my cheeks were probably heating up with flushed excitement.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I have to admit,” he said, “meeting you like that at the photo shoot, that was…surprising.”

“What, meeting a model at a photo shoot?”

He gave a low chuckle, then said, “Careful.”

That single word sent a shiver down my spine.

It was a good thing he responded next, as I had no idea what I was going to say.

“Unfortunately, as much as I would enjoy seeing you this minute, or this week for that matter, I do have royal duties to attend to.”

I bit back a smile. He said “royal duties” the way Liza and I said “brush our teeth.”

“So, would you be free to meet on Monday?” he asked.

I made myself pause for a second so I wouldn’t blurt out my psyched “yes.” Then, in the coolest voice I could muster, I replied, “Monday would work for me.”

“Excellent,” he said, and then paused.

It was unclear whether he was thinking or waiting for me to say something. Just as I was about to blurt out a mundane comment about the wonderfully sunny weather, he continued. “I assume you like dining at restaurants and don’t have any overly particular food tastes, correct?”

Some restaurant joke flashed through my head before I hastily pushed it to the side. Charles clearly had things to do; that was why he had cut to the chase about meeting up with me.

“I eat just about anything,” I told him. I couldn’t help but add, “That whole thing about models eating healthily isn’t really true for most of us.”

I turned to give Liza, who had been eavesdropping, a wink.

“Glad to hear it,” he said in a tone that made me imagine a smile with it. “See you on Monday then, Heidi. I’ll text you the restaurant name, although I will have a car coming by to fetch you. You can send me your flat address over the phone if you’d like.”

My words were all gobbled up in my throat. Charles had just asked me out on a date! As in Prince Charles—the same prince I’d had a crush on since I was thirteen and had pinned his smiling picture from my J-14 magazine over my bed. The same prince I’d actually had dreams of being with. Yes, Prince Charles, who I’d obsessed about, dreamed about, and swooned over for years, was asking out…ME!

“Sounds good, Charles,” I said, feeling like I might fall over at any point. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he said in a voice so resonant, I resisted the urge to fall to my knees.

Only once the dial tone buzzed for probably the twentieth time did I realize Liza was clutching my arm and talking to me.

“That was him, wasn’t it?”

I turned to see a reflection of what I probably looked like at this very second. Liza’s eyes were bulging out slightly while her lips were gaped in a permanent O.

All I could manage was a slight nod.

“That was him, Prince Charles.” I managed a smile. “We’re going out on a date on Monday.”