Nina shook her head, surprised. She had assumed Jeff would automatically choose King’s College—because it was predictable and easy, because he could sail through his classes and be the president of a fraternity, just like his dad and uncle and grandfather and great-grandfather.
Maybe she didn’t know Jeff that well anymore, or maybe he had changed. Nina wondered if it had happened to her, too—if Jeff was having just as much trouble reconciling the current Nina with the one he used to know.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Nina glanced down at the screen, only to see that it was a text from Samantha: Want to come over tomorrow?
She quickly tucked the phone away. If this were any other boy, she would have surreptitiously tapped out a reply, then called Sam the moment the date ended to hash out every last detail. It felt strange, keeping something like this from her best friend, but there was no possible way she could tell Samantha that she was with her twin brother.
At least, not until Nina figured out what this was between her and Jeff, and whether it was even going anywhere.
Midnight arrived with a sudden chorus of bells from the capital’s churches, St. Jerome’s and Holy Rosary and downtown Liberty Church. The sounds chased each other through the streets and alleys of the city, ushering in a new day.
Jeff started to rise to his feet, stammering something about how late it was, but Nina tugged at his sleeve, and he sat back down.
“It’s tomorrow; make a wish,” she murmured.
“What?”
“It’s something my parents used to say when we stayed up till midnight: that now it’s tomorrow, and you get to make a wish.”
“I’ve never heard of that.” Jeff’s voice was laced with an amused skepticism. “Sounds to me like they were looking for excuses to grant you wishes.”
“So what if they were? The world could use more wishes.”
Nina didn’t tell Jeff what she’d silently wished for all those years, that most of those wishes had been centered on him.
The final notes of the church bells reverberated around them.
Jeff reached tentatively for Nina’s face, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek. He leaned in to kiss her.
It was a slow kiss, almost careful, as if Jefferson was afraid of rushing or getting it wrong. When they finally broke apart, Nina leaned her head against his chest. She could feel the thumping of his heart through his expensive button-down shirt. The sound was oddly comforting.
“This is a terrible idea.” Her words were muffled, but the prince still threw an arm around her, pulling her closer.
“I disagree. It’s a brilliant one.”
“We could just—I don’t know, walk away and pretend it never happened—”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because.” Nina forced herself to tear away from his warmth, even as her body cried out at the sudden distance between them. “Aside from the fact that your sister is my best friend, I’m not your type.”
“Sam will be the biggest fan of us, trust me,” Jeff assured her. That single word, us, seemed to carry more weight than it should. “And since when is smart and beautiful not my type?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Nina insisted, flustered. “I hardly own a hairbrush, I hate wearing heels, and in case you forgot, I’m a commoner.”
“Hairbrushes are overrated, those sneakers are way cooler than heels, and who cares about whether your family has a title?”
“America does! You know what I mean, Jeff,” she said impatiently. “I’m hardly the type of girl you should be taking to Matsuhara.”
“I thought we established that all our future dates were going to be at Wawa.” Jeff hazarded a grin. “I like you, Nina. I know that I messed up, before. But I really want to change your mind. At the very least, could you stop being so difficult and give me the chance to try?”
Despite her lingering misgivings, Nina smiled. “Don’t take it personally; I’m always difficult.”
“It hasn’t scared me away so far,” Jeff reminded her.
Nina shifted closer and kissed the Prince of America again.
BEATRICE
Beatrice didn’t dare glance back at Connor as she headed up the curved staircase of His Majesty’s Theater. The rest of her family, along with all their security, walked alongside her. Even Jeff was here, which should have surprised Beatrice, given that he usually went to great lengths to avoid the theater. But she was too preoccupied with her own anxiety to notice.
After the Queen’s Ball—after she’d crossed an uncrossable line and kissed him—she’d been half afraid that Connor might hand in his resignation. Yet he had just shown up to work the next morning as usual.
They’d barely spoken all week, their usual easy conversation and good-natured teasing replaced by a heavy silence. The few times Beatrice ventured a question, Connor’s answers were clipped and distant. He had clearly resolved to put the entire mess behind him and act like it had never happened.
Which was precisely what she should be doing.
“Beatrice, you sit here,” the queen commanded, as they swept through the curtain that led to the royal box.
Adelaide gestured to the seat that was front and center. It was the most exposed to the other theatergoers: in the orchestra below, on the balcony above, even the other occupants of the private boxes, which wound around the mezzanine in a gilded semicircle. Beatrice recognized all the curious faces on those balconies, from the Nigerian trade envoy to the elderly Baroness V?sterbotten, who was openly staring at the royal family through her opera lorgnettes.