American Royals
Nina opened her mouth to say yes—that she wanted to walk away, that she wished him nothing but the best and would always be his friend. That this life and everything that came with it were just too much.
What came out instead was “No.”
The prince looked up sharply. Nina swallowed. “No,” she said again, and realized that it was true. “I’m not done with you, not yet.”
Then she was flinging herself into his arms, kissing Jeff with such enthusiasm that he stumbled backward and had to lift her off her feet—literally, her boots were dangling in the air. Nina didn’t even notice that the buttons on Jeff’s jacket were digging into her. The impact of their kiss crashed through her like cymbals, tingling all the way to her lips and toes and the very edges of her hair.
Finally Jeff set her down. Nina reached for the table to steady herself, and her hand almost knocked over the milkshake.
She shook back her hair and took a celebratory sip, smiling around the straw. “Thanks for bringing me this,” she told Jeff, and handed it over so that he could try.
He grinned. “You’re right, it really does taste better with double M&M’s.”
DAPHNE
Daphne sighed with a hollow sense of discontent.
It was Saturday morning, and she was seated next to her mother in one of the luxurious pedicure chairs at Ceron’s, the top salon in Washington. They were ensconced in the place of honor at the center of the room, with prime views over the rest of the salon. Daphne saw Henrietta of Hanover, one of the royal family’s numerous distant cousins, with her hair wrapped in a Medusa helmet of silver foils. And wasn’t that the senator from Rainier walking out of a treatment room, her face red and angry from a facial?
Daphne’s mother knew Ceron from years ago, back when he did hair for magazine photo shoots and runway shows, though he moved in more rarified circles these days. His life had forever changed once he was named the official palace hairstylist. It had caused business here at the salon to triple, even if half those clients were just royalty fanatics who plopped in their chairs and declared that however Her Majesty was wearing her hair, they wanted the exact same thing.
Tiffany, the salon assistant, finished the topcoat on Rebecca’s toes. “Can I get you anything else, milady?”
Rebecca couldn’t help preening a little at the title. She never was happier than when she was being milady’d somewhere. “Not unless you have any news for me,” she said meaningfully.
Ceron went to the palace several times a month, to touch up the queen’s highlights or style the princesses’ hair before an event. Sometimes he brought the junior salon technicians along with him. And while Ceron was far too loyal to the Washingtons to be susceptible to bribery, not all members of his staff were. It had only taken a few carefully dropped hints and overly generous tips for Tiffany to reach an understanding with Daphne’s mother. She had provided the Deightons with details about the royal family on more than one occasion. Small details, like what color gown the queen might be wearing to an upcoming event, and some that were more significant.
Tiffany leaned forward, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “He was at the palace yesterday to do a trial updo on Princess Beatrice. They’re holding a black-tie ball soon, in honor of her engagement to Teddy. The invitations are about to go out.”
Rebecca flashed her perfect white teeth in a smile. “Thank you, Tiffany.”
Tiffany retreated, her platinum ponytail bouncing. She’d looped a thin red scarf through the belt holes of her waxed black jeans. It was the trademark of Ceron’s salon: each of the stylists had to wear black and white with a small pop of red. The salon itself was decorated in the same color scheme, from the vases of vibrant red daylilies to the black-and-white photographs on the walls.
Rebecca shot her daughter a curious glance. “You need to go to that engagement party as Jefferson’s date.”
“I know, Mother.” Though privately, Daphne was more concerned with the wedding itself. She could not let this play out the way the last royal wedding had—when Jefferson’s aunt Margaret got married, and Daphne wasn’t even invited.
Rebecca gave a vague hmm of concern. She looked as stunning as ever in a crisp white shirt and jeans, her light blond hair styled in seemingly effortless layers. But no matter how well she dressed the part, you could still tell that Rebecca Deighton hadn’t been born to the aristocratic life. It was something hard and hungry, glinting in her catlike face.
Daphne glanced down at her nails, which gleamed with a coat of pearly sheer polish. GOOD AND PROPER, the bottle was labeled, which was so spot-on that it almost seemed ironic. The last time she’d visited the hospital, Daphne had brought a bottle of deep red Va-Va-Voom, and painted Himari’s nails with it.
She didn’t tell her mother about that, because she knew precisely what Rebecca would say: that visiting Himari was a waste of Daphne’s time. But Daphne wasn’t sure she was going for Himari’s sake.
“At least you got rid of that obstacle.” Rebecca gestured to the magazines on her lap—People, Us Weekly, the Daily News. They were all filled with pictures of Nina Gonzalez looking tacky and second-rate next to images of Daphne. Although in the days since Beatrice announced her engagement the coverage of Nina had decreased sharply.
“This is good work, Daphne,” her mother added, a bit clumsily. She clearly wasn’t used to giving praise.