Chapter 24
“Don’t you think that’s a bit overkill?” Dad murmurs as we walk down the hall to the parlor where we’ll meet the queen.
Mom is on my other side, and she glances across me toward Dad. “Oh, Liam, stop,” she says, also nearly whispering. “She looks lovely.”
“She looks like something they’d sell in the gift shop,” Dad replies, and I frown as I look down at my tartan skirt. It was the most Scottish-y thing I had in my new, Glynnis-approved wardrobe, a plaid skirt in shades of bright red, black, purple, and green. I’d paired it with a sensible black blouse, black tights, and a pair of red ballet flats.
But yes, maybe the matching tartan vest was too much.
Or was it the hat?
Reaching up, I snatch the plaid tam-o’-shanter from my head and hand it to Mom, who shoves it in her handbag.
“I panicked, all right?” I hiss. “I avoided the dungeon over the thing at the race, but this? This could be dungeon material.”
“Daisy,” Mom chides in the same tone she usually uses for Dad, but Dad just pats my shoulder.
“We’ll come visit, love, I promise.”
Elbowing him in the ribs, I try to fight off an attack of the nervous giggles as Mom tuts and fiddles with one of her earrings.
The hallway we’re heading down is dim, little lamps with apricot-colored silk shades casting pools of light on the ancient carpet, and it’s in a part of the palace I haven’t visited yet. These are the queen’s personal quarters, and they’re softer, more feminine than the rest of the palace. She’s been queen since she was eighteen, and suddenly I wonder if she redecorated the whole place when she came to power. That’s what I would’ve done. Of course I wouldn’t have gone with all this peach and blue. I would’ve gone . . . purple, maybe. Neon green. To keep people on their toes.
Or maybe I’m focusing on interior design to keep from freaking the freak out.
The one thing I was determined to do this summer was keep my head down and stay out of Ellie’s . . . everything. And now I am just all up in a royal mess, and I didn’t even do anything fun, which is deeply unfair. If I’d been the one fighting with Seb at his club? Fine, I’d take my lumps—I did the thing. But I was just being a good and loyal friend, and now I’m about to be—
“Oh god,” I mutter as we come to a stop in front of a pair of double doors. They’re heavy and covered in fancy scrollwork with thistles, unicorns, and giant Bs everywhere.
And behind them is an actual queen who thinks I am an evil seductress out to snare her youngest son.
I am going to die.
The three of us just stand there for a second, staring at the doors. I don’t know if we’re waiting for them to open on their own, or for fancy guys in uniforms to come out and open them for us, but in any case, we’re not moving, and neither are the doors.
“I met a queen once,” Dad muses. “She tried to put her hand down my trousers.” Dad looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Surely this can’t go any worse than that.”
Which means I’m both groaning and laughing as the doors in front of us open and Queen Clara of Scotland rises to her feet from an apricot-colored velvet sofa.
The laugh dies in my throat, my cheeks flaming hot as Ellie rises from a striped chair. Alex is standing behind her with Glynnis to her left, and by the window—
Miles?
Sure enough, there’s Mr. “I Think Your Tacky Parents Called the Paps” standing by the window in a nice suit, one hand in his pocket as he turns to watch me and my parents walk into the room. What on earth is he doing here?
“Mr. and Mrs. Winters,” Queen Clara says, coming to a stop in front of us.
Mom drops into a curtsy and Dad bows. I’m half a second behind, so flustered by Miles being here that I nearly forget I’m standing in front of a queen.
Luckily, I manage to pull it off without too much shaking, and I’m really relieved when I raise my eyes to see that the queen doesn’t look particularly “off with their heads.” She’s still smiling, and she has the same bright blue eyes as Alex and Seb. Her hair was once the same auburn as Seb’s, but it’s a little lighter now, strands of silver framing her face. Her suit is deep green and simple but gorgeous and tailored within an inch of its life, fitting so well I wonder if it was sewn onto her.
It’s not just the distinguished hair and gorgeous outfit that make it obvious she’s royalty, though. She’s holding her whole body like there’s a string attached to the top of her head, and every move she makes is elegant and smooth, like she’s spent her whole life practicing.
Ellie is beautiful and graceful, but she doesn’t have this. I don’t know if anyone who wasn’t born to wear a crown could have it, to be honest, and when I glance over at my sister, I feel a little bit of sympathy for her. I don’t think I realized that this is what she’d be expected to live up to. How could anyone do that?
“Please, sit,” the queen says, gesturing to another sofa in the room. This one is covered in peachy silk, but it’s striped in deep teal, and I am very aware of how badly I must clash as I sit down on it.
The queen waves a hand again, and a maid in a dark suit carries a tea tray to the table in front of us.
Queen Clara doesn’t ask how any of us take our tea. The maid just pours several cups, then hands them to us, the china so delicate I can practically see through it.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Mom enthuses, holding the cup up for a closer look. “I just bought my first set of china last year so I’d have something to serve tea in when Alex and Ellie visit, but it’s not nearly as nice as this. Where did you get it?”
Mom looks up, her eyes big behind her glasses, and I remember that while a good 80% of my personality came from my dad, that nervous talking thing I do?
That’s all Mom.
I think I can actually feel Ellie dying from our other side, but the queen just smiles. “I believe this set belonged to my great-grandmother, Queen Ghislaine.”
The cup rattles in the saucer, tea sloshing over the rim as Mom lowers it, blinking rapidly, her cheeks turning pink.
“Oh, of course,” she says, then gives a forced laugh. “Silly of me. It isn’t as though you buy your things from the outlet mall, is it? They don’t even have outlet malls here, do they? They’re really—”
I reach over, squeezing Mom’s hand briefly, and my eyes meet Ellie’s. She’s still a little pale, and she nods her head a little, probably to thank me. When Mom gets going, it’s like a babble bomb exploded everywhere.
“I’ve seen nicer,” Dad says, studying his own cup with a shrug, so awesome, Mom surrendered to Nervous Talking, and Dad is going Surly Rock Star. That only took thirty seconds.
For the first time, I get why maybe Ellie spent so much time keeping the two halves of her life separate. Still, my loyalty is always going to be to Mom and Dad over these people who are only important due to an accident of birth, and I make myself sit up straighter, smiling at Queen Clara.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Your Grace,” I say, and Ellie clears her throat.
“Your Majesty,” she corrects, and okay, maybe I blush a little at that, but I keep smiling.
“Your Majesty,” I repeat, and the queen smiles back at me.
“It’s lovely to finally have you all here,” she says, crossing one ankle in front of the other. “I’m only sorry I wasn’t here when you first arrived. It seems you’ve been enjoying your time here?”
She directs that at me, and while she keeps that soft smile, her eyes are suddenly . . . colder, maybe?
Dungeons and beheadings may not be on the agenda, but I bet she kind of wishes they were.
Glynnis steps forward then, an iPad in one hand, a folder in the other, and she leans down to murmur something into the queen’s ear.
Queen Clara lifts one hand, waving that off, and then gestures for Glynnis to hand over the folder.
The room is very quiet as she flips through its contents, and I squirm a little on the sofa, my fingers clutching my skirt. I want to twist around and look at Miles, still wondering why he’s even here. He hasn’t said anything, but I wonder if he’s in trouble for taking me to Seb’s club last night. I also wonder if Isabel has seen all the news and what she might think.
Closing the folder, Queen Clara fixes me and my parents with another smile. Her nails are painted the same color as the sofa she’s sitting on, and they drum against the folder for a moment.
“What a pickle,” she says with a little laugh. “But such is life with teenagers, hmm?”
She directs that at Mom, who sits up a little straighter on the sofa and pats my knee. “Our girls have never been much trouble,” she says, which, in my case, is kind of a lie, but I appreciate her loyalty.
Queen Clara’s smile tightens, like someone just turned screws on the sides of her mouth. “Given what I heard about An Reis, I’d say Daisy is making up for lost time,” she says, and my stomach drops.
Ellie is still sitting in that chair, her fingers laced over one knee. Alex is beside her, and I see his hand drop briefly to her shoulder, squeezing.
“I am so sorry for what happened—” I start, but the queen flicks my words away like they’re a mosquito buzzing around her head.
“My brother’s wife is the one owed an apology, not me. And in any case, there’s now a much larger issue to deal with.”
Okay, this is officially kind of dumb. Everyone’s acting like there are pictures of me and Seb making out on top of Edinburgh Castle or something instead of a few blurry shots of me coming out of his club.
I nearly say that—okay, I was going to leave out the makingout part—when Glynnis steps forward and says, “I’m sure this all seems a little silly to you, Daisy, but we have to be very careful with the optics right now.”
Right. Optics.
Tapping on her iPad, Glynnis continues. “Any kind of rumor of things between you and Prince Sebastian has the potential to overshadow the wedding, plus it causes the kind of gossip we try to avoid.”
“Has anyone said that to Seb?” I can’t help but ask, and Glynnis glances up at me even as the queen’s smile slips.
“Sebastian understands his role, I assure you,” she says, and, yup, really gonna be lucky to get out of this room with my head still on my shoulders.
Queen Clara waves her hand at Glynnis. “Montrose,” she says, and I wonder if that’s some kind of code word to have me dragged out of here, but Glynnis just nods, tapping away again.
“Yes, the Duke of Montrose and his daughter, Lady Tamsin, are expected to join us for part of the summer. Lady Tamsin is a lovely young woman, and we’re hoping that Sebastian takes a fancy to her.”
Glynnis gives me a little wink at that, and I blink, confused.
But when I look over at my parents, they’re just watching the queen, Dad’s fingers curled tightly around the handle of his teacup.
“I’m not sure—” I start, and Queen Clara cuts me off.
“One of my sons is marrying an American girl from a frankly questionable family,” she says bluntly, and I see Ellie draw herself up tight. Alex’s hand is still on her shoulder, but he’s standing just as stiffly, and Miles turns from the window to watch all of us.
Mom sighs softly, but Dad just fixes the queen with a gaze that used to hold whole arenas full of people in its thrall. “Be offended if you didn’t think we were questionable,” he says.
The queen ignores him. “Eleanor is a lovely young lady, and we’re pleased to have her join the family,” she goes on. “But one son following his heart is quite enough. Sebastian can marry whomever he chooses, but he will pick a girl from the right sort of family. Perhaps it will be Lady Tamsin, perhaps not, but the point remains that there cannot be even the littlest hint that he may be cavorting with your other daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Winters.”
“Cavorting?” I echo. “I literally just went to get my friend from his weirdo posh-people club. And why are we even talking about marriage when he’s seventeen?”
The queen’s eyes may be the same gorgeous blue as her sons’, but they are cold and hard as sapphires when they turn to me. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she says. “But I do expect you to stay clear of my son.”
Holding up both hands, I perch myself on the edge of the sofa. “That is not a problem, trust me. I don’t want anything to do with him.”
Another smile, this one just as tight as the last. “Then we’re in agreement,” she says, and I hope we’re about to be dismissed so that I can go find Isabel at her hotel and tell her all about this particular bit of Banana Pants Crazy, but then the queen once again signals to Glynnis.
“Obviously we need to kill this story as soon as possible,” she says, and Glynnis nods, stepping forward again.
“And that’s where Miles comes in,” she says.
I twist on the couch to look over at Miles, but he’s facing away from the window now and very much not looking in my direction.
“He was there last night as well, so it’s a simple thing to make it clear that you were there with him, not Sebastian.”
“Oh,” I say, turning back around and crossing my ankles. “Yeah. I mean, that’s true, so—”
“And once people realize the two of you are dating, this entire mess with Sebastian will be a thing of the past,” Glynnis continues with a grin.
“Dating?” I don’t mean for the word to come out like a squeak, but it does, probably because my mouth, or brain, refuses to contemplate such an idea.
“Only for show, of course,” Glynnis says with a flick of her fingers. “A few pictures of the two of you together, a few hints dropped here and there, and we’re back in control of the narrative.”
Once again, I turn to Miles, waiting for him to protest, but he’s still staring straight ahead, his hands now clasped in front of him, and I realize he already knew about this.
They already talked to him, and he . . . agreed?
“This is insane,” I say. “I know that everyone here is breathing rarefied air and stuff, but in the real world, no one pretends to date someone. I mean, unless it’s making up a fake boyfriend so your friends at camp don’t think you’re a total loser, that’s a thing, but—”
It’s Mom’s turn to squeeze my hand now, and my words come to a stuttering stop as the queen continues to look at me.
“It’s an easy solution,” she says, “that would make me very happy. And I’m sure it would please your sister as well.”
The words are mild, but Ellie’s eyes are pleading, and then I get it.
She’s not threatening to call off the engagement. I’m not sure she even could. Alex is a grown man, and for all that they might be shoving Seb at whichever willing aristocratic lady crosses his path, it seems clear that the queen understands Alex is marrying the woman he loves.
But between insulting a duchess and being papped with Seb, I’ve now screwed up enough for this to be my penance, and if I don’t want to make things harder for Ellie, I’ll go along with it.
Mom and Dad seem to get it, too.
“It’s just a few pictures, love,” Mom says softly, and Dad sighs on my other side.
“Like I said, get on the train or be smashed on the tracks,” he mutters in a low voice.
Ellie is watching me, her knuckles white, and I can see the violet shadows underneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks. I may not get anything about this world she’s stepping into, but she wants to be here.
A few pictures.
Pretending to date a boy I don’t like very much who also doesn’t like me or my family.
Not exactly appealing, but not the hardest thing in the world, either. And once it’s done, Ellie will be happy and secure on the road to princessdom, and I can put this whole—everything—behind me.
“Fine,” I say. “Sure. Fake date me up.”
And from behind me, I think I can actually feel Miles grimace.
I’d been on lots of dates since Mom decided I was allowed to date (Dad said he didn’t deserve to have a say in when we started dating since his rock star past was so debauched, and none of us wanted to ask any more questions about that, Mom included).
My first date had been at the outdoor shopping center just outside of Perdido. I’d gone out with Matt Rivera and also seven of Matt’s friends, plus Isabel, so I’m not actually sure that counts as a date, but I definitely treated it like one in my head, and the roughly three seconds when his hand had brushed mine as he handed me some pennies to throw in the fountain had gotten a lot of ink in my diary. Then there had been the movies with Daniel Funderburke, the seventh grade formal with Heath Levy, a whole summer of hanging out in various parking lots with Aidan Beck, plus this thing with Emily Gould that I hadn’t thought was a date at the time but had seemed kind of date-y in retrospect.
And then, of course, Michael. So many dates with Michael. School dances, movies, driving around aimlessly . . .
Point is, I feel like I have a good handle on dates, but this? This is my first fake date, and I can already tell it’s not going to go well.
For one, it is early. I mean, like, insane-o early. The time when the only people awake are going fishing or possibly in the grips of an amphetamine addiction. As I follow Glynnis across the gravel courtyard, our footsteps loud and crunchy in the still morning air, I squint against the sun, shading my eyes.
“Is anyone believably romantic at this hour?” I call to Glynnis, and she throws a grin at me over her shoulder.
“The royal family always rides first thing,” she says, “so that’s when the photographers show up.”
I come to such a sudden stop that a little shower of rocks sprays around my sneakers. “Ride?” I repeat. “Please tell me you mean on bikes and not horses. Bikes don’t bite last time I checked.”
Glynnis just laughs, shaking her head. Her dark red hair glints in the sunshine. “I never imagined you’d be so funny, Daisy!”
“Super serious here,” I say while she keeps marching. It really seems a shame that Glynnis doesn’t wear a Fitbit because she’d nail her daily steps every day, probably a thousand times over.
Sighing, I follow her toward what I now realize are the stables. I hadn’t noticed because the building is so fancy—all heavy stone-and-slate roof—that I’d assumed it was a place where humans lived, not horses.
Horses I’d now be expected to get on.
“What is it with you people and horses?” I ask as we step out of the sun and into the dim, grassy-smelling stable.
“We’re related to them,” Miles says, and my eyes adjust enough that I can see him, standing near one of the stalls. “It’s why our chins look like this.”
I almost snort because that would be a decent joke if he hadn’t actually been blessed by the gods of bone structure, and also if I didn’t hate him, but he was, and I do, so I don’t.
He walks over to us, hands in his pockets, and I’m relieved that he’s wearing relatively normal clothes—a white button-down, jeans, and a pair of brown leather boots. If we’d had to wear those super-tight white pants and velvet jackets, I would’ve just let the queen call off the wedding and brought shame down on my family. Nothing was worth pictures of my butt in those pants being splashed on the front of tabloids.
I’m wearing jeans and one of the shirts Glynnis picked out for me, a hunter-green blouse that looks like something Ellie would wear. I’m also in boots, but, I can admit, way cuter ones than Miles’s. The leather encasing my calves is so soft I’ve had to resist the urge to stroke my own leg all morning.
We all just stand there for a second, me, my fake boyfriend, and the lady putting this whole thing together.
And then Glynnis claps her hands, smiling at both of us. “So this is easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she says, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. I risk a glance at Miles, but he’s not smiling at all. If anything, he looks bored, but then, I guess he’s used to people talking like Dr. Seuss. I remember that girl from the club with her “yar” and drawling voice.
But then I also remember how Miles had broken the space-time continuum for a second by being cute, and that’s so weird that I shove the thought away again. I probably hallucinated it, anyway. So worried about Isa that my brain snapped—that had to be what happened.
Besides, he was a massive jerk in the car, and that cancels out any cuteness and any potential bonding.
“All the two of you need to do is a lap or two around the park, making sure to smile at each other, maybe laugh occasionally . . .”
“British-people third base,” I mutter, and to my surprise, that does seem to startle some kind of reaction out of Miles. He doesn’t laugh, exactly, but he makes this kind of choked noise that he covers with a cough, and Glynnis looks between the two of us. Her eyebrows are especially intense this morning, so maybe this matters to her more than I’d thought. Those are very serious eyebrows.
“The photographers will get a few shots, we’ll see if we can find some of the two of you the other night at Seb’s club, and Bob’s your uncle, all set!”
“That’s it?” I ask, propping one hand on my hip. “They see us riding horses and smiling, and the entire country forgets that for one hot second, they were using the hashtag ‘Sebaisy’?”
“That sounds like a skin condition,” Miles says, screwing up his face, and then he looks over at me, lifting his eyebrows. “Will we have a hashtag, then?”
“‘Maisy’ or GTFO,” I reply, and this time he really smiles. With teeth and everything.
It probably causes him physical pain, but it looks nice.
And then Glynnis scowls, pulling her phone out. “We’d decided on ‘Diles,’ but ‘Maisy’ is better; just a tick.”
As she types away on her screen, I look at Miles again, and our eyes meet. Just like at the club, there’s this . . . beat between us. A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.
“There!” Glynnis says, triumphant as she puts her phone back in the pocket of her smart little Chanel jacket. “Shall we get on with it?”
I can hear the horses in their stalls, nickering and shuffling and being horsey. Now seems like a good time to mention that I’ve never been on a horse, but I deflect a little.
“Why are we doing this for photographers who are already there?” I ask. “Can’t we just, like, call them or something? Isn’t that what they do in Hollywood? We could go to lunch, have them take pictures there. There’s so much less potential for permanent maiming at lunch. Unless you do that thing with your face,” I add to Miles. “I can’t be responsible for maiming you if you do that thing with your face.”
“What thing with my face?” Miles asks, doing exactly that thing. It’s this lifting of his chin and tightening of his jaw that makes him look like he’s about to oppress some peasants, and I point at him.
“That thing.”
Glaring at me, Miles steps a little closer. “This is just what my face looks like.”
“That is unfortunate,” I say, and Glynnis claps her hands again.
“All right!” she trills. “The sooner we start, the sooner this can be over.”
As she leads me to a stall, she adds, “For something as delicate as this, it’s best if we let the photographers come to us rather than the other way around. Things feel much more . . . plausible that way. And given how sensitive this situation is, plausibility is our friend.”
“Okay, but horses are not mine,” I say.
Glynnis laughs, and I end up on the back of a gray mare named Livingston, which is a weird name for a girl horse, but I don’t want to point that out in case she hears me and decides to throw me off.
Miles gets this massive black stallion because of course he does, and within just a few minutes, the two of us are in Holyrood Park behind the palace, riding on horses like people who just fell in love in a tampon commercial.
This is ridiculous.
But it’s also really pretty here. If I ignore how scary it is to have a thousand-pound animal underneath me, I can admit that. The sky is blue and almost cloud free, and the park is green and lovely and nearly empty except for a few people jogging and a girl walking an insanely cute little white dog.
And, of course, the photographers. I see them there at the edge of the park, three guys who all look nearly interchangeable in pullovers, baggy jeans, and sneakers.
To take my mind off them, I make myself smile at Miles and say, “Is this your normal first date, then?”
He sits a lot more easily in the saddle than I do, the reins just draped in his hands while I’m clutching mine so hard my knuckles are white.
“This is actually our fourth date if we’re counting that time I walked you back to your room, the race, and the other night at the club,” he says, and I sit up taller in the saddle.
“If we’re counting those, you’re pretty much the worst boyfriend ever.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he says, and I jerk my head around to look at him.
“You’ve been a boyfriend?” I ask. “To a human girl?”
Shaking his head, Miles moves his reins from one hand to the other. “Let’s save that for our fifth date, shall we?”
His horse trots ahead a little, and I give mine the slightest little touch with my heels to make her catch up. To my relief, she does, and I try not to think about how much jiggling those cameras might be catching as I pull even with Miles.
“Is there going to be a fifth one?” I ask. “Can’t we just do . . . this and be done with it?”
Miles looks over at me, his sandy hair dipping over his brow, and his eyes are particularly green this morning. Maybe Glynnis chose the park to make him look his most handsome. Who can say?
“I assume they’ll want us to do the ball together,” he says, smiling broadly for the photographers.
“Ball?” I repeat, giving him the same bright grin, complete with a head tilt. This is some excellent work and better end up on at least one front page. I haven’t shown this many teeth in ages.
“We’re headed up north day after tomorrow,” he replies, complete with a little chuckle as he reaches out to cover my hand for just a second with his own. “To Baird House. There’s going to be a ball for Eleanor and Alex, and if Glynnis doesn’t make us sell this there, I’ll eat this saddle.”
“Oooh, you might choke, and that would be so fun to watch!” I say, tossing my hair over my shoulders.
Another laugh, and I swear there’s genuine warmth in his eyes now. It almost makes me wonder if he’s done this kind of thing before.
There’s a sudden flurry of barking off to my right, and I look over to see that cute little white dog I’d spotted earlier suddenly tearing across the park, filled with bloodlust for a flock of birds on the path right in front of us.
It’s a pretty nonthreatening dog, but Livingston doesn’t see it that way. Suddenly, my previously gentle and super-chill horse shudders, hooves pawing the earth, and then, as the dog gets closer, my horse loses her mind altogether, giving a panicked whinny and lifting her front hooves off the ground.
Shrieking, I panic, and instead of grabbing the reins I sink my fingers into her mane, holding on for dear life, my entire world becoming a panicked blur of barking, whinnying, my own shrill cries, and the vision of headlines reading, “FUTURE PRINCESS’S SISTER KILLED IN FREAK HORSEBACK ACCIDENT WHILE ON FAKE DATE!”
And then Livingston lowers her hooves back to the ground, still pawing and shuddering, and I see a long-fingered hand shoot out and grab her reins.
Miles.
His horse is right next to mine, our knees bumping as he tries to bring Livingston under control, and I manage to release my death grip on the horse’s mane, my hands fumbling to hold on to the reins, the saddle, anything.
I want off this horse now.
And suddenly, I am off.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I’m pulled onto Miles’s horse, my backside colliding painfully with the saddle.
Startled, I stare up at him, my hands landing on his shoulders. I’m basically sprawled in front of him, the saddle horn pressing into my hip, and holy crap, did he just yank me off my horse and onto his?
He did.
Which is some real next-level romance novel stuff, and I have no idea how to feel about it.
Miles still has one arm around me, his hand holding his own horse’s reins, and then he leans over to take up Livingston’s reins.
“All right, then?” he asks, like he didn’t just pull some major pirate maneuver, and I can only nod.
I guess that’s enough for him, because he turns both horses and leads us back toward the palace stables.
I’m still holding on to his shoulders—clutching, really—and behind him, I can see the photographers, can practically hear the clicks as they snap shot after shot of me perched on the front of Miles’s horse, my arms wrapped around him.
Looking up at his chin, I study the little glints of golden stubble there and try to think of something to say. My heart is still hammering against my ribs from Livingston’s freak-out, but if I’m honest, it might be a little more than that.
“Glynnis is going to implode with joy,” I finally say, and Miles huffs out something close to a laugh.
“One down,” he mutters, and I have to admit, as far as first—or fourth—dates go, this one is certainly memorable.