Chapter 32

I had thought the horse race was the fanciest, most pretentious thing I’d do in Scotland. Maybe the shooting day with all that tweed and the Land Rovers. Or the balls. Balls, super fancy, obvs.

But polo? Polo puts all of those things to shame.

The match is held just outside Edinburgh on one of those magical sunny summer days here in Scotland, the kind that will probably turn to rain by the afternoon, but for now, everything is gorgeous. Striped tents, tables groaning with flutes of champagne and all kinds of tiny finger foods, people wandering around in the brightest, prettiest of outfits . . .

And I hate all of it.

I’m in one of the dresses Glynnis picked out for me, yellow instead of the green she usually puts me in, and all scalloped skirt and fluttery sleeves. No hat today but a fascinator that, thank god, contains exactly zero feathers and only one little piece of netting.

My heels are sinking into the grass, and all I want to do is find a place to sit down. I glance back at the stands and see a beautiful woman in a large black hat striding toward one of the striped tents. She looks like all the women I’ve seen here: extremely well put-together but also kind of like a purebred Afghan hound.

As I watch, she hails a friend, and then, slowly, almost inevitably, tips over, sinking into the wet grass, one hand still raised in greeting.

The man next to her doesn’t even pause, just continues on his way, and I shake my head.

Up in the stands, I can see the queen, standing beside Ellie, Alex, Seb, and Tamsin. The queen is all decked out in blue today, her auburn hair glossy in the sun, and as she chats with Alex, I see Tamsin glance behind her. Flora is there, talking to Fliss and Poppy, and I watch her meet Tamsin’s eyes, and see the little smile that passes between them.

Then Tamsin turns back and slips her hand into the crook of Seb’s elbow. Seb smiles down at her briefly but then turns his eyes back to Ellie, who is staring so hard at the queen that I know she’s purposely ignoring Seb’s gaze.

What a freaking mess.

“You’re looking a bit bolshy.”

I turn to see Miles at my side, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his dark tie loose at his throat, and suddenly all the anger goes out of me.

“Bolshy?” I thought I’d absorbed most of the Brit slang there was to learn in the past month or so, but clearly there are still a few things I need to learn.

“Like a Bolshevik,” Miles clarifies. “Someone about to start a revolution. I can see it in your face,” he tells me now, grinning. “Just like you colonists, coming over here and wanting to cut everyone’s head off.”

“I could go for a decapitation or two,” I confess, and he laughs, his teeth very white against his tan face. I think back to that night at the bothy and my face goes hot.

Maybe he’s thinking the same thing because he stops laughing, his eyes darkening a little bit.

Then he steps back a bit, straightening his shoulders. He’s tamed his hair with some kind of gel, but it still shines like an old coin, and the green stripes on his tie bring out his eyes.

“Do you know anyone playing today?” I ask, desperate for a safe topic of conversation, and the corners of Miles’s mouth turn up. He apparently likes the distraction, too.

“Gilly’s riding,” he says, turning to gesture at the field. “Spiffy and Dons were going to, but Spiffy fell down some stairs on the Mile last night and twisted his ankle, so Dons decided he’d sit it out, too. They’re over there, either charming or horrifying the Earl of Hatton’s daughters.”

He nods toward a striped tent where, sure enough, Spiffy sits, ankle propped up on some pillows, Dons at his side, two very blond girls standing near them, hands over their mouths either to hide their laughs or to hold back vomit.

Always hard to tell.

“Where’s Sherbet?” I ask, letting Miles lead me back to the refreshment area, my hand resting very lightly in the crook of his arm. Even that little touch is enough to have my nerves vibrating, and I hear a few muted clicks as photographers get their pictures.

“Sherbet is off to Greece with Galen for the rest of the summer,” he says. “Lucky bugger.”

“Because Greece or just because he’s not here, staring at ponies?” I ask, and Miles glances down at me.

“Because he’s with someone he loves,” he says, and my heart does a weird flipping thing in my chest. I know Miles isn’t saying he loves me—that would be stupid—but it was clear at the ball that he envied what Galen and Sherbet had. Maybe because he always has to be free in case the palace needs him to pretend to date somebody.

“And also Greece,” he acknowledges. “Bloody love Greece. Plus, if I were in Greece, I wouldn’t have had to carry Spiffy halfway down the Mile last night, so.”

I laugh at that, tilting my head up to look into his face.

And that’s when someone calls out, “Give ’im a kiss, love!”

I turn to see a photographer there, camera at the ready, and everything inside me freezes.

We’ve faked a date, smiled into each other’s eyes at the ball, walked down the street like a couple, but a kiss?

But to my surprise, Miles is already inching his head just the littlest bit toward mine, his face coming closer, his lips—

I slam my hand against his chest, pushing him back, and for a second, I see his eyes widen.

“I’m—I can’t—” I start to say, and then with a muttered “Sorry,” I turn away.

Only to smack right into a waiter bearing a tray loaded with champagne glasses.

I hear a few gasps (and more than a few giggles) as probably hundreds of dollars of champagne splashes onto the ground. I get at least fifty bucks’ worth on my pretty yellow dress, and I scrub my hand over the growing wet spot down the front of my skirt even as a torrent of apologies spills from my lips.

Leaning down, I attempt to help the waiter pick up the glasses, but then there are more clicks, and then I remember I’m in a dress, it’s a windy day, and I’ve probably just given everyone a clear look at my pink polka-dot underwear.

Great.

So I right myself in a hurry, stepping past the waiter and all those glasses, and catching a brief glimpse of Miles out of the corner of my eye as I practically sprint away.

Where am I going?

I have no idea. Just away from here, away from all those eyes and lenses, and definitely away from Miles.

There’s a barn at the far edge of the field, and even though everything involving me and horses has been a total nightmare on this trip, I march toward it, putting as much space between me and the polo field as I can, as quickly as I can.

When I step into the barn, I realize that it’s not actually a barn at all, but a fancy garage. There are cars parked in here, gorgeous, sleek, expensive cars, and I walk between two of them, letting my fingers drag over the cool surface of a Rolls-Royce as I take a deep breath.

That was certainly a freak-out for the books, and I wait to hear Glynnis or Ellie come in after me, chiding me to get back out there and smile for the cameras.

But it’s not Glynnis or Ellie suddenly casting a shadow from the doorway.

It’s Miles.

He’s just . . . standing there. His hands are loosely clenched at his sides, his chin is tilted down a little, and he’s breathing hard, like he ran to catch up with me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am surprised to hear how shaky I sound. I’m surprised at how shaky I feel. Miles opened the door wide when he walked in, and now in the sunlight I can see dust motes floating in the air between us. “I couldn’t do it.”

Crossing my arms, I cradle my elbows in my palms and go on even as Miles moves closer to me. “I get that that’s part of this whole fake dating thing, but a kiss is . . . a kiss is special. Maybe not to you, but it is to me, and I didn’t want—”

And then whatever I might have said next is cut off by Miles’s mouth on mine.

He kisses me, his hands coming up to hold my face, and for a second, I’m so surprised that I don’t kiss him back. I just stand there with my arms still crossed, my eyes open.

But then he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his hands warm on my cheeks, fingertips slightly calloused, and my eyes are drifting shut, my arms coming to drop first to my sides, then lifting up to clutch at his shirt there at his waist.

For a boy I’d once thought was made mostly of tweed, Miles can kiss.

We stand there in the barn, wrapped up in each other, and I go up on tiptoes, wanting to get even closer to him. Wanting to press every part of my body against his as I finally, finally, give into everything I’ve been trying not to feel since that night in the bothy.

When we finally pull apart, I sink back on my heels, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Wow,” I say softly, and he smiles. It’s the smile I saw that night at Seb’s club, the one that first clued me into the fact that Miles might be more appealing than I’d thought.

“A kiss is special to me, too,” he says, his voice so low and rough that I swear I can actually feel it moving over my skin, and I shiver.

“You’re special to me,” he adds, and my fingers flex on his shirt.

He’s Seb’s best friend, as much a part of this world as the horse races and the tiaras and the plaid.

But he’s also funny and kind once you get past the stuffiness, and cute, and he kisses like it’s his job.

“So what do we do now?” I ask him, the words surprisingly loud in the empty barn.

“You smile!” a bright voice says, and we turn to see Glynnis in the doorway, the photographer right behind her.