Chapter 33

“This is even better than a kiss near the field,” Glynnis is saying, moving toward us with her hands spread open wide, like she’s framing a shot. “We’ll have Fitzy here shoot from behind one of the cars so the entire thing will feel a little sneaky, a little private.”

I don’t point out the irony in purposely posing for “private” pictures, but then my brain is still too scrambled from the kiss to say much.

Miles, however, doesn’t seem to have that problem. As Glynnis goes on, talking about angles and how many pictures and “hand placement,” he steps forward, one arm still around my waist.

“No.”

Glynnis pauses, her fingers opening and closing in the air like Miles saying no has just caused some kind of system shutdown.

Then she gives a little laugh. “Oh, Miles,” she says, waving him off, “I know it’s a bit embarrassing to be caught like this, but I promise, it won’t take but a moment, and then—”

“No,” Miles says again. “I don’t want pictures of this. This”—he gestures between the two of us—“isn’t for the papers.”

My chest aches with a mixture of pride and swooniness as he stands there, chin lifted, jaw clenched. All the things that used to make Miles seem so annoying and snobby are actually really appealing when they’re being employed to protect my honor.

Glynnis’s eyes are wide now, and she makes a disbelieving sound. “Of course it’s for the papers,” she says. “That’s the entire reason the two of you were spending time together.”

Gaze hardening, she props a fist on her hip. “And given that the Sun has pictures of Sebastian and Daisy leaving a pub together through a back door earlier this week, we really have no choice here.”

Ugh. I should’ve known we weren’t as stealth as Seb thought we were.

I open my mouth to explain to Miles that there was nothing illicit about that pub visit—well, there kind of was, but it wasn’t between me and Seb—but he’s still looking at Glynnis.

“Don’t care,” he says, and then he slips his hand in mine, squeezing.

“I covered the arses of a lot of members of this family,” Miles goes on, “and I haven’t minded it. But not this time. Not with Daisy.”

And then he walks past Glynnis, tugging me after him.

As we walk back out into the sunshine, hand in hand, I practically gawp at him. “Did you just tell the royal family to get screwed?”

That muscle in his jaw ticks, but I think it’s because he’s holding back a smile this time.

“I think I did?” he asks, and, yup, definitely a smile.

One that is immediately captured by a camera as a series of clicks go off, and I lift our joined hands between us, shaking them slightly.

“It was a little bit for naught, though,” I say. “Definitely a grand gesture, and I was very impressed and kind of turned on, but . . .” I shake my head and laugh.

Tilting his chin, Miles looks down at me, and his fingers flex in mine. “It’s still different,” he says. “We can’t keep people from taking pictures, but we can not pose for them. Not fake anything, not use this”—he tugs at our hands—“for anyone else’s benefit.”

I nod, but even as I do, I’m thinking of those prom pics that nearly made it onto TMZ, the way I’d started getting hyperaware of someone taking my picture. How I’d thought Ellie could keep her life here separate from mine in Florida, and that people would eventually forget about me.

They won’t if I’m dating one of the Royal Wreckers, even if he is the least wreckish.

Miles frowns. “What is it?” he asks, but before I can reply, Seb is there, his jacket flapping open, his hair windblown yet weirdly perfect, his eyes shining, and his breath . . .

Stepping back, I place a hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, did you fall into a vat of whiskey?” I ask him, then glance around. I know Seb can be a mess, and Miles knows Seb can be a mess, but the general public has been spared a lot of his messitude.

“Did you know that Tamsin and Flora were shagging?” he asks me bluntly, raking a hand through his hair.

“What, no!” Miles says, startled, and sadly my “No, I didn’t” is just delayed enough to sound pretty weak.

Miles looks down at me, pulling back. “Wait, do you know something about that?”

“Not the shagging part,” I admit, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But just the general, you know, them-ness of them.”

I turn and look at Seb, acutely aware that there are photographers nearby and that he is super, super drunk. In public.

“But why is that a big deal?” I whisper. “You don’t even like Tamsin.”

“I might, though,” he fires back. “I might decide to like her, who can say?”

Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “And this is the most eligible bachelor in Scotland. Be still my beating heart.”

I can see Dons approaching, also three sheets to the wind, listing slightly, and I tug on Seb’s arm. “Hey,” I say softly. “Why don’t we go somewhere quiet and talk about this? Somewhere not quite so public and . . . exposed.”

But Seb shakes me off. “No,” he says, and Miles steps forward, putting his hands on Seb’s shoulders. “Mate,” he starts, but Seb steps back from him.

“Don’t ‘mate’ me,” he says, and I wrinkle my nose.

“Word choice,” I mutter, but Seb—who has managed to keep his disastrous life private for all this time—is now on a roll.

“It just doesn’t make any bloody sense,” he says plaintively. Throwing one hand out at me, he all but cries, “You didn’t want me, and you picked Monters of all people.”

I open my mouth, but Seb just waves off anything I was about to say. “Oh, don’t give me that ‘it’s just for show’ thing. The two of you have been making sex eyes at each other since day one.”

My face flames hot, and I make a startled noise. “Have not!” I reply, and Miles is spluttering, too.

“Daisy and I only . . . recently realized th-that we—”

“Oh, stuff it, Monters,” Seb says, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not blind. But then Daisy’s friend calls me a wanker, now Tamsin prefers Flora, and am I not the good-looking one? Am I not on a million bleeding bedroom walls all over this country? I just . . .” He shakes his head, and I look over at Dons, who is giggling into his cider.

“Who let him get this drunk?” I ask.

Dons shrugs. “Sherbet’s not here, Spiffy’s laid up with his ankle, Gilly’s on the field, Monters has been too wrapped up in you to notice what Seb is up to, sooooo . . .” He pokes at his own chest and grins brightly. “Me! I did!”

Laughing, he slaps Seb on the back. “But it’s good! Man deserves to let his hair down.”

I don’t point out that Seb is not so much letting his hair down as letting his feelings spew out his mouth, but then I don’t have to because Seb keeps going.

“And Ellie,” he says darkly, and now I step forward, grabbing his jacket and not caring who might be taking pictures.

“Seb, no.”

“Ellie loves Alex. Boring, stupid Alex. I!” He lifts one hand, nearly smacking me in the face. “I am the interesting brother. I b-bought her a house.”

“You tried to steal a house from a farmer, and also you’re seventeen,” I remind him.

“But I love her,” he replies, and then from behind us, I hear, “What?”

Great. Greatgreatgreat. Exactly what this moment needs.

Alex and Ellie stand there, clearly worried and confused. They’re holding hands, and I think for a second of the tableau we must all make standing there. Me clutching Seb’s jacket, Miles right beside me, Dons giggling his stupid drunk ass off.

Seb’s chest rises and falls underneath my hands as he takes a deep breath, and I hope—I pray—that he’s not—

“I’m in love with Eleanor,” he announces, and we all freeze for just a second.

And then Alex—sweet, noble, quiet Alex—rears back and punches Seb right in the face.

Which is when things go crazy.