The Bride Wore Size 12

Sarah is sitting at her desk, flowerless. The door to Lisa’s office is closed.

“Nice, right?” Sarah says, when she sees my face light up at the sight of the overflowing vase of blossoms. “Guess you’ve got a fan.”

Cooper! I think immediately. He’s the only person I know who would do something so thoughtful—and classy. He knows how much it hurt, having my mother show up like she did last night. That, plus having a student death in the building—when I’d sworn to myself that this year was going to be different—has really thrown me for a loop.

This is exactly the kind of thing he’d do to cheer me up . . . especially after upsetting me by saying all that nonsense about how he was going to tail her.

“Oh,” I say softly, reaching out to gently touch one delicate, ivory petal. “He didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“He really didn’t,” Sarah says, taking a big bite of the burger she’s grabbed from the caf and is eating at her desk. “But then,” she adds, with her mouth full, “that’s the kind of guy he is, isn’t he?”

I lean forward to sniff a rose. Heaven, especially after experiencing so much dark unpleasantness outside the building just now with Prince Rashid’s bodyguard. “I’m so lucky.”

“You are,” Sarah agrees. “We all are, really. So, so lucky to have him in our lives.”

There’s something slightly off about her tone.

“Wait,” I say, lifting my nose from the flowers and stiffening. “These are from Cooper, right?”

“Ha.” Sarah cackles. “You wish. Open the card.”

There’s an ivory note card tucked amid the dark green leaves. I reach for it.

19

From the Desk of His Royal Highness Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Sultan Faisal

FOR MS. WELLS, WITH MY DEEPEST SYMPATHIES FOR YOUR LOSS. I WAS SO SORRY TO HEAR WHAT YOU WENT THROUGH YESTERDAY. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERE’S ANYTHING MY STAFF OR I CAN DO FOR YOU DURING THIS TERRIBLE TIME.

Yours very truly,

Rashid

I turn to stare at Sarah in disbelief. “These flowers are from Prince Rashid?”

“Or Shiraz.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “Whichever he’s calling himself this week.”

“But—” I stare at the arrangement. “They’re so . . . nice.”

“Well, his dad has billions of dollars,” Sarah reminds me with more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I’m sure he can afford a decent florist.”

Of course she’s right.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “I’m surprised by the gesture. It’s kind of mature. And what’s written in the card is so nice.”

Sarah snorts as she wipes ketchup from the side of her mouth with a napkin. “He probably didn’t even write it. I bet there’s a palace publicist or secretary who does all his press.”

I stare at the card. Except for the prince’s title and formal name, which is engraved, the rest is written in somewhat cramped block print, in black ink, by someone clearly better used to texting—or maybe the more manly art of falconry.

“How did you know they’re from Prince Rashid?” I ask Sarah.

“Because he’s been down here twice to check if you got them,” she says. “The florist only delivered them ten minutes ago. There’s a bouquet for Lisa too, but she’s been locked inside the office with the new RA candidate since before I got back from Disbursements, so she hasn’t seen it. I had them keep it up at the front desk since there’s no room in here for two gigantic vases of flowers. I think I’m getting an allergy attack from yours alone.”

I look down at the handwriting on the card. I want to believe that Rashid wrote the message himself, but it seems unlikely. Then again, it’s on Qalif royal letterhead, with the name Rashid signed with a flourish and everything. Forgetting that Sarah is sitting across from me, I do the unthinkable and lick the signature.

“Oh my God,” Sarah cries, watching me. “What are you doing?”

“Look.” I show her the card. “The ink is smeared.”

“So?” Sarah cries.

“So that’s how you can tell if someone really signed something themselves, or if it was typed, or printed with a stamp. If it smears, they signed it themselves with a pen. It’s an old music business trick to use a stamp to sign head shots because they make you sign so many of them. Or just reproduce the head shot with an autograph already printed on it, not personalized.” I look more closely at the card. “Someone really handwrote this.”

“Yes, of course someone did,” Sarah says, still sounding disgusted. “I already told you, his secretary or publicist.”

“Wouldn’t you hire someone with less crappy handwriting to be your secretary if you were going to have them pretend to be you?”

“What does it matter whether or not he wrote it?” Sarah demands. “It doesn’t change anything. Jasmine’s still dead, Rashid’s still a jerk, and Kaileigh’s mom is still stalking you. She was by here a million times while you and Lisa were out. Here are your messages.” She rises to slam a handful of slips of paper on my desk. “Where were you guys, anyway? I tried calling but neither of you would pick up.”

I sit down and begin to sort through the “While You Were Out” messages, careful to keep my tone neutral. It’s clear Sarah knows nothing of the fate that’s about to befall the RAs. “Lisa didn’t say?”

“I told you, she’s been locked in her office since before I got back from Disbursements.” Sarah lowers her voice to a whisper, nodding at Lisa’s closed door. “It says on her calendar that she has the interview with that new RA candidate right now.”

“Right,” I say to Sarah. “We had a meeting up in the president’s office about Jasmine.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “What a waste of time that must have been.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was.”

I don’t dare tell her the truth about what happened during the meeting. When she finds out that all nine of our new RAs are being fired, she’s going to explode with righteous indignation. She’s young enough—and despite her gruff demeanor, tenderhearted enough—that she’ll side with the student workers, and probably even attempt to help them lodge a formal protest.