Do-Over (16 page)

Not like it did with David
.

I can’t help it. The thought pops into my mind, probably because of the near-constant reminders I’m getting from Jules, Natalie, and Christie that I need to come clean.

At that moment, I realize that they’re right. I can’t wait any longer. I
have
to tell Georg about what happened over break in Virginia. Otherwise, I’m always going to worry that something could happen to our relationship.

And not because of Steffi. Because of me.

Because I know how I’d feel if I suspected Georg was hiding something from me . . . even if it were something like the (way short) time I spent with David. Time that didn’t mean a thing. I’m getting wigged out just thinking about what he’s doing tonight, and it’s probably just some dumb thing for his parents. No different
for him than Nat’s parents’ dinner party is for her.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, Georg will be home from his party when I get back to the palace.

If he is—and if I can convince him to come over—I’ll tell him tonight. He might not take it well, and I know there’ll be a lot of groveling on my part, but as much as it’s going to rot, at least I’ll know I’ve been honest with him.

The palace looks completely normal as we drive up. In other words, all the lights in the public areas are on, but the section that houses Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia’s private apartments is pretty dark. Only one light is on that I can see.

I don’t know what I was expecting, since it’s nearly midnight. Guess I was so fixated on my monumental decision to tell Georg about David that I blanked on the fact that he might not be available for a while.

“Doesn’t look like they’re home yet,” Dad says as he turns the car into the courtyard and shows his employee ID to
the bored-looking guy at the gate, who waves us through.

“Did Georg’s parents go to the Oscar party, too?” I ask. “You never did tell me where it is.”

Anna glances at Dad, then turns to look over her shoulder at me. “Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia had to go to Italy tonight. They’re flying home in the morning.”

“So . . . the same thing Georg went to?” He didn’t mention Italy. Or being gone overnight.

“No. They’re at an opera premiere,” Dad says as he pulls into a covered area on the side of the palace close to where we live (the older, unrenovated, not-so-glamorous area) and cuts the engine. “Georg is here in Schwerinborg. I promised his parents I’d check in on him when we returned from the hotel.”

“Um, wouldn’t he have to sign in with security when he gets back? His parents would hear pretty fast if he didn’t come home when he’s supposed to.” That’s his usual routine, and he once told me that if he doesn’t follow the proper safety measures,
his parents give him a serious lecture (though I imagine it’s done in a very restrained, royalish way).

“Of course,” Dad replies. “But I think they like having a little extra assurance.”

We get out of the car and start walking toward the palace. As we crunch across the gravel courtyard, heading for the door closest to our apartments, Dad reaches out and takes Anna’s hand like it’s an everyday thing.

I’m not sure I like it, but I’m finding I don’t
dis
like it as much as when we were on the ski trip.

I must be mellowing. I mean, it’s hitting me that I’m starting to think of her as Anna instead of The Fraulein—and not cursing myself out when it happens.

“Why don’t you go check on him for me?” Dad asks, looking over his shoulder at me. “I’ll see Anna to her car.”

Since Anna lives in downtown Freital, I guess she must’ve left her car here after work. Probably so she’d have an excuse to ride with me and Dad to the dance, but whatever. I guess I should be happy that at least someone’s relationship is working.

“I can take a hint,” I say under my breath. Then louder, I say, “Sure. I doubt he’s home yet, though.”

“If he’s not there, I’ll meet you at our place. He’ll know to call me when he gets in.”

When I get to the doors in the fancy wing—where Georg and his parents live—I go through the metal detector and fill out the guest form like I always do, though I have to wonder if Georg’s around. And whether I’ll be able to get the words out about David.

“How long will you be, Miss Winslow?” the guard asks.

“Um, I’m not sure. Is Prince Georg home?”

“Yes.” He gives me an odd look and I realize he’d probably have sent me back home without the whole metal-detector inconvenience if Georg weren’t around. Even though I’m here all the time, it’s not like the security guys would let me wander around the family’s private wing alone.

“Maybe an hour, then?” Could be five minutes, though—about the length of time it takes for me to spit out the David story and Georg to throw me out.

I suppose if Georg does tell me to take a hike (though I know he’s too polite to use those exact words, my gut is telling me the sentiment could very well be there) I can always turn on the Oscars and IM the girls in Virginia with my comments on which actress has the ugliest gown.

Nothing beats a butt-ugly feather dress—which the entertainment reporters are bound to note costs the equivalent of a year’s college tuition—for getting guy frustration out of my system.

Of course, the thought of bad clothes reminds me that I haven’t looked in a mirror all night—not since before leaving for the dance. I looked decent when I left home, but Georg probably spent the evening around glamorous model types, so a checkup is definitely in order.

As I walk down the corridor, I riffle through my purse, manage to find my compact—which is a little dusty from disuse—and groan when I look in the tiny mirror. Sure enough, there are the telltale mascara marks from spending too long in a hot room. Ego crash number two on the night.

I run a finger under my eyes and fluff
some powder on my face. Not great, but hopefully better than the Vampira-from-the-dark look I’d been sporting.

Georg opens the door on the first knock.

“Hey,” he says. He’s grinning ear to ear. And he’s still in his tux. Maybe he just got home?

“Hey, yourself.” Man, does he look good. Edible good. Like he could attend the real Oscars and not be dissed by the style gurus. And I tell him so.

“Thanks,” he says. “Come on in. The preshow is just beginning.”

“You’re watching?”

He opens the door wider, pulling me inside. We walk through the formal rooms toward the more casual family room, where he and his parents hang out and watch the news in the evenings. The smell of popcorn hits me, and I take a deep breath. Then I hear voices and the words
Harry Winston necklace
. “You really are watching TV! And it’s in English!”

As he opens the door and flips on the light, I swear, my heart almost stops.

The place is full of flowers. And I mean
full
. Like, every available space in the TV
room has them. The coffee table is covered, and so is the side table near the sofa. Even the top of the television is a mass of roses and these gigantic, sweetly perfumed white lilies that Dad says are Princess Claudia’s favorite. There are two champagne glasses and a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne sitting on the floor, right in front of the coffee table and the big pile of pillows where Georg sometimes crashes to do his homework.

And of course there’s a huge bowl of fresh popcorn.

He sweeps a hand out to encompass the room, as if playing the role of maître d’ at a five-star restaurant. “Valerie Winslow, welcome to your first official Schwerinborg Oscar party.”

I can’t even speak. I cover my mouth with my hands for a moment, trying to absorb it all.

“You like?”

Do I like? Is he freaking kidding me? This is way better than the fantasy I had at the dance.
Way
. “You planned all this?”

“Hey, there are some advantages to being a prince. I might not be able to go to public events with my girlfriend right now, but
damned if I couldn’t get dibs”—he pauses on the word “dibs”—“on the leftover flowers from last night’s economic summit banquet to make up for it. To make it up to you. Took me a while to get them set up, but it was fun.”

It’s just now hitting the dim recesses of my brain.
This
was his Oscar party? “So you never went out tonight?”

“Nope.”

“And my dad must’ve known—”

“Yep.”

How could I have been such an idiot?

I glance back toward the formal part of his family’s apartments. “And your parents are—”

“In Italy. At an opera. They asked me to go last week, right after we got back from the ski trip. When I told them about the dance and how disappointed you were when I said I couldn’t come—and that it was your Oscar night—they agreed to let me skip the opera and take over the TV room. Of course, I didn’t know you’d have to be there so late, but when Ulrike’s father was at the palace last week, I asked your dad if he’d volunteer to chaperone so he could make sure you got
home before the Oscars. And so he could make sure you came over here to see me instead of just going to sleep.”

Okay—having my boyfriend enlist my own father’s help in surprising me is strange. But I’m not going to gripe. Especially when he’s looking mighty fine.

“Come on,” he says, leaning over to grab a glass. “Have some fake champagne and some popcorn.”

“But of course!”

We sit on the floor and I watch him pour, even though I feel dorky being so casual when he’s so dressed up. Who am I kidding? It
all
feels dorky. But I love it.

He takes the remote and clicks up the sound so I can hear the commentary as actresses walk up the red carpet, stopping to strike poses for cameras or to sign autographs for fans.

We toast the Oscars, then settle back against the pillows. Georg sits so that I can snuggle into his shoulder. We watch the screen for a few minutes as I try to savor the moment.

When the first commercial hits, I ask, “So did Dad tell you how late I could stay?”

“I think as long as the show’s on,” Georg says.

“I think that’s, like, five a.m.” A long time to keep my head happily cradled against Georg’s shoulder, breathing in the wonderful way he smells, feeling his arm pulling me close to him. “Dad’s being awfully trusting.”

“I think he’s going to be checking in. He told me he’d see Anna home first, but he made it pretty clear that we weren’t supposed to be doing anything to corrupt each other up here, or, I believe his exact words were, I’ll find out when I come to check in on you two, and you won’t see my daughter again because this time I’ll send her back to the States for good.’”

I pop a piece of popcorn—which is downright heavenly—and grin. Leave it to Dad to stand up for my honor.

I twist my neck so I can look up at Georg. I’m surprised to see a serious look on his face. “What?”

“You wouldn’t rather be there, would you? Back in the States?”

I know he’s thinking back to our conversation in the hallway at the guesthouse. I
shake my head. “I miss my friends, but this is where I belong. Dad, too. I don’t know how serious he is about Anna, but it seems to be going okay. So I guess that’s even more incentive to stay.”

And since I can’t help but tease him, I tickle his stomach and say, “Plus, you provide me with popcorn. My friend Jules only has Ho Hos, and even then, she doesn’t share.”

He grabs my hand to stop the tickling, then pulls my fingers up to his mouth for a kiss.

Omigosh. Somebody cue the music, because I’m about to get emotional and girly. To keep myself from getting too sappy, I say, “You don’t mind that I’m not dressed for the occasion, do you?” He did spring it on me.

“Nah. The tux was actually your dad’s idea. I would’ve had to wear it to the opera, so I figured why not wear it for the Oscars? And I had no idea how you and your friends dressed for your Oscar parties.”

“Not in formal wear.” I pull at his lapel. “But this is still cool, even if it’s totally my dad’s idea of what a girl wants. Guess it works for him.”

“Guess so.” He grabs a handful of popcorn, then glances sideways at me. “You know, I’m glad things with your dad and Anna are going okay. I think it’s good that he’s getting out and seeing someone.”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling myself. He told me tonight that they’re not exclusive—that was his phrase—so I think he’s trying to take it slow.”

“Probably smart.” He plays with my hair as he speaks, which makes me go gooey on the inside. “Even for adults, I think it’s all about finding what you want.”

Finding what you want
. Exactly the phrase my mother used with me when I told her how guilty I felt for seeing David. She said I needed to know what I didn’t want so I’d be better at finding what I did want.

“So,” I say, grabbing my own handful of popcorn while he starts to munch on his. “You think it’d be cool if he ends up deciding to date around?”

He leaves the question unanswered as we both stare at the screen—Angelina Jolie is on the red carpet, and she’s wearing a dress that’s totally cut to
there
. The kind you
know will be flashed on the news during the recaps of who was wearing what.

“Wow,” Georg says. “That’s a ten.”

“No kidding.” “Wow” is an understatement. “I wonder how she’s keeping her boobs in that thing. Gotta be tape.”

Georg thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. And it takes him a sec to figure that out. Once he does, he makes a very unroyal yakking noise and says, “There are some things guys are never meant to know.”

He takes a long drink of his pseudo-champagne as Angelina glides along the carpet, waving to the stands full of fans who showed up at four in the morning so they could stake out prime star-viewing territory. She turns to the side and I absolutely lose it, because I can tell Georg’s staring at the cut of her dress, trying to figure out where she’s got the tape.

“Cut it out,” he says when he catches me watching him. “Because of you, now every time I go to any of my parents’ formal events, I’m going to wonder what these women have holding up their dresses. And I really don’t want to be having those kind of thoughts about them.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be dressed quite like Angelina.’ Though I would if I had a bodacious bod like that and I regularly got invited to ritzy events like the Oscars, where nobody even blinks if you wear dresses so sexy they require tape.