Royally Crushed (19 page)

But no matter what Christie says, I am definitely not
David’s
princess, at least not like Shallow Princess was for Heath Ledger in
A Knight’s Tale
. Not even close.

I switch off my computer without answering Christie’s e-mail. I know she means well, but I just can’t deal right now. I’ll think of something brilliant to say while I’m at school, something that’ll get her off my case about David but that won’t hurt her feelings. Since we’re six hours ahead
of Virginia, I’ll be home long before Christie gets to check her in-box, so she’ll assume I answered right away and won’t be offended.

And Jules’s e-mail just needs to be ignored. For now, at least. Despite her ass-kicking threats, I know she’s kidding. Well, I hope.

Geez, I wish they hadn’t all popped “Schwerinborg” into Google when I moved here. Or at least that they hadn’t found out all about the royal family, and about Georg.

I toss my backpack over my shoulder, give the apartment one last look to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything I need for school, then lock the door behind me, since of course Dad was up bright and early this morning to go work for Prince Manfred. He’s very efficient. He wakes up at five a.m. most mornings so he can go to the gym. (Yes, my dad is fairly hot, as far as dads go, and no, I try not to think about the way women are constantly scoping out his bod, because the whole idea of some Schwerinborg woman doing my dad is beyond revolting.) Then he takes a shower and gets dressed in one of his expensive suits (always gray, black, or navy blue) and is out the door by six thirty.

Usually, it annoys me that he’s so perfectly scheduled, but it worked in my favor last night. He went straight to bed when he got home, so he didn’t even realize Georg was in my room when he came in.

I still can’t believe Georg and I weren’t more careful about watching the clock.

Okay, maybe I can believe it. Georg has this way of making me feel so incredible when we’re together—and not just when we’re making out—that I have trouble keeping focused on anything else going on around me. This is totally corny, but he makes me feel better about
me
.

As I walk down the palace hall zipping my coat, I realize I have to tell the girls in Virginia about Georg. Somehow. They’re going to be all excited by the fact I’m with a prince, but I just know they’ll be royally (pardon the pun) pissed off at the same time, partially because of the David Anderson thing, and partially because they’re girly-girls and they won’t like that I didn’t tell them about Georg the very instant I met him—because who meets a prince every day?—let alone that I waited to tell them we’re an actual couple.

And even though they won’t say it, probably even to each other, they’re also going to think it’s not fair that I get to live in a palace and date a prince, especially when all three of them are better looking than me. Well, Christie is definitely better-looking. She’s tall and blonde and has a gorgeous, zit-free face, not to mention boobage. The kind most women get implanted. Jules and Natalie are fairly good-looking, too. They’re your typical cute brunettes.

And Jules has the kind of attitude you’d think a world-wise prince would go for. (Which is probably why she had no qualms about ordering me to give Georg her e-mail address and phone number.)

But me, I’m a red-haired freak of nature. I’m so pale I practically glow in the dark, and I’m pretty ordinary personality-wise. Not great, not bad, just perfectly
average
.

But the thing is—and this is the primary reason I haven’t had the guts to tell my friends about Georg—they won’t get it. They’ll be all starry-eyed, equating Georg with the celebs we drool over during awards shows. They won’t realize that Georg is a
real person,
and that Georg and I have conversations about normal stuff like the whacked things our parents and our teachers do, and what kinds of music we like, and how soccer’s going for him. They’ll think—which, admittedly, I did at first—that his life is full of parties and that he can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, because he’s famous (well, in Europe, anyway) and he has tons of money.

They’ll wonder what the hell he’s doing with me, and will conclude that I’m just some temporary Armor Girl holding his hand until a mega-wealthy, Prada-wearing, Euro-society girl comes along to hold it. It’s also occurred to me that they might think I’m lying, either because I’m lonely over here in Schwerinborg and want attention, or to make them stop pestering me about David.

I guess I can’t blame them, though. I pestered
them
about David for years. Like, ever since David and I were assigned to take care of the class rabbit together in kindergarten and I fell hard for the guy and his way-blue eyes and slightly off-kilter smile. Someone who’s lusted after a guy the way I’ve lusted after David doesn’t just turn around one day and announce they’re seeing someone else, especially when the target of their lust is finally interested.
If
he’s really interested.

“Hey, Valerie.” Georg’s smooth voice makes me jump as I reach for the handle on the door that leads outside, the one I use when I’m walking to school because it’s at the back of the palace and cuts five minutes off my walk.

I turn to see Georg leaning against the wall, waiting for me and looking absolutely yummy in his black leather coat, a dark green sweater, and a pair of Levi’s. A sudden sour taste—guilt?—rises in my mouth at the sound of his voice, and I mentally chew myself out for even thinking of David.

“Hey back,” I say. “Please tell me you didn’t get caught sneaking back into your room last night. I was really worried.”

He gives me a
who me?
look. “My parents were already in their room, getting ready for bed, talking about some meeting my father’s having with the Greek ambassador tomorrow, when I got back. I think they assumed I was
already asleep. My door was shut exactly the way I’d left it. I got past without them noticing.”

“What about the security guys?” There are two very burly men with guns who stand outside the doors to the part of the palace where Georg and his parents live.

He shrugs. “They’re supposed to keep stuff private. And they didn’t know I wasn’t allowed out, anyway.”

I shake my head at him. “Lucky for you.”

“Very lucky.” He shoots me a grin that’s downright sinful, then makes a show of looking past me to see if we’re alone in the hall. He pulls me off to the side, behind this big pedestal with a statue of one of his long-dead ancestors on top of it, and gives me a devastating kiss.

A few minutes later, he eases back and whispers, “I missed you, Val.”

“It’s only been about six hours.”

“I know.” He leans forward so his forehead’s against mine and gives me a slow, incredibly sexy smile, one he knows is going to make me melt inside. “But I missed you anyway.”

I shift my gaze toward the door. Since we both have to be at school in twenty minutes, and it’s a fifteen-minute walk, we’d better get going. “You want to go first, or should I?”

“Let’s walk together.”

“I thought we were going to keep this quiet?” Given how close a call we had last night, I’m thinking we should be extra careful today. Last time the reporter was around, Georg walked way ahead of me on the way to school, and nothing had even happened between us then.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to hold your hand or make out with you in the middle of the street,” he teases, playing with the shoulder strap of my backpack. “We shouldn’t appear suspicious if we just walk together like normal friends.”

I go to the door and take a peek out. I even stick my hand outside, like I’m trying to determine whether it’s raining or just misty, while I’m subtly taking a look around.

“I haven’t seen him,” Georg says from behind me. “He doesn’t usually do Mondays. Tuesdays and Fridays seem to be the days, though he does mix it up sometimes.”

I ease the door most of the way shut. “I didn’t see him, either, but—”

“Then let’s go.” He reaches past me and opens the door, then holds it so I can go first.

I can’t resist him when he’s being chivalrous.

When we’re about halfway to school, Georg fishes a few euros out of his pocket and walks up to a coffee stand. The people who live and work along this street are used to seeing Georg every day, so the guy selling coffee and muffins
doesn’t freak out or anything. He just says hello—well, he actually says,
“Guten Morgen,”
which is German for “good morning”—and hands out a tall latte, Georg’s favorite, while I stand a little farther back on the cobblestoned street and rub my shoe over one of the gray stones, wondering how my life could have changed so much in just a few weeks.

When I look up, the coffee guy smiles at me and asks what I want. At least, I think that’s what he’s asking. I’m about to say,
“Nichts, danke”
—“nothing, thanks”—it being about the extent of my German, not because I don’t want any coffee, but because I spaced asking Dad for more cash this morning. But Georg goes right ahead and orders me a cappuccino, just the way I like it, with nonfat milk and cinnamon. He talks a little bit with the coffee guy. Though I can’t understand a word of it, I can tell they’re pretty friendly with each other.

“You’re such a prince,” I tease him once we get away from the stand, each of us warming our hands with our paper to-go cups.

“I’ve heard that before,” he says. He’s grinning sideways at me, and it’s so magical, I try to capture the moment in my head so I can sketch it later. I love to sketch people, and the way he’s looking at me now would be so great to draw. There’s so much texture—his scarf, wrapped perfectly around his neck and disappearing into the V where
his leather jacket is zipped up; the way his long fingers are wrapped around the coffee as the steam curls up out of the tiny hole in the lid; and, best of all, when he looks at me with his head tilted to the side, his cheekbones look freaking fantastic. He’s regal and normal at the same time.

“You’re making a mental drawing, aren’t you?” he asks after he takes another sip of his latte.

I’m about to make a sarcastic reply when he stops short. I follow his gaze down the sidewalk in the direction we’re headed and realize the
Majesty
magazine guy is standing right in front of us. His blond hair is messed up from the wind, but he’s completely ignoring it because he has out a camera with a monster lens and is snapping away.

Georg puts his head down and starts walking again, so I do the same. But all of a sudden, I’m feeling like I have rocks in my stomach and I can’t drink my cappuccino.

“He doesn’t usually take pictures, does he?” I ask as quietly as possible, since the guy’s only about twenty feet in front of us and walking backward.

“Not very often. He must have space to fill in the paper. Just pretend he’s not there.” He says this in a whisper, so it’s hard for me to tell if he’s bothered by this too. I’m guessing we won’t walk to school together tomorrow.

We turn the corner onto the street leading to our school. It’s an American high school—all the teachers are
Americans—and most of the kids have parents who work for the government or are in the country temporarily for one reason or another. Ulrike’s dad’s a German diplomat, for instance. Maya is from New York. Her family moved over here when her mother got a job with some big investment bank. There are a few kids who’ve always lived here, like Georg, but they go to school here because all the classes are taught in English and their parents want them to be fluent.

Thankfully, because it’s a private school, the reporter apparently has to stay a certain number of feet back, off school property. Just before we go past the school gate, though, he asks, “Prince Georg, would you care to talk about your relationship with Miss Winslow?”

“Miss Winslow’s father works at the palace,” Georg says, sounding totally casual. But I’m so shocked, I stop cold. This guy knows
my name
?

“Valerie, you’d better hurry or you’re going to be late.” Georg says this to me from just inside the gate. He doesn’t look alarmed or anything, but I can tell from his tone that he wants me to ignore the guy and get inside the gate, pronto.

I hike my backpack further up on my shoulder and walk in, leaving the reporter out on the cobblestoned street. Once we’re out of earshot, Georg says, “He’s never spoken to me before, which means he thinks he knows something. Someone’s tipped him off.”

“He knew my name.” How is this possible? I mean, Georg and I had our first real date on
Friday
. And even then, no one but my dad and Georg’s parents knew it was an actual date. Georg’s parents promised to tell any reporters who asked that we weren’t romantically involved, but that they’d invited me to the reception because my father was working there and so Georg would have another teenager to talk to during the event.

We reach the door that leads to where all the sophomore lockers—excuse me,
year ten
lockers—are located on the first floor. Since Georg is in year eleven, he has to take the staircase just inside the door to the second floor, where he has his locker. But instead of going into the building and then us going our separate ways like I expected, he grabs my elbow and steers me a few steps away from the door, so we can talk in private.

“Georg, how could that guy possibly know my name? I’m a
nobody
.”

“You’re not a nobody—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Georg says with a drawn-out sigh. He takes a long sip of his latte, looking over the lid to make sure no one’s watching us too closely. “I’ve walked to school with friends before—I do it fairly often—and he’s
never once bothered them or taken their picture. Well, he’s taken
mine,
but not theirs.”

I’m starting to really freak out now, but Georg says very calmly, “I think he’s just fishing, Valerie. That’s why he asked his question in English instead of German—so you would understand. He was probably hoping you’d make a comment.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he knew my name. At the reception on Friday, no one asked who I was. Your parents didn’t tell anyone. So . . .” I hold my hands out and give him a
what the hell is going on?
stare.