Reality TV Bites by Shane Bolks Page B

‘Prince’ is merely a courtesy title. My family is not poor, but we live and work like everyone else.”
    â€œOh.” When he says it that way, it’s not quite as exciting. “So, are you leaving on royal business?”
    â€œNo. Regular business. I think there has not been royal business for over a hundred years. But if it were royal business, be assured I would take you with me. We princes are good at rescuing damsels in distress.”
    There’s a groan from the patio and a chorus of “goddamnits” and “oh, hells.”
    â€œHopefully, my distress won’t last much longer. I think I talked Rory into leaving early with me to watch The Iron Chef since she’s got seven thousand channels.”
    â€œWhat a good student. Homework on a Thursday.”
    â€œDo I get an A?”
    â€œIs an A good?”
    â€œVery good.
    â€œThen I give you three.” And he leans down to kiss me again. Very nice. I kiss him back, surprised that kissing a prince isn’t as different as I thought it would be. Strike one for the fantasy.
    We stand there talking for another ten minutes or more, hands clasped and Nicolo’s thumb rubbing my palm in slow circles. Before he leaves, he kisses me once more and says, “I know you said you were busy, but I have been invited to a cocktail party tomorrow evening and have no date. If you find that your schedule changes…” He waves a hand.
    This guy is good. He’s figured out that a head-on assault isn’t going to work with me. Now he’s trying indifference.
    â€œOf course, inviting you out on such short notice is absolutely inexcusable—”
    â€œNot to mention, we’re working together. I generally avoid dating men I work with,” I add.
    â€œâ€”but I thought you might be interested in meeting my cousin Prince Sixte Louis Charles Vincenz Christian.”
    Another prince? Oh, dear. “He’s here from Denmark, too?”
    â€œNo, no. He lives in Florida. Palm Beach.”
    â€œOh.” There’s royalty living in Palm Beach, and I never even knew it. How…unromantic. I should say no, but Nicolo is more than good. Not only has he apologized about the short notice, he throws more royalty into the deal. “Well, how could I miss the chance to meet—?”
    â€œSixte.”
    â€œRight. But it’s not a date. It’s a professional outing.”
    He inclines his head. Smiling, I give him my address and cell number, and he promises his driver will arrive by nine. Then he kisses my hand, all the way to the fingertips, and says something that sounds like silk feels.
    â€œWas that Italian?”
    â€œSì.”
    â€œWhat did it mean?”
    â€œUntil tomorrow.”
    And then he’s gone.
    â€œHe didn’t even drink his beer.” Dave walks up and leans on the wall beside me, invading my corner with his broad shoulders and annoying height. I’m five-eight, so he must be at least six feet.
    â€œI guess you’ll have to drink it,” I say, scanning the patio for Rory.
    â€œI don’t want a Heineken. You drink it.” He hands the beer mug to me, but I wave it away.
    â€œCan’t. I’m leaving. Where’s Rory?”
    He points to a picnic table, and I spot Rory and Hunter sitting together. They’re completely oblivious to everything around them, locked deep in conversation. Sometimes I wonder what the two of them have to talk about. I mean, she’s a Star Wars sci-fi junkie and he’s an ex-jock marketing exec. And somehow they’re still perfect for each other.
    â€œWhat are they talking about?”
    Dave shrugs. “You know them. It could be anything from intergalactic warfare to organic pet food.”
    â€œPet food?”
    â€œHunter wants to get a dog, but Rory doesn’t want him to feed it dead animals.”
    I smile. “Yeah, she gave me the same lecture when I got Booboo Kitty.”
    Dave