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Freya lets out a tinkling laugh. “That's Roman senators, like on the movie with that guy who had to fight everyone else at the Colosseum in Rome, Italy.”
I arch my eyebrows. “Do you mean Gladiator, starring Russell Crowe?”
“You've seen it?”
Hasn't everyone seen it? It’s a classic.
“I may have. The thing is, where I'm from we don't have senators. We have Lords and Ladies of the Royal Court, with a parliament that represents the people.”
“The Royal Court? It sounds so fancy, Your Royal Highness.”
“Alexander, remember?”
“Okay.” Freya blushes when she adds, “Alexander.”
“That’s better.” I smile at her, thinking what I always think when I meet a new woman. Most of them, if not all, get goo-goo eyes for the royal part of my title. Even the Americans.
Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm not a poor little rich boy yearning for a different, simpler life. Heck no. Being a prince is one sweet gig—if you ignore the perpetual media interest, the fact I need to live up to my father's expectations, and women like Freya, blinded by my title.
It’s being the heir to the throne that I’m not so keen on.
“Who’s this guy?” I ask as I gesture at the imposing statue looming above us.
“Abraham Lincoln, of course!”
“Is that why this place is called the Lincoln Memorial?” I deadpan, because yes, I knew it was Abraham Lincoln.
She nudges me. “You know, it’s lucky you’re a handsome prince.”
“Why is that?”
I already know her reply. Pretty but dumb. I’ve heard it before.
“Because I bet you didn't have to go to college and learn stuff.”
I attended Cambridge and graduated with a first-class honors degree in history before I joined the Royal Ledonian Navy as an officer. But I'm not going to bother Freya with that kind of irrelevant detail. She's made her mind up about me already.
Prince equals not having to know stuff.
Oh, and being pretty, too.
I feign a smile. “You’re so right.”
“I knew it!” She beams. “Did you see that we were talked about on TMZ today?”
“I don't generally follow the media coverage of the events I attend. If there's anything I need to know, my chief of staff will tell me.”
“It wasn't the event so much as you and me.” She gestures between us. “Here, I'll show you.”
“It's fine.”
“No, really. I want to.”
Before I can stop her, she's pulled her phone from her purse and is showing me an image of us dancing at the White House last night. Her eyes are bright, her smile broad as she gazes at me in her sequined silver dress.
“You look lovely,” I tell her, barely glancing at my own image.
“We look lovely,” she corrects. “Everyone is saying I'm your new girlfriend.”
