She laughed. “I was too busy watching y’all eat.”
“Me, too,” I said. Something else we apparently had in common. I handed her a plate and took one for myself. When I finally sat down and looked around the table, I almost wished my momwasn’tgoing home. I’d never pictured her in New York, not really—but from Broadway to the Forest of Emeralds, she fit right in. There was so much more I wanted to show her, too. Maybe next time my idiot brother could show up and we could really set the town on fire.
After the meal, while Jessica was plating dessert, I snuck off to the back room. I hauled potatoes out of the way to access a plain cardboard box I’d hidden deep in one of the shelves. I took the box down, tore the packing tape off the top, and gazed down at the contents.
Brand, spanking-new West Side Sandwiches ball caps with an updated logo designed by one of Lily’s many artist friends.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of newness, then opened them, took a hat from the box, and parked it on my head. I modeled it for the tiny back room mirror, turning my head back and forth, nodding it in time to a bop no one could hear.
Someone knocked.
I stopped bopping, stuffed the hat in the box, and pushed the flaps closed. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
Berron.
I set the box on a shelf. “Come in.”
He entered and closed the door behind him.
Without warning, I was plunged into the memory of unmasking him as the Prince of the Gentry—trapping him against the wall, pressing my lips to his, discovering a whole new kind of magic as the bright glory of green and gold opened my eyes to his true identity.
“I thought you might need some help,” he said.
I cleared my throat. “Help? No help. I’m okay.” Very smooth, Zelda.
“What’s in the box?”
How did he know? Damn his quiet observance. “A surprise,” I said.
“I love surprises,” he said.
“Not for you, you selfish thing. For everyone.”
“I like everyone surprises. Can I see?”
“You’ll see when everyone else sees.”
“Come on. Just a peek.” He tried puppy-dog eyes on me. Coming from a six-foot-something Gentry prince and not a miniature poodle, it was definitely an odd look. “Please?”
“Fine.” I opened the box again and held it out.
His elegant fingers caressed the hat I’d just worn. “Oh,” he said, reverently. “Oh, these areverynice. Is this… is this for me? To wear?”
I nodded, playing it cool but secretly pleased he was so excited.
He lifted the hat and lowered it onto his head slowly, like he was crowning himself. He turned to the mirror to admire himself. “How do I look? Do I look official?”
“You look like a dork. Not in an ironic, Brooklyn hipster way, but like a regular Joe off the street.”
He beamed. “I look normal!”
“You look…”—my tongue suddenly tripped on the words that nearly came out of my mouth:You look like my ride-or-die—“really nice,” I finished.
The cowardly chicken sounds were so loud in my own mind I was surprised they didn’t bring everyone in the restaurant running to find out why I kept live poultry in the back.
Ride-or-die. An expression that meant handing someone your shining golden heart and asking them to kindly not smash it.
