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“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” When I look at her blankly, a little shocked at how easily she can tell how I feel, she shrugs. “It’s one of the few Shakespearean quotes I know.”
Relief sweeps through me. “Uneasy.”
“What?”
“?‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ It’s from Henry IV, Part II which—strictly speaking—is a history, not a tragedy.”
She laughs then, and it’s so deep, so full-bodied, so sexy that I feel it in every cell. “I guess I should have gone with ‘Out damned spot.’?” She gestures to my champagne-soaked tuxedo.
It’s my turn to laugh, which surprises me, considering I can’t remember the last time I did. “Only if you’re actively colluding to get the throne.”
“Definitely not.”
Her nose crinkles adorably, and I can’t help laughing again. She looks so horrified at just the thought of being royal—something I can relate to right about now. “What’s your name?”
It’s an easy question, but for long seconds she doesn’t answer. Just eyes me over the rim of her cup as she taps her fingers against the
plastic in an unsteady rhythm. But then she shrugs, as if to say, what the hell. “Savvy.”
“Savvy?”
“It’s short for Savannah, but that never really suited me—much to my mother’s dismay.”
“And Savvy does? Suit you?”
She shrugs. “Better than Savannah, anyway. Being named after a city that once held slaves doesn’t exactly do it for me.”
“So you’re American. I couldn’t quite tell. Your accent is…”
“Nonexistent, I know. My parents were theater gypsies. I was born in America, but I’m pretty much from everywhere.”
“Even Wildemar?”
“Definitely Wildemar. I was an exchange student here my second year in college. I loved it so much, I came back as soon as I could.”
“Really? We’re not too formal and autocratic for you with our constitutional monarchy?” I hold out my cup for a refill.
She rolls her eyes even as she pours more scotch, for both of us. “I’m sitting here drinking scotch with the prince—who had to be rescued from the evil clutches of his over amorous subjects, if you remember correctly. How formal—or autocratic—could you possibly be?”
“You make a good point—and a mean scotch and soda.” She’s the first one tonight to call me a prince and not THE CROWN PRINCE. It’s a subtle difference, but I like it. Probably more than I should.
“I’d better, considering my other gig is as a bartender.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “Waitress, bartender, theater gypsy, college student…you’re quite the Renaissance woman.”
“Not a theater gypsy or a college student anymore.”
“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”
“The theater was never my thing. And I graduated from college two years ago. They tend to make you leave after you get a degree, so…”
“And yet you’re not settled down in some office somewhere, using that degree?”
“I’m still a gypsy, even if it’s not for the theater. And my degree’s in creative writing—I use it every day. Just not in some stuffy office.”
“Oh, definitely not.” There’s a warmth flowing through me, one that has nothing to do with the scotch and everything to do with the beautiful gypsy in front of me. “You put it to use in stuffy ballrooms instead.”
“Exactly.” She grins. “And look where it got me tonight. I’ll definitely have something to write about when I go home.”
