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Liza sleeps with my mom most nights, and the door is open, my mom snoring like a rusty chainsaw. She crashed pretty early last night, after we played around with a few cake recipes (all of them looking like a Pinterest fail, but hey), and I hope that her energy carries through today. I wouldn’t be at all surprised, though, if she backed out of the dinner—and the cake—at the last minute.
I pick up Liza’s leash, and that’s all she needs to come running out of the room, her tail going Mach 5. We head out of the house, enjoying the quiet of the morning, peppered with lapping waves and the calls of Gary birds (not their actual name, but it sounds like they’re constantly yelling for Gary).
The serenity is ruined the moment I step through the new pedestrian gate.
“Who is that?!”
“It’s their dog walker!”
“It’s the help!”
The cul-de-sac is filled with cars and news vans, and to be honest, it looks a bit like a campsite. There are fold-out chairs, collapsible tables with checkered plastic tablecloths, propane stoves, and barbecues. Seconds earlier, the reporters and camerapeople had been hovered around a giant French press, pouring coffee into tin mugs and paper cups.
Now, they’re all running toward me, fumbling for their cameras and phones, coffee sloshing over the cups and splattering on the pavement.
Meanwhile, sweet Liza is in full-on panic mode. The hair on her back is raised, and she’s growling. I’ll admit, I normally hate it when she does this. She’s not dangerous in the slightest, but she looks like she is, and pits already have a needless bad rap. I’ll usually soothe the people we pass on our walks by telling them the truth, that she’s a rescue, that she’s a sweet girl, but she has people issues (I mean, don’t we all?). But now? I know that the dog is all that’s keeping these vultures from swarming me.
“What’s your name?” a petite woman with severe blond bangs asks me, thrusting out a microphone while warily eyeing Liza.
“Do you work for the duke and duchess?” asks a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the ash a mile long, while he aims his phone at me.
I immediately put my hand in front of my face, shielding it from the camera, just as more reporters start recording me. With Liza’s barking and my hand in front of my face, at least I’m not giving them any good material.
Except . . . shit.
This is good material, isn’t it? The mysterious, flustered girl with bedhead that rivals Cousin Itt, caught outside the secret royal house, having just come through the gate with her out-of-control pit bull.
“What is your name?” someone else asks.
I know I shouldn’t answer, but I need them to leave me alone.
“Piper!” I cry out, tugging back on the leash. “And this is Liza, and we’d very much like to go for our morning walk without being harassed by the paparazzi.”
The cigarette man snorts, the ash finally breaking away into the wind. “Paparazzi? Ma’am, I work for Channel 6 News. We’re local.”
I squint at him briefly. He does look familiar. It doesn’t matter, though.
“Then you should know that I’m local,” I tell him, and jerk my thumb to the gates. “I live there and share a property line with the duke and duchess. I’m just a schoolteacher, for crying out loud.”
“So you admit it!” the blonde says, her appearance morphing into that of a cat about to pounce on a mouse. I’m quite obviously the mouse. “The duke and duchess live there!”
And now I’ve said too much.
“Uhhh,” I mumble, and then spin around, my back to them, changing my focus to Liza. I’m wondering if I dare keep going for my walk or just run back to the property like the coward I am.
But before I can make any panicked decisions, the automatic gates start to open and excited chatter begins to spread among the vultures. They forget me and start swarming toward the gate, just as a black SUV comes cruising down the driveway.
It goes through the gate, cameras recording its every move, and then the back door opens wide and Harrison is in the back seat, staring at me with his usual gruff expression.
“Get in,” he says, a total command.
I quickly glance down at Liza, who seems more in shock now than anything, and before anyone can get one more picture of us, I’m scooping her heavy weight into my arms and practically throwing her into the car.
I scramble inside after her, slamming the door as the vehicle pulls away, the cameras still recording.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Harrison says to me as I fiddle with my seat belt.
I pause. My eyes go wide, brows to the ceiling. Even Liza, who is crammed in between us, looks aghast.
