king).
Reality check: I am not the only one dancing with said prince. There’s a group of us, including Arabella — looking like a fashion icon in a halter top that shows off her perfect skin and jeans seemingly made for her — swirling around together. Everyone moves pretty well — everyone that is except for me. I try to disguise my lack of dancing skill by smiling and nodding, hoping that enthusiasm will make up for the fact that I basically dance the way I did in seventh grade, feet shuffling side to side, every once in a while lifting my arms up and clapping when warranted.
“You like dancing?” Prince shouts. At least I think that’s what he says, could be you like prancing , Keena’s a man-see , or you look fantastic run away with me — this last one is a bit of stretch. I shake my head but smile and shrug. He mimes a drink to which I nod and give thumbs up.
We’ve (we=the group, not my royal and me) claimed a circular table at the back of Le Temps, the super-trendy club that Tobias (to whom I’ve yet to be formally introduced) apparently co-owns (thanks to turning eighteen and getting access to his enormous trust fund), which is the only reason the doormen let us in. That plus the fact that we showed up with a prince ( the prince?).
“So, Arabella tells me you’re here for a whole term?” the prince says and I can actually hear him.
“True — I’m studying at St. Paul’s and LADAM,” I say. Chit-chat with the British royalty. I can’t wait to report back to Hadley — Chris will be so jealous — he has a thing for the prince, even though he knows the guy is straight. “What about you?”
“Oh — I’m in my gap year, like Tobias.” I nod but don’t really know what he’s talking about. Sure, it could be his year working at the Gap, but I doubt they make that a requirement for the throne. “It’s like a year out — you know, travel, have fun, help people or whatever.”
“And will you?”
“All of the above,” he says and I swear I catch him looking at my cleavage — for which I have Keena to blame because she insisted I wear one of her mini shirts that have a gaping v-neck. But the peek is fleeting and then he’s back to interview pro. Unlike the typical American conversations, I’ve noticed that the Euros (and they are Euros, even if they’re not the silly mean ones I met through Lila Lawrence at Brown University) have better conversational skills. Note to self: master the art of small talk without making it seem small and boring.
“Hey — there you are, Love!” Flushed and out of breath, Arabella stands next to me. “I have someone I’d like you to meet — Tobias — Toby — this is Love Bukowski.”
And he’s just like his picture. Tall, blond, broad in all the right places and with a wickedly sexy grin. “Love — finally we meet in person. I feel as though I know you already.”
“Good to meet you, Toby,” I say and we shake hands. He slides in next to me. I am the turkey in a royal sandwich. I suddenly lose my inhibitions and drape my arms across the boys. Arabella leans in so her face is pressed in tight near Toby’s. “Look at me! I love this country!”
Then, two potentially disturbing events occur.
The first: while I’m still stuck between princey and Toby, I look down and notice I’m drastically close to spilling out of the top of my top. Rather than sexy cleavage I have a case of the Pam Anderson blues. I try to wiggle free in order to subtly fix my breastage, but before I do, a blast of bright lights temporarily blinds me.
“Oh shit!” Toby holds his hand out not in front of his own face, but in front of the prince’s. “Who let the paparazzi in?”
“Never mind,” the prince says. “It’s bound to happen sooner or later.”
“It’s okay, Toby,” Arabella says soothingly. He shrugs her off.
“I’m going to tell the doormen to be more careful.” Tobias takes a sip of Arabella’s water and then looks at me. “Sorry, darling,
Reality check: I am not the only one dancing with said prince. There’s a group of us, including Arabella — looking like a fashion icon in a halter top that shows off her perfect skin and jeans seemingly made for her — swirling around together. Everyone moves pretty well — everyone that is except for me. I try to disguise my lack of dancing skill by smiling and nodding, hoping that enthusiasm will make up for the fact that I basically dance the way I did in seventh grade, feet shuffling side to side, every once in a while lifting my arms up and clapping when warranted.
“You like dancing?” Prince shouts. At least I think that’s what he says, could be you like prancing , Keena’s a man-see , or you look fantastic run away with me — this last one is a bit of stretch. I shake my head but smile and shrug. He mimes a drink to which I nod and give thumbs up.
We’ve (we=the group, not my royal and me) claimed a circular table at the back of Le Temps, the super-trendy club that Tobias (to whom I’ve yet to be formally introduced) apparently co-owns (thanks to turning eighteen and getting access to his enormous trust fund), which is the only reason the doormen let us in. That plus the fact that we showed up with a prince ( the prince?).
“So, Arabella tells me you’re here for a whole term?” the prince says and I can actually hear him.
“True — I’m studying at St. Paul’s and LADAM,” I say. Chit-chat with the British royalty. I can’t wait to report back to Hadley — Chris will be so jealous — he has a thing for the prince, even though he knows the guy is straight. “What about you?”
“Oh — I’m in my gap year, like Tobias.” I nod but don’t really know what he’s talking about. Sure, it could be his year working at the Gap, but I doubt they make that a requirement for the throne. “It’s like a year out — you know, travel, have fun, help people or whatever.”
“And will you?”
“All of the above,” he says and I swear I catch him looking at my cleavage — for which I have Keena to blame because she insisted I wear one of her mini shirts that have a gaping v-neck. But the peek is fleeting and then he’s back to interview pro. Unlike the typical American conversations, I’ve noticed that the Euros (and they are Euros, even if they’re not the silly mean ones I met through Lila Lawrence at Brown University) have better conversational skills. Note to self: master the art of small talk without making it seem small and boring.
“Hey — there you are, Love!” Flushed and out of breath, Arabella stands next to me. “I have someone I’d like you to meet — Tobias — Toby — this is Love Bukowski.”
And he’s just like his picture. Tall, blond, broad in all the right places and with a wickedly sexy grin. “Love — finally we meet in person. I feel as though I know you already.”
“Good to meet you, Toby,” I say and we shake hands. He slides in next to me. I am the turkey in a royal sandwich. I suddenly lose my inhibitions and drape my arms across the boys. Arabella leans in so her face is pressed in tight near Toby’s. “Look at me! I love this country!”
Then, two potentially disturbing events occur.
The first: while I’m still stuck between princey and Toby, I look down and notice I’m drastically close to spilling out of the top of my top. Rather than sexy cleavage I have a case of the Pam Anderson blues. I try to wiggle free in order to subtly fix my breastage, but before I do, a blast of bright lights temporarily blinds me.
“Oh shit!” Toby holds his hand out not in front of his own face, but in front of the prince’s. “Who let the paparazzi in?”
“Never mind,” the prince says. “It’s bound to happen sooner or later.”
“It’s okay, Toby,” Arabella says soothingly. He shrugs her off.
“I’m going to tell the doormen to be more careful.” Tobias takes a sip of Arabella’s water and then looks at me. “Sorry, darling,
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