She twisted, making an outraged sound deep in her throat, and the boy quickly swept her upright. He bowed to the audience with a flourish, grinning. Nina couldn’t see through the blinding stage lights, but she heard cheers and delighted whistles from the onlookers.
Heart pounding, she stormed off the stage and out the exit doors to the hallway.
How dare he kiss her without warning, without permission—and kiss her in a way that made her feverish and tingly all over? It didn’t mean anything, of course. It was just that she hadn’t been kissed since that night in the gardens at Bellevue with Jeff, all those weeks ago, and she hadn’t realized quite how much her body craved human contact.
“Wait a second!” the boy called out, jogging to catch up with her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Nina tried to brush past him. She’d only taken a step before she was yanked abruptly backward.
“Seriously?” Nina stared down at the edge of his cashmere scarf, which had caught on the zipper of her tote bag. The fabric snapped taut between them like a leash.
“My apologies.” The boy was grinning again, that vibrant, dazzling grin. Clearly he found everything in life a source of deep amusement.
Nina was seized by an irrational urge to keep going and let his stupid scarf unravel in her wake. She took another step forward, forcing him to shuffle along next to her.
“As much as I love being dragged about like a fish on a line,” he drawled, “this is a bit much. Do you mind?” He gestured to her bag as if asking for permission to touch the zipper. Right, because he needed her go-ahead for that, but not a kiss?
“Are you serious?” Nina gave the scarf a frustrated yank, which only succeeded in fastening it further. “Why do you wear this thing, anyway? It’s too skinny to keep you warm. And it makes you look like a pretentious jerk.” Apparently her filter had dissolved up there onstage, along with her dignity.
He unwound the scarf from around his neck. “Maybe I am a pretentious jerk. And I have other ways of keeping warm,” he added with a wink.
Nina fumbled with the fabric and finally unhooked it from her bag. The scarf fluttered down, forcing her to catch it. “Here,” she said ungraciously, but he didn’t reach for it.
“Great job in that scene, by the way. You were amazing.”
She couldn’t take it anymore. “What made you think it was okay to kiss me like that?”
He lifted an eyebrow indolently. “Have we kissed? I usually remember kissing girls like you.”
“What?” she spluttered, pointing wildly back toward the door. “Just now, in the audition! You treated me like a human prop!”
He seemed genuinely puzzled. “You’re upset about the scene? That wasn’t me kissing you; that was Demetrius kissing Helena.” A light danced in the boy’s eyes as he added, “Trust me, Nina, when you and I kiss, it’ll be far better than a bit of improvisation.”
She wondered angrily how he knew her name, until she remembered the adhesive name tag on the front of her shirt. Somehow he’d gotten away with not putting one on, and she hated that it left her at a disadvantage.
“There is no when. There will be no kiss.” She spun on one heel and started back toward the exit, with faster steps this time.
He trotted to keep up. “You say that now, but we have weeks of rehearsals ahead of us.”
“I wasn’t actually trying out. I mean—I don’t expect to get a part.” Why was she telling him any of this? She shook her head, flustered. “I’m only here because my roommate is one of the producers, and she bullied me into showing up.”
“Really? I thought you were a great performer.”
A performer, Nina thought bitterly. It was an apt descriptor, in some ways. Hadn’t all her years at court taught her how to be false and artificial, to put on a show? After all, that was what the royal family did best—pretend that things were normal even when the world was falling apart around them.
“So you’re not a theater major?” the boy pressed. If only to stop thinking about the Washingtons, Nina answered.
“English major.”
“Of course.” He gave a knowing smile. “Let me guess, nineteenth-century fiction. You’re all cotillions and corsets and Heathcliff brooding on the moors.”
She said nothing, because his assessment was all too accurate.
“Look, you’re clearly upset. Can we talk about this more?” he went on. “Where are you headed? I’ll walk you.”
Her grip on her tote bag tightened. “That’s really not necessary.”
“It’s getting dark. You plan to walk across campus by yourself?”
“I do it all the time!” She shook her head, exasperated. “You can spare me the gentlemanly overtures, okay?”
He barked out a laugh. “I assure you, Nina, I’m no gentleman.”
Something in his tone gave her pause. “Sorry, have we met?” she asked bluntly. “Were you in my Brit Lit class last year?”
He studied her for a long, slow moment, and she shifted beneath the weight of his gaze. Then he let out a breath. “I’m James. I just started at King’s College this semester.”
“Well, goodbye, James.” Nina took a few steps past him, and this time he made no move to follow. Belatedly, she realized she was still holding his scarf, and gritted her teeth.
“This is yours,” she forced herself to say, turning around.
“Keep it. It looks better on you anyway. As I’m sure most things do,” James replied. She wondered if his flirtation was automatic, as reflexive to him as breathing. “And good luck with the audition—not that you need it.” He grinned. “You’re the type of actress that Old Bill wrote this part for.”
“Did you just call Shakespeare Old Bill?” Nina almost shouted, but James had disappeared back through the door to the stage wings.
She crumpled his expensive navy scarf into a ball and held it over the trash can—yet she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Not something so wonderfully soft. It felt like butter against her skin.
Nina stuffed it into her tote bag, then headed brusquely outside.
She wished she could tell Sam about this exchange. She wished she’d heard from Sam, but so far there had been nothing, not even an anonymous postcard.
Wherever her best friend had gone, Nina hoped she was okay.
Princess Samantha Martha Georgina Amphyllis of the House of Washington leaned out the side of the small fishing boat, trailing her fingers in the ocean.