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Even though we have British parents, neither El nor I picked up the accent. Then Ellie went away to university in the UK and came back sounding like a character from Downton Abbey.
Before Ellie and Alexander happened, we didn’t even own nice china. Or a teapot for that matter. We made tea in mugs with water from the electric kettle. But I get it—once their oldest daughter started dating a prince, fancy china seemed like the least they could do.
My sister has always been one step away from having mice make dresses for her, but ever since she met Alexander, her Disney Princessness has been dialed up to eleven.
I had one stupid blog post about me, and it was making me feel like my skin didn’t fit right. What is it like to have thousands of those types of posts?
“Are we normal?” Dad asks, tugging at his ponytail. “That’s so disappointing.”
“I might say the wrong thing to the wrong person and cause an international incident. What if I screw up so badly that Scotland declares war on Florida? What then, El?”
(“That lady is totally getting you ready for the Hunger Games” had been Isabel’s reply.)
“All the polka dots in the world aren’t going to save you if you call an earl ‘my dude’ or make jokes about kilts.”
The music is still going, and now that they’re really into it—I realize now they’re not playing some traditional Scottish tune but a version of “Get Lucky,” which is . . . something—it’s really not bad. It’s kind of cool, actually, and I suddenly wonder if maybe I should pick up the bagpipes while I’m here. Now that would be a hobby to bring back to Florida.
Aren’t royals supposed to be all closed off and dead inside? Isn’t emotion embarrassingly common?
He’s tall, his entire upper body is so perfectly v-shaped that I think geese probably study him to get their flight formation just right, and he’s wearing a gray long-sleeved shirt and jeans that were clearly crafted just for him, possibly by nuns who’ve devoted themselves to the cause of making boys look as sinful as possible so the rest of us will know just how dangerous they are, and he’s . . .
I get a handshake instead of a hug, which is probably for the best as I think a hug with this boy might count as sexual contact. Still, his hand is warm and strong, and yeah, this is the same as third base with a regular boy.
Seriously, what sort of pheromones do these guys exude?
Seriously, how many cute boys can one farmhouse hold?
“I thought Flora was the only one who was a mess,” I add, still whispering. “Is she here?”
“It’s tradition,” she says. “The big silly hats. Haven’t you seen My Fair Lady?” “I have,” I tell her, moving over to the bed to poke at the thing she calls a “hat” but I think might actually be a papier-mâché rendering of the Loch Ness monster.
Instead, I’m wearing a Disney Villain hat and about to go watch a bunch of horses. With a bunch of cute guys.
“Is this the part where you tell me just to relax and be myself?” Turning to me, Ellie fidgets with the lace on her hat. “Relax, yes,” she says. “Definitely don’t be yourself, though. Just . . .”
This may still be the most horrible hat in all of creation, but at least I blend in. I’ve never seen such an assortment of headgear. There’s one girl wearing a concoction of blue, red, and green feathers on her head that makes me wonder if a parrot crash-landed in her hair.
“So I’m not going to be able to get up on the fence and sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ while waving six American flags and twirling a baton?” I snap my fingers. “Well, there’s today’s plans ruined.”
“Remember how you thought I was an evil seductress out to ensnare your innocent friend?” “I literally used none of those words,” he says, and I wave him off.
“Your hat is lovely,” I tell the woman, giving her my sweetest smile. “I’m sure Big Bird’s sacrifice was worth it.”
One of my favorite things about Scotland so far is that the unicorn is their national animal. You really can’t hate a country where that’s the case.
It’s summer, which means touristy season, so the streets are crowded, bagpipes competing with each other, and more guys dressed as Braveheart than should be allowed.
“Disappointing,” I reply. “Hardly any naked ladies, and only one chimpanzee.”
“I actually thought you might not be as big of a douche as you seemed, but you, my friend, are clearly the Earl of Summer’s Eve.”
A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.
Miles gets this massive black stallion because of course he does, and within just a few minutes, the two of us are in Holyrood Park behind the palace, riding on horses like people who just fell in love in a tampon commercial.
“To be fair, you’re an unmitigated ass about a lot of things,” I say, and Miles smiles at that, acknowledging it with a tilt of his head, which makes me laugh.
He has pretty hands, long-fingered and elegant, probably perfect for pointing imperiously at things.
“Oh my god, please tell me you have called her ‘ol’ Glynn’ to her face.” “I have not, as I enjoy having my tongue actually in my mouth and not mounted to her wall.”
“Is dickish a word?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and I glare at him. “It is where you’re concerned.”
“I’ve been the worst big sister ever. I’m very aware of that.” “I saw a thing on the true crime channel about a girl who tried to kill her younger sister with a blender,” I tell her, shrugging. “You have competition, is my point.”
