Page 18 of The Unlikely Heir

I snort. Because she’s right, there’s not much diversity in age or race among the palace courtiers.

“We’ll be all right if we support each other,” she says quietly. “You know Nicholas and I have your back, right?”

I let out a shuddering breath. “Thanks. That’s good to know.”

That night, Amelia reinforces the concept by sending me a bunch of memes about sticking together. Her last one shows an innocent cat with the title. “We gotta stick together. So you scratch your back, and I’ll scratch your arm.”

At least my sister can make me laugh.

* * *

The next day, I wake up to yet another round ofSell Your Story about Callum to the Highest Bidder. This time it’s my old high-school teacher talking about me toThe Daily Beacon.

“Nice kid who always seemed to have his head in the clouds but then occasionally offered an insightful comment on an obscure topic that made you realize he actually had a functioning brain after all.”

Thanks, Mr. G. But at least it’s better than Brett McCallister—who I apparently went to kindergarten with—who gave an exclusive interview to theDaily Chronicledetailing the time I ate all the paste in kindergarten and then barfed it up all over everyone at nap time.

I don’t even remember Brett McCallister or the incident he’s describing, although I intensely dislike the smell of paste, so there’s a good chance his story is true.

Just as I finish the article, there’s a discreet knock on my bedroom door.

“Come in,” I say.

Herbert has a polite smile as he comes in holding a tray.

“Your breakfast, Your Royal Highness,” he says.

Yeah, the whole servant thing still freaks me out. Herbert has been assigned as my personal valet, which officially means he helps me get dressed, but he also does tasks like being my personal alarm clock and a potential lifesaver when I’m faced with cufflinks.

After I admitted that I’m not a morning person and normally skip breakfast, Herbert offered to bring me a tray of toast and coffee to start the day.

He sets the tray on the ornate bedside table next to my bed. It seems wrong to just sit and watch as Herbert pours me a cup of coffee.

“I can do it.” I lean forward to help, but unfortunately, I somehow pull the cup away so he ends up pouring a stream of coffee onto the tray.

Herbert’s face remains expressionless as he uses the stiffly starched napkin to mop up spilled coffee. Herbert has, so far, proven to be unflappable, which I think will be a very helpful trait when he’s working for me.

As Herbert leaves the room, blanketed in a thousand apologies from me and probably thinking about asking for hazard pay, I receive a message on my phone from Scott.

Hey, you up for a call?

Definitely.

The video call comes in, and I eagerly accept it.

Scott and Cliff are sitting together on Scott’s small patio, and for a second, I’m breathless with homesickness. I feel the pang so acutely that I swear I can smell the familiar scent of Scott’s barbecue grill.

I quickly calculate the time difference. It’s eight a.m. here, so it must be midnight there. Judging by their clothes, they’ve just returned from a night out.

How many times have I sat on that same patio with Scott and Cliff after a night out, bemoaning the state of my love life?

Back when my biggest problem was my failure to get a second date. Now, my biggest problem is protecting my family’s thousand-year legacy and the institution of the British monarchy.

Shit. I really hope I prove better at this task than I am at securing second dates.

“How are you?” Scott repeats the question he’s asked constantly in messages over the past few days.

“I’m okay.”