Royal Summer

Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an American girl spending the summer in the UK must be in want of romance.

Not this girl, though.

It’s something I keep trying to impress on the strangers who chat me up in the airport and on the plane.

“Ohhh,” a woman holding a sleeping baby says to me at the terminal. “You’re spending the entire summer in Edinburgh? That’s amazing.

You’ll have so many adventures there.” And by “adventures,” it’s clear she means flings.

“I’ll actually be too busy with work,” I reply. When her face falls, I add, “But I’m still excited!”

And I am. So excited. I’ve also been awake for far too long. Sleep? I don’t know her. It’s amazing what a little caffeine

and a lot of adrenaline will do to combat jet lag.

My flight to Edinburgh from Milwaukee (by way of Chicago) is an overnight and I have the red eyes to prove it. I power through customs and figure out the tram situation by reminding myself that I’m here to not only meet, but work for, my hero, Margaret MacIntyre.

Hey, I want to tell my fellow small talkers. I don’t need your adventure or your romance. Not when I have one of the greatest living novelists of our time. But people don’t generally appreciate this attitude. My own parents think I’m deranged. They offered to come along with me

so we could do touristy things together. Thankfully I sidestepped that potential for disaster by telling them I really need

to focus on work this summer.

Unfortunately, there was a mix-up when booking my flight here, which means I’m arriving with only a couple of hours to spare

before I meet Margaret MacIntyre for the first time. It’s fine. I’m fine. I work great under pressure. Including the pressure

to get from the airport to the flat I’ll be living in this summer, arranged for me by Margaret’s former assistant.

It’s fine. I am fine.

At least I am until I get on the tram and activate my new international SIM card and I see that I have three missed calls

and twelve new texts. All from the same two numbers. Two numbers I should block.

My thumb hovers, ready to do just that. Instead, I send my parents a quick text telling them I’ve arrived and all is well.

Then I slip my phone away to take in my first views of Scotland.

The sky is gray, but not in a gloomy, I-want-to-stay-inside-and-succumb-to-ennui way.

Rather, it feels like I’m a heroine in a gothic novel.

I imagine myself walking the moors clad in a long dress that gets swept up in the wind, while a tortured yet gorgeous man watches me with longing.

I may have been reading Wuthering Heights on the plane. And when I wasn’t doing that, I may have been watching Pride knitted sweaters beckon from another. As tempting as it is to drop my bags and spend all the money I have

yet to earn, I stay focused and finally reach a corner restaurant with rich burgundy trim and gold lettering that says The

High Road Pub. I look at the address on the little white sign stuck to the stone exterior. Then I consult the instructions

with the address of my flat. I imagine myself making a bed out of tables sticky from beer and check the address again.

An elderly man with twinkling eyes comes outside to wipe down tables and rearrange salt and pepper shakers and small bottles of vinegar.

“You look lost, lass,” he says.

“I feel pretty lost,” I admit. “I’m supposed to be staying here this summer, but—”

“Ah, Hannah Grant, you’ve arrived. Shame you’re seeing Edinburgh for the first time on such a dreary day.” He beams at me

before shouting through the open pub door, “Eileen, our new lodger is here.”

A woman with short gray hair wearing an apron comes out and claps her hands together. “You must be Hannah,” she says warmly.

I extend a hand to shake hers. “I am. Thanks so much for having me.”

“This is my wife, Eileen,” the man says in an accent so thick I find myself leaning toward him to catch every word, “and I’m

William, but you can call me Bill.”

Eileen leads me to the back of the bustling pub, where she pushes aside a curtain, revealing a stairway that leads to a back

door and second floor.

“This is all locked up and secure, love, no minding that. This here’s your key.

If the pub’s closed, use this back door.

You can also use it if you want to avoid all those steamboated eejits in there,” she says, handing me a comically large key chain that says “There’s nae place like hame.

” “William and I are down the hall in our own wing. You’ll have a bedroom and a WC all to yourself.

The view out your window is to the back alley, but if you squint, you’ll see some trees in the distance.

Behind that is the Palace of Holyroodhouse. ”

She unlocks a door and ushers me inside my home for the summer. The walls are papered with white and blue flowers. It’s worn,

but cheerful. My bed is a single, with a white duvet. There’s a nightstand, an armoire, and a small desk. Through an open

door, I can see a toilet, pedestal sink, and a shower.

“This is perfect,” I say. And it truly is. Because it’s not just cheerful, it’s all mine.

This is so different from my house back in Wisconsin, crammed full of miscellaneous furniture and knickknacks. My parents

love nothing more than souvenirs. They’re singlehandedly keeping the snow globe and mug industries alive in the US. This may

be sparse, but it’s homey, and I like the change.

“I’ll leave you to get unpacked, dear. Dinnae hesitate to call out if you need anything,” Eileen says. “We’re so happy to

have you.”

I put my backpack on the bed and catch a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand. Oh god, how could I have lost track of the

time?!

“I’m supposed to be at Margaret MacIntyre’s in an hour and a half,” I say, unable to keep my voice from sounding frantic. “Can you tell me how to get there? How long will it take?”

Eileen gives me a reassuring pat. “It’s close, no worries there. Bill’s got to deliver her early dinner anyway. He’ll drop

you off.” She closes the door behind her and I’m alone.

I’m alone. In another country. About to become an assistant to my hero.

I use my nervous energy to unpack my things and take a quick shower without wetting my hair.

Unfortunately, when I look in the mirror, my reflection doesn’t scream “serious literary protégé.” I put on the reading glasses

I barely need and a cardigan to look more academic.

I’m not ashamed to say I am fully desperate for Margaret MacIntyre to like me. I’ve been watching and reading every interview

she’s ever given, trying to determine which parts of my personality to accentuate and which to hide. I’ve learned the hard

way that my sense of humor isn’t for everyone. My cousin Willa once compared me to black licorice—A lot of people can’t stand it. But the people who do love it are obsessed.

Kind of a weird thing to say to a twelve-year-old, now that I think about it.

But Margaret writes prickly heroines that still manage to be endearing, so I’m hoping she’ll see the best in me too.

I lock my door behind me, trot down the stairs, and look for Bill.

I spot him in the middle of a sea of people all wearing the same jersey, all singing a song that’s unintelligible to my American ears but sounds fun.

I stretch my hand above me in an attempt to get his attention.

Unfortunately, my five-foot-nothing frame doesn’t do me any favors.

“Sorry, love,” Eileen says, thrusting a heavy, foil-covered platter into my hands. “These bampots just showed up and they’re

thirsty. You’ll have to take the bus instead. The thirty-five bus stops right out front. Maggie’s house is only four stops

down. Look for the green door. Trust me, you can’t miss it.”

“Oh, okay, that’s . . .” I adjust the messenger bag I bought specifically for this job so I can carry what I assume is Margaret

MacIntyre’s early dinner. I go over the directions Eileen has just given me again. “Four stops on the bus and the—”

“Aye, the green door,” she says, ushering me through the pub, which is getting busier by the minute.

As I wait for the bus, praying I don’t mess up and get myself fired, I calm myself by thinking back to when I first fell in

love with Margaret’s writing.

I was thirteen and had read pretty much everything in the school library’s fiction section. While sitting at a table, reading

The Hunger Games for the tenth time, my favorite librarian handed me a slip of paper with a list of titles written on it.

I think you’re ready to meet Margaret MacIntyre, she said with a smile. You’ll have to ask your parents to buy her books or pick them up at the public library since we only stock middle grade and YA here, but she’s my favorite author. She changed my life. Something tells me she’ll change yours.

The librarian was right—Margaret MacIntyre’s books cast a spell over me.

It isn’t just that her prose is poetic yet accessible. It isn’t that her characters are so fleshed out, you forget they’re

fictional. It’s that reading her books makes you feel seen, from the surface to the depth of your soul—the parts you’re afraid

to show people, the parts you’re afraid make you unlovable.

I started writing fiction the day I finished my first MacIntyre book. A few years later, I read an interview where she said,

“I knew I was a writer the day a writer I revered told me I was one.”

From then on, I had very specific goals:

To meet Margaret MacIntyre

To hear her say, “You’re a writer.”

To get my degree in Creative Writing

To publish a novel

To keep publishing novels until I die

The bus pulls up and I get on, then freeze when I realize I left my cash in my backpack back at the pub.

I’m not sure if Apple Pay works here, and I can’t google to check since my hands are wrapped around the food I’m delivering.

I lurch to the side and barely manage to keep my balance.

“I’m sorry, I . . . I’ll just.” Just what? Offer the driver Margaret’s dinner?

“American,” the driver mutters under his breath. “Where are ya heading?”

“Um, four stops? I don’t know the street name.” That’s when I spot the contactless payment reader. I can use my phone. Theoretically.

But there’s no way for me to pull it out of my back pocket while holding the platter, and I can’t risk spilling that all over

the bus. Clenching my teeth with embarrassment, I tilt my hip toward the reader and pray that it’ll scan through my jeans.

It doesn’t, of course. I try again, this time making full contact with the scanner.

The bus driver shakes his head and sighs. “Just take a seat.” The subtext is clear: Please stop rubbing your butt against

the equipment.

I thank him profusely and, face burning, take a seat close to the front so I don’t have to look at the other passengers who

just watched a weird American girl try to twerk against the card reader. Just four stops, I tell myself, eyes fixed on the screen that lists the stop names. After the third stop, I balance the tray in my lap, press

the red button on the pole next to me, and when the bus pulls up to the curb, do my best to exit in a dignified manner.

Once I’m on the sidewalk, I take a deep breath.

Okay, time for a fresh start. Everything is going to be fine.

I make my way down a quiet street lined with buildings made of sandstone and limestone, in search of a green door.

It takes me no time to find it and I immediately understand why Eileen said I can’t miss it.

The buildings, all connected, have the same white-ish rectangular front doors with the same semicircle window overtop. All, except for one.

Just when I thought I couldn’t admire her more, Margaret MacIntyre’s house features a gothic door the color of jade. Even

better? There are adorable Highland cow faces made of brass and the knockers are brass rings through the cows’ noses. Balancing

the tray with one hand, I knock, hoping whatever I’m carrying is still cold or hot or whatever it’s supposed to be.

The door swings open and I am face-to-face with the person who changed my life.

“Margaret MacIntyre,” I say, in complete shock. The tray slips from my hands and lands on her front step with a clatter. My now-empty hands fly to my mouth.

But Margaret MacIntyre opens her arms and says, “You must be my assistant all the way from America.”

I open my arms too and I am hugging one of the greatest modern novelists of my time. Of all time.

“I’m so sorry about your dinner,” I tell her, my cheek tickled by her wiry black hair. I stoop to pick up the tray.

“Now my potatoes are mashed and smashed,” she says with a laugh that could light up the dreary sky. She pulls back and takes a look at me. “Well, Hannah Grant, I hope you’re ready to work.”

“I’m ready,” I promise, already certain this is going to be the greatest summer of my entire life.