Chapter 6
Somehow, I manage to get through my training session with Beverly without bursting into flames of humiliation. It only gets
worse when I realize the “servants’ quarters” Finn’s set me up in are my own private cottage. Yes, it’s teeny tiny, but it’s
adorable and has a small kitchen (fully stocked with food), a bed, and a bathroom. And it’s on the grounds of a castle, for
crying out loud. I can almost hear Finn saying, Who’s the rapscallion now?
I secured you a job and your own castle-dwelling cottage in less than twenty-four hours.
He’s laughing at me. He’s been laughing at me.
Now that I think about it, back at the pub his friends were literally laughing at me because I clearly had no idea who he was.
I will never recover from this. I can practically hear Gigi’s voice, screeching in horror and amusement at my total idiocy:
How can you recognize some random author on sight at a book festival and not know what the prince of England looks like, you
total weirdo?
I eschew sleep for staying up all night googling Finn. I need to know everything about him. I also need to find out the reasons why his friends have been tasked with keeping him out of trouble. As it turns out, those reasons are plentiful.
For his last birthday party, he leaked a story about a covert pool party. When the paparazzi showed up, he cannonballed into
the pool—naked—giving them a full monty shot and then effectively ruining most of their equipment with the subsequent splash.
And that’s just the start. For the past six months, the paparazzi and gleefully shocked public haven’t been able to get enough
of him. Only a small percentage of the photographs have been royal family–approved appearances. The rest of them are of Prince
Finneas clearly plastered out of his mind and/or making out with a random woman. He seemed to have a particularly wild phase
after a breakup. I cover my face with my hands, realizing how easily that could’ve been me at The High Road Pub.
His most recent antics involve him dressing up in full drag as his great-great-great-grandmother, the esteemed Queen Henrietta
II. The photos show him drunkenly vomiting into royal shrubbery.
I may not have known who he was, but my initial instincts about Finn were clearly correct: He is a walking red flag.
No wonder his friends seemed so stressed out at the pub when they needed to escape.
Someone must’ve spotted him and was ready to take a picture.
Oh god. I was sitting with him. I could’ve ended up in all the gossip accounts too.
I can’t start college this fall looking like a side piece for a royal party boy.
I roll onto my stomach and continue scrolling through photos of the handsome devil (emphasis on “devil”). One thing is still
bothering me. Knowing who he is and his reputation, I really can’t understand why he helped me. If he’s the no-good royal
playboy he appears to be, why get me the job? Why set me up in this cottage? Why be so nice to me only to get literally nothing
in return?
At some point, I manage to fall asleep, because I wake up to the sound of my alarm and the morning sun coming through the
lace curtains. It takes me a minute to figure out where I am. My brain is foggy as I attempt to put context clues together.
I look down at the small bed with the tartan quilt and pillows. I see a quaint breakfast nook a few feet away from me. When
I sit up and look out the window, there’s a castle.
Huh.
I obviously knew that none of this was a dream, but I did wonder. I have an excellent imagination, after all.
As I get dressed for my first day of work and make myself tea (I figure if I add enough milk and sugar, it might become palatable), I return to my original hypothesis: Finn is intrigued by me because I treat him like a civilian.
He’s probably also highly amused that I spent so much time with him without knowing who he is.
I burn with shame, recalling how his friends laughed when I asked his name; how the maids in the castle spied on us from around the pillars.
Bastard.
I chug my tea, needing the caffeine after my sleepless night, and finish getting ready, hoping word about the clueless American
hasn’t spread.
The gift shop is a quick five-minute walk through perfectly manicured grounds. I arrive, expecting to see Beverly behind the
counter. She was incredibly sweet and patient while training me yesterday. As it turns out, working a till is trickier when
you don’t have all the coin sizes and their corresponding values memorized. Instead of grandmotherly Beverly, I see a girl
who’s probably in her twenties. She’s got bright orange hair that’s shaved on the sides and styled up top. It’s not a look
many people could pull off, but she does.
“You must be the American,” she says, looking up.
“I am. I’m Hannah,” I say. Her Scottish brogue is so thick, it takes me a second to process what she’s saying.
“I’m Caro. Can I hug you?” She steps forward. “I’m gonna hug you. You’re the youngest person to work here in ages and I’m
so relieved not to be stuck with an ancient relic all summer, eh?”
We hug. Orange and cinnamon fill my nose. She smells like Christmas, which endears me to her even more.
“Okay, we don’t open for another hour, and we’re supposed to be doing all the prep work,” Caro says, releasing me.
She’s wearing a conservative button-up shirt and slacks that look out of place on her.
Something tells me that’s not how she dresses on her own time.
“But I came in early because everyone was talking about you in the group chat and I had to pick your brain and ask you, How did you not know Finn is Prince Finneas?” She laughs and it’s an adorable sound, despite it being at my expense. I redden.
“Who’s everyone and what are they saying?” I ask her, a little miserably.
“Oh, some of the house staff and the grounds crew and me—we all have a group chat on WhatsApp.” She pulls me in so I’m no
longer standing at the entrance of the store. “Anyone we like is invited to be on it. I’ll get you added.”
“Will they mind?” It’s my first day and I’m certain people must already sense how unqualified I am for this job.
“Are you jokin’?” She claps her hands, and I see nearly every finger has a ring on it. “You’re a right celebrity around here.
And if anyone gives you trouble, I’ll tell ’em off.”
Relief floods through me so potently, I nearly hug Caro again. I may have made a fool of myself, but I have one ally here.
That’s enough to get me through for now.
She leans forward on the counter. “Be honest. When did you finally figure it out?”
“That Finn is . . . ?”
Caro nods.
I gesture to our surroundings. “When I walked in here and saw his face on everything.”
Caro howls with laughter and slaps the counter.
I can’t help it. I cover my face and put my head on the counter. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re no eejit, you’re just a foreigner.” Caro pats my head. “Now, let’s go round the store and tell me what you remember
from Beverly training you yesterday.”
The rest of the day goes by quickly, thanks to a steady stream of customers. Caro kindly takes the register, since I’m still
getting a handle on what their money looks like. Instead, she puts me on wrapping up purchases and keeping the store tidy.
To my surprise, I enjoy the job—and Caro’s company. Seeing Finn’s face on notebooks, bells, shot glasses, commemorative plates,
key chains, et cetera, et cetera? That I’m not enjoying.
When five o’clock comes, Caro invites me to get dinner with her in town, but I’m drained. My adrenaline, which has been surging
for several days straight, is finally depleted. I’m glad my cottage came stocked with pantry staples because all I want to
do is make myself something to eat and go to sleep.
“Please invite me out again,” I tell her. “I’d really love to. I’m just—”
“Knackered?” she supplies.
“Maybe?” I say, which makes her laugh.
“It means you’re exhausted,” she says.
“Then, yes.” I give her a hug and thank her for all her help.
When we lock up and she heads to the parking lot, I decide I’m not ready to hide in my tiny cottage. Not just yet. I don’t
have the energy to go out—or any idea how to get into town—but I do have enough for an evening walk. I start off on the path
Finn led me down the day before by all the flower beds.
The summer sun is lowering, bit by bit, kissing each leaf and petal in the gardens. I inhale. I exhale. It’s true—I am knackered.
But my mind is running. I can’t stop thinking about Finn and what stories I’ve missed about him and if he’s known for helping
tourists get jobs. Giving in to the compulsion, I sit on the nearest bench and pull out my phone. I enter his name into Google,
scrolling past the articles I’ve already read.
“I knew it. You’re obsessed with me,” a voice says behind me.
I yell and throw my phone like it’s an exploding grenade.
“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” Finn says, sauntering over to retrieve my phone from a patch of bell heather.
He takes a look at the screen and mumbles things like, “Not my best angle . . . Ah, that’s a good one. . . . Well, now, that
one’s just not even a little bit true. . . .”
I stand up and march over to him, palm out. “Can I have my phone back, please?”
“You can, but only if you promise next time you need to ogle me, you’ll just ask.” He gives me a performative twirl.
We stare each other down. I can’t tell whether he’s daring me to kiss him or to laugh. I do neither and show him my middle
finger, which makes him laugh. I can’t help but experience a small victory.
“How was your first day?” he asks, lowering himself onto the bench I just vacated.
“Fine.” Even though I’m angry with him, I add, “Thanks again for the job.”
“You can stop thanking me,” he says. “Unless you want to thank me in a different way, in which case . . .” he trails off with a grin.
“I’ll pass.”
“You seem cross with me.”
“Only because you’re an ass.”
He looks surprised, then shrugs. “Not the first time I’ve been called that. Usually it’s pronounced ‘erse,’ or ‘arse,’ though.”
He puts up a hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for you to do your horrendous Scottish impersonation again.”
“With the exception of Caro, everyone in the castle is laughing behind my back,” I tell him, irritated that he’s trying to
charm me instead of apologizing.
“Why’s that?” he asks, wide-eyed with faux innocence.
“You know why.” I stand up and point at him. “You didn’t tell me who you are, which means I’m starting a new job with everyone
thinking I’m a complete moron.”
“I introduced myself within the first five minutes we met.”
“Saying ‘Hi, my name is Finn’ is not the same thing as introducing yourself and you know it, so stop being deliberately obtuse. Yesterday I was afraid we’d get
arrested for sneaking around the castle, and you live here.”
“Hold on,” he says, standing up. Unfortunately, he’s got at least a foot of height on me and it’s difficult to feel morally
superior when you have to stand on your tiptoes to make a point. “Night one at the pub, I tried to give you clues.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I mentioned that I’m supposed to stick to waltzes.”
“Be a little vaguer next time,” I say, aware I’m telling off a prince at his own castle and not really caring, because this
prince deserves it. “I was so honest with you. I told you things I haven’t told—”
I stop myself. Finn doesn’t need to know that he’s the only one I’ve ever admitted my plan about having Margaret MacIntyre
call me a writer to. He doesn’t need to know how vulnerable I was in that moment.
“I’m sorry,” Finn says. This time he seems to mean it.
I really am on my tiptoes, so I lower my feet along with the volume of my voice. Flashes of the photographs I’ve seen from
him over the years remind me that he’s had to deal with a totally different life than I have. One devoid of privacy. Still,
that doesn’t give him the right to make me look stupid.
“You should be sorry,” I say. “The very least you could’ve done is told me the second I got here.”
“You don’t have to forgive me right away,” he says, his voice suddenly wicked. He licks his lips. “But I’d love the opportunity to make it up to you.”
It doesn’t matter how hot he is, he is 100 percent a walking red flag. And now he’s an unrepentant one.
“Dream on, rapscallion,” I tell him, furious. “I would never hook up with you. I’m not even interested in being your friend at this point.” I turn to walk away.
“So you say, but I’m not the one doing the googling, Hannah,” he calls after me. “I barely even know that you’re from Milwaukee
and appeared in your local paper when you were eight years old for winning a poetry contest.”
Learning that he’s been spying on me on the internet too makes me smirk. But I keep walking. Because he absolutely is trouble,
and I have zero interest in becoming the conquest of someone who made me look like a fool.