Chapter 8Amelia
Chapter 8
Amelia
My heart leaps, then immediately plummets to somewhere in the vicinity of my sneakers. The man bearing the rose looks nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing —like the photos Greg sent me. Instead of the chiseled jawline and tanned, muscular build I'd been expecting, I'm faced with someone who appears to be sweating profusely despite the pleasant evening temperature, with pasty skin, thinning hair and a gap-toothed smile.
“Is that him?” Maverick asks.
“I don't know,” I reply, even though I do.
Looking at the sweaty man clutching the rose, I get the distinct feeling I know exactly what's happening right before my eyes. I just don't want to believe it.
The man's eyes land on me and light up with recognition. He makes his way over, rose extended like a peace offering before the battle has even begun.
“Mia?” he asks.
I swallow hard and nod, vaguely aware of Maverick stiffening beside me. In this moment, I wish more than anything that I could summon the Royal Guard with a snap of my fingers. To do what, I’m not sure. Make Greg not have lied to me about his appearance for the last two months?
That would be a good start.
But I'm not Princess Amelia here. I'm just a naive girl who's been thoroughly catfished.
I blink at the man holding a red rose in front of me, an eager look on his face. “Greg?” I manage. My voice is so high-pitched nearby dogs must be cocking their ears.
He's got sandy brown hair and a pleasant looking smile as he gazes at me with eager eyes—eyes that are significantly deeper set and devoid of the dreamy quality of the man I thought I was talking with online—but that's where the similarity with the photograph I’ve cherished for months ends. The difference between him and his image is stark, and it cannot be explained by something as trite as bad lighting or a bad hair day.
“In the flesh,” he replies, his smile showing his lack of not one but two teeth.
I resist the urge to inform him that the “flesh” before me doesn't match the digital version I've spent months messaging.
Maverick hasn’t moved from my side, and I’m unexpectedly grateful for his looming presence. If there’s one thing royalty teaches you, it’s how to maintain composure in the face of disaster. I’ve smiled through state dinners with food poisoning and danced with dukes who stepped on my toes. I can certainly handle one disappointing date.
Can’t I?
“This is for you,” Greg says as he thrust the rose at me.
I take it automatically, years of protocol dictating that I accept gifts with practiced grace. A thorn immediately pricks my finger, and I drop the flower with a small yelp of surprise.
The rose tumbles to the floor in what feels like slow motion, and it’s hard not to feel like this is the perfect metaphor for my romantic hopes as they come crashing down around me.
Both Greg—or whatever his actual name is—and Maverick dive for it simultaneously, their hands colliding by the floor.
“I've got it.” Maverick’s tone makes it clear this is about more than just a fallen flower.
As they both straighten up, I lock eyes with Maverick, and a silent acknowledgment that everything he warned me about on the train was right
Which means everything I’d hoped for was wrong.
Greg, oblivious to our wordless exchange, smiles at me again, sweat visibly collecting on his upper lip.
“Shall we sit?” he asks, gesturing to a table. “I reserved a table by the window for us.”
“Yes, let’s,” I reply, my voice coming out as satisfyingly human once more.
What else can I do? I've come all this way for this meeting. The least I can do is see it through.
As Greg leads the way to a table overlooking the water, I feel Maverick’s hand briefly touch my elbow. I glance back to find his eyes filled with concern.
“I'll be right here,” he mouths.
For reasons I can't fully explain that simple promise feels like the most comforting thing I’ve heard all day.
“You look like your picture,” he says as we sit.
“True, but you don’t,” I say pointedly.
He has the good sense to look ashamed. “About that. I … err … I need to explain.”
Good. An explanation.
“I used an actor’s photo.”
“Really?” I deadpan.
“I’m sorry, but I thought someone as beautiful and amazing and incredible as you would never go for a guy like me if you saw what I really looked like.”
I think my heart just cracked.
“I’m sorry you felt the need to do that,” I reply, berating myself for being so shallow. It wasn’t Greg’s looks I was so attracted to. It was him , Greg and his clever mind and humor and humanity. The man who I sat up late messaging night after night while the rest of the palace slept, telling me all about his travels throughout the world, making wine in Napa Valley, New Zealand, and Chile.
So what if he looks different from the guy in the photo? So what if he’s perspiring so hard he needs to keep using a handkerchief to wipe his forehead? So what if he smells a little funky? It’s because he’s sweating so much, which must be because he’s so nervous to meet me and show his true face to me.
It’s rather sweet when you think about it.
I look up at him and he smiles at me, which prompts me to add that a perfect set of teeth aren’t necessary to win my love. Indeed, if there are teeth missing, even several, there’s nothing wrong with that. And who really needs front teeth, anyway? You don’t chew with your front teeth. They’re just for show.
So, instead of agreeing with Maverick that Greg isn’t who I was expecting to meet here tonight, I plaster on a smile and reply, “Thank you for your honesty.”
“Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” Greg asks, and he has such a puppy dog look in his eyes—like a bulldog, complete with the droopy jowls—I can’t help but do just that.
“Of course I can, Greg. It doesn't matter how you look.” Or how much you sweat. “I'm interested in the man you are inside. Not the chiseled jaw and six-pack in the photo.”
Although the chiseled jaw and six-pack were rather nice.
Stop it, Amelia!
“You know, I’ve long since admired this bar, and I thought it would be a special place to bring you.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead once more with his now limp handkerchief and stuffs it back into his pocket before he reaches the same hand across the white linen table cloth. “May I?” he asks.
I swallow. “Of course.”
As I place my own hand in his I try hard not to think about sweat. Instead, I put my efforts into hoping to feel the same surge of attraction I felt for him each time we messaged.
But all I can think is that his hand is hot and sticky, and as his skin touches mine, I have to work hard at resisting the urge to snap it away.
I’m sorry, but I do. I feel utterly terrible about it. I tell myself it's only sweat. Everyone sweats. Only some seem to sweat somewhat more profusely than others.
Perhaps I am that shallow after all?
I chance a look Maverick’s way, and, just as expected, he’s watching us closely, like a guard dog, awaiting the moment to pounce.
“Now that you’re here, I’d love to tell you more about the vineyard.”
“You would?”
“I don't suppose you've ever considered investing in one, have you?”
“In a vineyard?”
He nods his head quickly. “It's a unique opportunity,” he says, leaning toward me, and I can’t avoid catching his scent, although in this case “scent” is a euphemistic way of describing body odor.
Sorry, but it’s true
Greg stinks.
Anyone would if they’d sweated as much as him in the space of ten minutes. The man is quite possibly in danger of dehydrating completely at this rate.
“Mia?” he asks, and I realize I've not been following a word he's said.
“Sorry, Greg. Tell me about this vineyard.”
“It’s a small vineyard in the hills not far from here. The soil and climate are perfect to grow grenache grapes. All it needs is just €75,000 to secure our future together."
I blink at him. “You want me to invest in a vineyard?” I manage to squeak out, my voice mouselike.
His eyes light up with an intensity that makes me want to shrink into my black goth T-shirt. His eyes certainly don’t hold the warm, gentle gaze I'd fantasized about during our countless messages.
In fact, I would go so far as to say they’re calculating, almost predatory.
The look of someone who's finally spotted their mark.
“Not just any vineyard. Our vineyard,” he replies as he squeezes my hand. “You and me. Our future together. All I need is the money and we can be happy together.”
My heart plummets to the bar floor. I've spent months imagining this moment, dreaming of our perfect meeting, of finally connecting with him.
And all he wants is my money.
What an absolute idiot I've been.
I chance another look at Maverick. His eyes are still on us, his brows pulled into that worried look he seems to get.
I press my lips together. “I didn't plan on investing in anything, Greg. I just wanted to meet you.”
Greg's demeanor shifts faster than you can say “online scam.” He pulls his hand from mine, saying, “After everything we've shared, you're hesitating? Mia, all those nights talking about our dreams? Sharing parts of ourselves with another? Does that mean nothing to you?”
“I just think it makes sense to spend some time together first, before we do anything like invest money or anything like that.”
I'm saying the words but I'm not feeling them.
I think I already know everything I need to know about this man.
“Spend some time together first?” His voice rises, drawing attention from nearby tables. “Mia, we've been talking for months! What more do you need to know? Unless—" His eyes narrow, which is quite a feat, considering how small they were in the first place. “Unless you've been playing with my feelings this whole time.”
Yes, the pot has well and truly called the kettle black now.
But still, the accusation hits harder than it should, because in one way, he’s right. I have been playing a role. It’s just not the one he thinks. I've been the lady’s maid seeking romance, while he’s been... what? A conman with a collection of photos of a handsome actor.
The thought hits me in the solar plexus.
What a fool I’ve been.
Just as I'm working out quite how to respond, a woman approaches our table.
“Greg? Greg Smith?” she asks in Malveauxian, clutching a red rose in her hands.
The universe, it seems, can have a particularly cruel sense of humor.
What follows is a blur of accusations and revelations between Greg and the woman, but I barely hear them over the roaring in my ears. Two months of hope, of planning, of dreaming, has been shattered in this one horrifically enlightening evening.
I look up to see Maverick looming over us, his backpack over his shoulder and my suitcase in hand, and I can’t help but feel every inch of his impressive height.
“I believe this is an excellent time for us to leave,” he says.
“I couldn’t agree more.” I stand on shaky legs, grateful for his steadying arm. I've run away from my life as a princess only to end up here, fighting back tears, being duped by one man and rescued by another, a man I’ve only just met who’s shown more genuine concern for me in a handful of hours than Greg has in months of messages.
Maverick takes my hand in his and together, we head for the door.
“Wait a moment,” I say. I turn back to Greg and the woman. Placing my hand on the woman’s arm, I say, “It’s a scam. I’d run, if I were you.”
She looks at me as though I’ve told her the sky is green.
“No, really. I just met him here myself. All he wants is for you to invest in his winery.”
Her eyes widen at me. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm.
“Thank you,” she replies.
“You’re welcome.” I head back to Maverick and when I reach the entrance, I take one final look over my shoulder at Greg. He's so deep in conversation, trying to convince his next target that he’s not a con man, that he's barely noticed me leave.
Outside, the cool evening air does nothing to soothe the burning in my chest.
“Are you okay?” Maverick asks.
“I-I don’t know,” I reply, sniffing back my tears. They’re tears of shock and betrayal, and, if I'm completely honest, tears of relief.
Greg is not the man he presented himself to be online, and I’ve had a very lucky escape.
And then something unexpected happens. Maverick wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a bear hug. I melt into it, the sense of safety enveloping me in his strong arms.
“That was a crappy thing for him to do to you and I'm so sorry,” he says softly.
“Thank you for being here for me.”
He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Anytime,” he says, and something tells me I can rely on this man. Which is an odd thought to have after I just learned I’ve been led up a garden path by a con man.
“You okay?”
I shake my head. “He was my whole reason for coming here. I don't know what I'm going to do now.”
“You can do whatever you like. You had a lucky escape.”
I look up at him, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted by this whole thing. Escaping the palace, pretending to be someone I’m not, the goth costume, the duplicitous Greg.
It’s been a lot.
“Just maybe stay away from meeting men on the internet for a while,” he adds, and I let out a surprised laugh. Mixed with my tears, I sound like a gurgling drain.
“That’s good advice, Mav.”
“Shall we get out of here?”
“I think that’s a jolly good idea.”
As Maverick guides me away from the wreckage of my romantic dreams, at least this disaster has given me something new to add to my journal of princess rules.
Rule Number 1,250: A princess should never trust a man who seems too good to be true because chances are he sweats more than the royal horses during a summer parade, and his investment opportunities are about as real as my desire to spend a month meditating on the side of a mountain.