I ripped a page off my notebook, crumpled it up, and threw it at him.
“You always make me miss my PPOs, Killer,” he said, swatting it deftly. Then he cocked his head. “How are you handling all of this?”
“I’m getting by,” I said. “The paparazzi itself isn’t even that bad, honestly. It’s how much Nick hates it that makes it tough.”
Freddie drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s another reason I stopped by. I wanted to chat about him when I knew he wouldn’t be around.”
“I knew it.”
“Knickers is wound tighter than I’ve ever seen him,” Freddie said, leaning forward earnestly. “He’s got veins in his face that don’t exist in most humans, and they’re all bulging out at once. He’s got to get out of his own head. And he won’t listen to me about it at all.”
“He doesn’t listen to me much, either,” I said. “He’s not dismissive, but there are subjects where he doesn’t let me in, and I haven’t pushed.”
“Perhaps you should,” Freddie said. “He internalizes things more than anyone I know. I tease him about being so serious and duty-bound, but sometimes I worry that he forgets even poncey future kings are allowed to have feelings.”
“I said the same thing, once,” I said. Then I smiled affectionately at him as he rubbed his hair, so like his brother. “I’ve never seen you worried like this.”
“Don’t look at me all misty,” he said. “This isn’t entirely selfless. I’m also bored of him staying in all the time, so I want you to fix him, and then we can all go to Hell.”
I laughed. Hell was Tony’s latest enterprise, full of drinks laced with spicy peppers, music that only had the words hot, warm, or burn in the titles, open-flame light sources that I knew did not have the proper permits, and no air-conditioning. It was quite literally London’s hottest club.
“I can try to talk to him, but if I have to be patient then you probably do, too,” I told Freddie.
“It’s just that we were having such a good time,” Freddie said, leaning back and resting his feet on the table. “Knickers and I have always been close, but we never actually hung out together the way we have since you came along. It was nice. Like being real best mates.” He swallowed. “I miss my best mate.”
I reached over and squeezed his forearm. “For you, Your Highness, I’ll push him as hard as I can.”
Freddie gave me such a stunning smile that even my heterosexual male boss, whose turn it was in the rotation of people pretending they needed to walk by the room, gave an audible gasp as he passed. My phone rattled in my pocket, saving me from giving away that I’d heard him.
I pulled it out. “Lacey’s here,” I said, quickly texting her to find me in the meeting room. Everyone at G&S was knocking off soon so that maintenance could pretend to fix the climate control; Lacey and I had plans to get manicures (her idea). “Are you guys on this week, or off?”
Freddie pulled a face. “We’re mostly just friends, Bex.”
I cocked a skeptical brow.
“Not everything is about getting my kit off,” he insisted. “Only about sixty percent. Perhaps seventy.”
I chucked another paper ball at him.
“Fine. She’s been a very nice friend and I’m glad she’s back,” he said, swatting away my missile. “I like Lacey. I also like Tara and Naomi and Farthing—”
“I thought Farthing moved to Ireland.”
“That was Tuppence. Farthing is someone different entirely,” he said impatiently. “Do try and keep up.”
“Usain Bolt couldn’t keep up.”
“We’re consenting adults,” he said. “You can’t dangle that twin of yours in front of me and not expect me to jump.”
The conference room door burst open and Lacey sailed inside.
“Twice as many paparazzi today,” she said by way of greeting. “And three of them totally whistled at my oh my God, Bex. I hate that shirt. Is it polyester?”
“My loving sister, ladies and gentlemen,” I said.
“No gentlemen in here,” Freddie said, getting up to give Lacey a peck on the cheek.
“What are you doing here?” she asked delightedly, putting a hand on his arm and then rubbing it slightly. In her defense, once you touch Freddie’s bicep, it’s hard not to linger. “Are we still on for tonight?”
“Of course,” Freddie said. “I never offer a lady something I don’t deliver.”
Lacey giggled, then came over to me and stared very intently at a spot on my neck.
“It does look like a hickey,” she announced. “About an hour ago someone tweeted that they saw you in the elevator with one.”
“I had wondered,” Freddie said. “Doesn’t seem like Knickers’ style, though. I’ve always been afraid he was one of those rose-petals-on-the-bed sort of blokes.”
I clapped a hand over it. “It’s a curling iron burn!” I protested.
“I believe you. I know what you’re like with that thing,” Lacey said. “But no one else will think you were actually using a curling iron when they get a look at your hair today.”
“Ugh. They’re going to want a picture of my neck,” I said. “Any chance you can distract them, Fred?”
He shook his head, guiltily. “I might have blown off Prince Dick and pretended it was for a Navy thing, so…?”
I let out a sigh. “I’ll take the bullet,” I said, pulling my hair out of my ponytail to cover my burn.
“No. It’s all stringy. Put it back up,” Lacey ordered me. “We can stop in the bathroom and use real concealer on the fake hickey.” She sighed. “Too bad we can’t conceal your shirt. I thought I told you to run all new purchases past me.”
Freddie clapped his hands together. “Right, you two do your thing, and let’s see who gets to the flat faster,” he said. “Remember, when all else fails, just chuck it and run.”
He saluted and was off, exiting the conference room with a very loud, “The Crown thanks you for your service, Miss Porter. Barnes will be giddy with girlish glee.”
Lacey shook her head. “What a goofball,” she said affectionately.
“A goofball and a man-whore,” I said. “Which I say with love. For both of you.”
Lacey looped her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know what he’s like,” she said.
This made me feel better, until she followed it with, “I’m playing it cool, and it’s working. If you haven’t noticed, I’m the girl he keeps wanting to spend time with.” She sighed happily. “I have this weird feeling we’re both going to get our Prince Charmings.”
*
Lacey had been right: As soon as we exited the building, a sprawling group of at least twelve photographers, rather than my usual six, sprang to life with a new nosy aggression.
“Where’s the love bite, Bexy? We know you’ve got one!”
“Come on, girls, over ’ere, look ’ere.”
“Got a hickey from Nicky, eh?”
“Give us a smile—yes, Lacey, that’s right, I saw that, you love it.”
I nudged Lacey. “Head down,” I hissed.