I stood in the amphitheater’s wide center aisle and faced the stage. Everything looked good: symmetrical, dust-free and inviting. I shut my eyes and spoke Cassandra’s Gratitude Prayer, which she stipulated I recite aloud, because “otherwise the universal hive-sensors will know you’re cheating.” But I kept the volume at a respectable level to avoid security guards rushing in and asking, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

“I am thankful for the freshness of the forsythia and the on-time delivery of all products and services. I salute the impact and grace of this event, and I bring an intersectional awareness to this day, along with providing flattering side lighting, basic but attractive stemware and effective signage. I am blessed and I bless in return.”

I clapped my hands briskly three times over my head, offered three joyful shouts, and tried not to kill myself as I heard, in a distinctly English accent, “Are you all right?”

CHAPTER 4

I was looking into eyes that were so radiantly blue I either wanted to faint or yell, “Just stop it!”

The eyes belonged to Prince Edgar. The Prince of Wales. The guy who was next in line to the throne. The guy who, fine, I’ll admit it, I had Googled using the search terms “Prince Edgar Shirtless,” “Prince Edgar Beach” and “Prince Edgar Naked” (these last photos didn’t exist, but there were some amazingly undetectable fakes). The guy who made me feel like, well, a cartoon rodent or snail, especially right this second, with my hair drooping and possible sweat stains from climbing ladders and moving furniture and my shirt half-untucked but not in that casually stylish way I usually copied from Callum. And I was looking directly at Prince Edgar from only a few feet away. I wasn’t just a deer in headlights; I was that deer if it had also been struck by lightning while holding an ungrounded extension cord.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise anyone was here. I was going to practice my speech.”

I tried desperately to remember any shred of royal protocol: should I bow, nod, curtsy or helplessly scream, “I’m an American!” to justify my ignorance. Shockingly, the prince offered his hand. Like a human being.

“Edgar.”

Now I wanted to not just slap him but then say, “No, just no. You don’t get to look like that and be who you are and also be nice. No way.”

But I didn’t do or say anything because I was paralyzed with Celebrity Terror, galloping insecurity, a tsunami of lust and total brain freeze. I might very well never move again, and my rigid body would be stored in my parents’ finished basement, or stationed at the end of their driveway, with a mailbox nailed to my chest.