I’d never admitted this, to myself or anyone else: I’d gone to see Callum deliberately, in a spasm of self-sabotage. I’d wanted to prove that I wasn’t cut out for happiness and that I’d always fuck things up. I was daring the universe to contradict me. And when Callum kissed me, of course it was a mistake but I’d allowed it, and maybe even encouraged him, because that’s what I did: I was Carter Ogden, misery magnet.

“You were scared,” said Edgar, “so you snogged your ex.”

“Snogged?”

“It means kissing,” he explained. “Just kissing.”

“But I shouldn’t have done it and I’m ashamed of myself, and I’ll never do it again. And if it’s any consolation, you’re a much better kisser.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.”

He was smiling, just a little. A vicious tease.

“But I’m warning you,” I said, “if you and I, if we decide to do—what you were talking about on TV, I’m going to be a total disaster. Your worst nightmare. Your country’s worst nightmare.”

I was still doing it. Throwing up roadblocks. Promoting handy bullet points of all the reasons for Edgar not to love me.

“And I will continue to be a tight-ass,” he countered. “And a control freak. And a huge royal pain.”

“With great hair.”

“There’s that.”

Three-quarters of a smile. A hint of the full fireworks. The trailer for the main attraction.

“But Carter, I think that, as always, you underestimate yourself. Because this job, being a royal—you’re a perfect fit.”

We were still a few yards apart. What was he babbling about? What ridiculous theory was he concocting? What easily refuted nice try?

“How am I a perfect fit?”

“Our life together, our public life, would be a series of events. Events that I’d like to see become more imaginative, more entertaining and more human.”

“Are we talking about more vomiting? Because I can do that.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I have some ideas,” I said, without meaning to. “About rebranding the royals. Apps. Collaborations with recording artists and designers. Maybe a video game. Playing The Palace.”

“But in this game, the king would always win, correct?”

“Dream on.”

What was happening here? Was Edgar making sense? Was he converting me to, God forbid, not just the feasibility of the two of us moving forward together, but of me—becoming a functioning, almost sane, valuable human being?

“But all of it,” he said, “the crowns and other people’s opinions and the protocol, we can figure that out. Because those things don’t really matter. But if they ever start to matter, if they threaten to overwhelm us, I pledge, from my soul—that I will always choose you. I will choose us.”

Don’t cry. Not yet. Queer up.