Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Maya: But OMG, we had so much fun, Em! We have to go dancing as soon as you get back.
Maya: Or maybe I’ll fly over and we can go dancing in London on New Year’s Eve!!! Doesn’t that sound amazing?!
Maya: God, life feels so…alive right now!
Maya: It’s probably the champagne. And I’ll probably regret it tomorrow. Or…today. Shit, I have to be up in five hours!
Maya: Okay, scrap calling me, just text when you’re awake. I’ll have my cell on silent so it won’t disturb my beauty sleep.
Maya: Love you, bye!
Maya: And congrats again!!!
“Congrats?” I mumble with a frown. “On what, you maniac?”
But I should know better than to expect clarity from drunk Maya. She rarely parties, but when she does, she hardy parties.
She really should have known better than to promise she’d go to church with her mom after a Saturday night on the town.
Sending her “no hangover” vibes across the ocean, I tap back to the main message screen, hoping my other texts will be more illuminating.
But the missive from my mother—“Oh, honey, can you believe this? What’s happening to the royals these days? Are they on drugs? You aren’t on drugs, are you, sweetheart? Have you met the prince? Is he well? Mentally? Text me when you wake up.”—only give me a slightly clearer picture.
“Something about the prince,” I murmur, keeping that in mind for googling purposes as I check to see what Isabelle’s had to say.
Isabelle: OMG I’M DYING!! This is so much more embarrassing than anything you and Oliver have done. Like, ten times more embarrassing. Maybe a hundred. Is that man okay?
Isabelle: Seriously, is he okay?
Isabelle: Have you met him?
Isabelle: I mean, you know I’ve always thought he was crazy hot. And he’s still hot, but that was…weird. He might be having some kind of breakdown. Should Oliver check on him, do you think? If they’re friends?
Isabelle: Are they friends? If so, I NEED YOU TO INTRODUCE ME, EMILY! ASAP. I mean, yes, I’m engaged, but I had SUCH a crush on him growing up.
Isabelle: Is it mortifying that I had posters of a man who’s distantly related to your boyfriend all over my bedroom as a teenager? Probably, right? Don’t tell Oliver, okay? Just in case. Anyway, I hope you’re having a great weekend! Call me when you get these. And good luck at the Fletchers’ pitch tomorrow!! I’ll be rooting for you.
I’m putting the pieces together—this must be about Prince Ronan, first in line to the throne, and my sister’s one and only childhood crush—when Oliver mumbles against my shoulder, “What’s up, buttercup? You’re tense.”
“I woke up to a bunch of texts and thought we were in trouble again,” I say, opening a search window and typing fast, “but it looks like…”
I trail off as the results load.
“Oh my,” I mutter, my eyes going wide. “Oh my God…”
“What? What’s happened?” Olly sits up, peeking over my shoulder at the screen. “Oh, fuck.” He chuckles as I scroll down a page of truly wild photos. “What the hell was Ronan smoking last night?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, clicking on another headline—PRINCE IN BEASTLY SCANDAL: Ronan’s Midnight Ride Shocks the Nation. “But it must have been something serious. Wait, it looks like there’s video.”
I roll over onto my back, holding the phone up so we can both watch.
The video is just grainy security footage, but it clearly shows the future king astride one of the Trafalgar Square lions at 2:54 AM. He’s singing what sounds like “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am,” wielding a kebab like a saber, and tossing chunks of meat at the security guard trying to bat him down with a traffic cone.
“Bloody hell,” Oliver says, squinting. “Is he naked?”
“No, I think he’s wearing underwear.” I narrow my eyes. “Or a diaper? Is that a diaper? God, why was he wearing a diaper?”
“No fucking clue. Christ.” Oliver runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up at even more ridiculous, adorable angles. “But I bet the Palace press office wishes they were wearing nappies right about now. They’ll be shitting their collective pants. What happened? Is there any explanation in the articles?”
“I don’t know. Let me look.” We scroll through article after article, of which there are many.
Every British news outlet has abandoned all other stories, and #LionKing is trending on social media worldwide. There are already memes, including one of Ronan’s face photoshopped onto Mufasa’s body, that makes me snort coffee through my nose once we’ve moved our research to the kitchen.
“Okay, finally a hint of a motive.” I tap my croissant to my screen as I read, “Palace sources suggest Prince Ronan was celebrating the English rugby win, when a night out with friends got ‘boyishly’ out of hand.”
Olly grunts. “Celebrating by riding a stone lion in a diaper?”