“Of course! Now that you’re dating our favorite future duke, I expect to see a lot more of you.” Margaret turned to Marshall, who bowed at the waist. He hadn’t worn the Hawaiian shirt after all, but was in a simple navy suit without a tie, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
Her aunt smiled at him, looping an arm through Sam’s. “Tell your mother I said hello, will you? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to show off my fabulous niece.”
When she’d led Sam a few yards away, Aunt Margaret lowered her voice. “Dare I ask how you’re doing?”
“You mean now that my relationship is more under the microscope than ever, thanks to Kelsey Brooke?”
“Your relationship was always going to be under the microscope, given who you and Marshall are. But Kelsey Brooke didn’t help things. I would have cut her from this premiere, the lying little snake, except she wasn’t important enough to be on the invite list to begin with.” Margaret sniffed. “Good luck to her, trying to get a role after that stunt. I’m telling every director in town to cut her from future auditions.”
Sam smiled. It was nice having Aunt Margaret in your corner.
A talk-show host veered determinedly in their direction. He clearly wanted to say something, ask a question about Marshall or offer Sam the chance to come on his morning show—but before he reached them, Aunt Margaret skewered him with a vicious stare. The host swallowed and turned away.
“Aside from that absurd interview, though, things with Marshall are good?”
“They are,” Sam replied, and her aunt smiled.
“I’m glad. You deserve a good fling, and Marshall certainly is gorgeous,” Margaret said appreciatively. “Promise me you’ll enjoy it, for as long as it lasts.”
A fling? “I really like Marshall,” Sam started to say.
“Of course you do.” There was something troubling about the dismissive way Aunt Margaret said it, as if she hadn’t even considered that their feelings might actually run deep.
As if their relationship were implausible or, worse, impossible.
* * *
The after-party at Margaret and Nate’s beach house in Malibu felt like an extension of the movie. The enormous yard was hung with netting and sailcloth, and the waitstaff all looked like extras in their vests or corsets. There were even cocktails colored the same deep blue as the pool, which—as far as Sam could tell—had real fish in it.
Sam had gotten separated from Marshall practically the moment they arrived. By now she’d talked with the new James Bond and the old James Bond, with the teenage pop star who’d been discovered through her viral videos, and with the heads of two rival studios, who made a point of ignoring each other. She had to hand it to Aunt Margaret: the Hollywood power players had all turned up for her premiere, even if the movie was as delightfully cliché as Sam had expected.
She wandered over to the railing at the edge of the terrace, which looked out over the ocean. The water sparkled in the sunlight, a few surfers dotted among the waves.
“Brought you something,” she heard Marshall say behind her.
He was holding a paper plate with two slices of pepperoni pizza. Real thick-crust pizza, the kind that left grease spots on napkins, not some gluten-free LA flatbread masquerading as pizza.
“I’ve never been so grateful to see cheese-soaked carbs,” she said eagerly. The appetizers at this party were total rabbit food, things like tuna tartare and cucumber slices with feta. “Where did you get this?”
“The valets ordered it. I bribed them to share a couple slices.” Marshall finished one and automatically passed Sam the crust.
“I can’t believe you don’t eat the crusts. They’re the best part of the pizza.”
“They’re really not,” Marshall said emphatically. “They’re just your favorite part, you weirdo.”
“They’re even better when you dip them in ranch dressing.”
He snorted. “You know, most Americans think you sit around eating foie gras. If they had any idea how delightfully simple your tastes are, they would love you for it.”
He’d said the word love, even if it wasn’t in the context of I love you. Sam couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face.
“By the way,” he went on, “can you come to dinner at my grandparents’ house next week, or are you busy with the conference?”
Marshall’s parents had been at the Napa house when she visited, and Sam had met Marshall’s grandfather years ago: as Duke of Orange, he was often in the capital on official business. But she’d only been to the Orange ducal mansion once before, at the Accession Day party earlier this spring. That was the night she’d realized her feelings for Marshall.
“I’d love to,” she told him.
Marshall grinned. “My grandmother is cooking—she insists on making everything herself for our family dinners—so you should eat before. Her food is always burned or oversalted. Or both.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It’s completely inedible,” he said happily. “But I’m glad you’re coming, Sam. This will be fun.”
Sam grinned as she started to reach for the pizza again, then paused. A young woman with dark hair was edging stealthily toward them. When she saw Sam looking at her, the girl squeaked, holding a hand to her chest.
“Oh my god, Your Royal Majesty! It’s such an honor!” She sank into the lowest curtsy Sam had ever seen, so deep that it was practically a yoga move. Sam tried not to laugh at how terribly the girl had bungled her title. These Hollywood types were so over-the-top.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you…” Sam trailed off expectantly, and the girl jumped to provide her name.
“Ashley,” she chirped. “Sorry, I know you two are, like, having a moment”—she nodded at the plate of half-eaten pizza, and Sam felt Marshall chuckling quietly next to her—“but I wanted to introduce myself, since I’ll be playing you.”
Sam stared, bewildered, as Ashley gestured toward a young man who’d come to stand next to her. He was unquestionably gorgeous, with deep brown skin and the hint of a beard. “R.J. will be playing you, of course, Your Grace,” Ashley added, turning to Marshall. “Isn’t he well cast?”
That was when Sam realized that Ashley looked a lot like her—just thinner and prettier, her hair a little longer and glossier, her arms a little more toned.
Ashley and R.J. were the Hollywood versions of Sam and Marshall.
Sam exchanged a glance with Marshall, who looked equally perplexed. “What’s the movie?”