A Royal Shade of Blue (Modern Royals Series Book 1) Page 3

  “I feel the same way. I can say things to you that I can’t say to anyone else. But if you are worried about what you look like, just remember, I’m the one with the Droopy Dog eye!”

  I hear a pen click. “Got it. I’ll make a note to compare your eye to Droopy Dog.”

  I burst out laughing. “Hearing you say ‘Droopy Dog’ with your posh accent has been the highlight of my day.”

  He laughs again, that low-throated, sexy chuckle. “You’re easy to please.”

  Definitely swooning now.

  “If you think I’ve forgotten about your face, you’re wrong,” I remind him.

  “Perhaps since you like puzzles—”

  “Wait just a minute. I never said I liked puzzles. You just insist on making me do those anagrams, which I completely suck at, for the pub quiz question.”

  “I’ve got an idea for my face reveal.”

  “I feel like I’m talking to the Phantom of the Opera,” I wisecrack.

  “Shut up.”

  I laugh. “Okay, go on.”

  “No, you don’t deserve to know after that crack, Ace. I’ll text you details later. I do, however, ask for one thing.”

  He called me Ace.

  A huge smile spreads across my face. I like that he’s given me a nickname.

  “Of course.”

  “When you figure it out, I want you to call me. No matter what day or time it is. Promise me that.”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear to me, Clementine. Swear to me.”

  “I swear.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  I know he could be horribly disfigured, but in this moment, I don’t care. CP is a special guy. He gave me a lifeline today when my emotions threatened to drown me.

  I want to see him.

  I also know his face, no matter what he looks like, will never change our friendship.

  “I will, CP.”

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I also want you to call me from Phoenix. No matter what time. I know your family is suffocating you, and I promise I’m not adding to that. But I’m here for you, Clementine. I’m going to be here for you every step of the way.”

  Emotions overwhelm me. CP’s goodness is like nothing I’ve ever known in a man, outside of my father and brother-in-law. I know it’s rare to possess this kind of wisdom and maturity at his young age of twenty-three.

  “I would like that,” I say, my voice thick.

  “Well, good. ‘No’ wasn’t going to be an option for you, regardless.”

  I manage a small laugh. “Listen, you probably need to reheat your dinner by now, which I’m very sorry about, and I have to get back to the library before Chelsea thinks I’ve run off and abandoned her.”

  “Please, my dinner was frozen. It’s probably not even done in the middle, even though I followed the package directions.”

  I gasp. “Are you one of those people who read the directions and cook at the instructed power level and rotate at the exact right time?”

  “Well, yes.”

  I groan. “CP, I need to loosen you up. Live on the edge next time. Just nuke it.”

  “Fine. But I’ll be calling you if my dinner turns out burnt.”

  “Report back later,” I say, lightness filling me.

  “I shall. Oh, and Clementine?”

  “Yes?”

  “Look for a puzzle piece later tonight.”

  Chapter 3

  Puzzle Pieces

  I throw my dinner into the microwave, smiling as I punch in what seems like a good amount of time to heat a frozen chicken pot pie. CP Chadwick would be appalled at my recklessness.

  My mother, however, would be appalled that I’m eating a frozen pot pie and not a meal that is organic, freshly prepared, and full of superfoods to keep tumors at bay.

  I glance at my phone, willing it to ding with a notification. I still haven’t received my puzzle piece from CP, and I probably won’t since it’s two o’clock in the morning in the UK. I hope he didn’t change his mind. His intense need to keep shrouded makes me think he’s terrified of what I’ll think when I see his face, or body, or whatever he is so desperate to hide.

  I should send him a copy of Shrek, my favorite movie of all time. He’s kind of like my Shrek—at least he is in my head. Maybe he’s not good looking, but his depth, humor, and intelligence all shine through. Of course, with my red hair and light eyes, I can be Princess Fiona, especially if you throw in a bit of Droopy Dog.

  The door opens, and Bryn walks in, amazingly without Graham behind her like ninety-eight percent of the time.

  “Hey, how are you?” she asks, her brown eyes studying me.

  “I’m good,” I say. “Where’s Graham?”

  “He has a study group tonight,” she says, taking off her coat and tossing it onto the back of one of our kitchen chairs. She misses, and it slides down to the floor in a heap. She acts like she doesn’t see it and goes over to pet Bear, who has come to greet her, on the head. “Aren’t you a good boy?”

  Bryn has the uncanny ability to not care that she missed hanging up her coat. That coat will stay there until either she needs it or I can’t take it anymore and pick it up for her. The second option wins way too often, and I’m already getting twitchy looking at it on the floor, her gorgeous Kate Spade coat no doubt soaking up crumbs and Bear’s dog hair like a sponge.

  I can’t stand it. I pick it up, shaking the coat out and gently draping it over the back of the chair.

  Graham better have an excellent job or trust fund lined up, because if they get married, he’s going to need a live-in housekeeper.

  “What are you making?” Bryn asks, standing upright and wrinkling her nose.

  “You’ll love it,” I tease, going over to the coffee table and swiping the remote to navigate to our saved movies. I’m suddenly in the mood for Shrek. Or maybe Shrek II, when they go to Hollywood.

  “Oh, that means I’ll think it’s gross,” Bryn says, moving past me and into the kitchen. “It’s cheap and has meat chunks, doesn’t it?”

  I find the movie and hit play. “Why yes, yes it does.”

  “Ew,” she says, retrieving her pre-made Whole Foods meal. Bryn only eats Whole Foods meals, ones she carefully selects from the takeout section. While I have absolutely nothing against Whole Foods or eating well, she is missing out on a key experience of life.

  The bliss of frozen pot pies.

  And Chips Ahoy.

  The microwave beeps, and I grab an oven mitt to retrieve my tray. I take it out and wave it under Bryn’s nose. “You know you want some,” I tease.

  I watch as she practically turns green. “Um, no, I don’t. You can keep that nastiness, thank you, while I have salmon.”

  “Talk about gross. Fish. Bleurgh,” I say, sitting down at our kitchen table.

  “Fish is good for you,” Bryn says, taking off the lid and setting it inside the microwave. Then she furrows her brow. “Is that Shrek?”

  “Shrek Two,” I say, breaking my fork through the top crust of the pie. “Your food doesn’t have crust, the greatest thing ever,” I declare.

  “I swear you are five. Which is why I adore you,” she says, smiling affectionately at me.

  I feel love in my heart for my friend. Bryn was a surprise discovery for me. We met in FroSoCo, the Freshman Sophomore College residence halls, when we were assigned a room together. I assumed—incorrectly—she was your typical only-child, spoiled, rich girl. When she was moving in, it was one Louis Vuitton garment bag after another. Everything about her seemed classy and perfect, from her long, sleek jet-black hair and flawless makeup to her polished and buffed, expertly manicured nails. I thought I saw her looking at my room décor items with disdain, but now I realize I projected that onto her. She was quizzical, not judgmental.

  As soon as her parents left, Bryn turned to me, shot me an amazing smile, and asked if she could do my nails bec
ause she loved giving manicures and found it relaxing. I rolled with it, and she immediately quit organizing her lux tins of fancy teas on her shelf, leaving the half-empty box unpacked and tea accessories strewn across the bed, and grabbed her tackle box of manicure supplies.

  That’s when I knew I would like Bryn. She wasn’t perfect; she was messy. As she did my nails, she told me all about her life back in Boston and how her parents were livid she didn’t choose Harvard. She talked with excitement about how happy she was to be on her own in Palo Alto, and I related to that need to be out of the view of your parents.

  An hour later, after her telling me my cuticles were a hot mess and applying products I’ve never seen in my life, I was left with beautifully manicured nails, painted in Goldissima by Christian Louboutin—silly me, I thought he only made shoes—and a friend I’ll have the rest of my life.

  Bryn takes her fish out of the microwave and takes a seat next to me. I practice my willpower not to gag as she eats.

  “Where’s Chels?” she asks, breaking a piece of salmon off with her fork.

  “She’s at the library,” I say, “with Lars.”

  “Oh, the Swedish import,” Bryn says, grinning.

  Lars—I have no clue what his last name is because when he said it all I heard was Charlie Brown teacher-like speak—is from Sweden. They are “just friends,” but I think Chelsea would give anything for it to be more. But after three years of knowing each other, she still refuses to say anything about how she feels.

  “I wish she’d tell him she liked him,” I say, taking another bite of pot pie.

  Bryn chews thoughtfully for a moment. “Yes, but that could ruin a friendship if he doesn’t see her that way.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t the risk be worth taking? For a chance at love?”

  “But what if it makes everything weird and awkward for them? Is tossing a friendship aside for a chance at romance, one that probably wouldn’t work out due to logistics, worth it?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “No,” she counters at the same time.

  We both laugh.

  Buzz!

  My heart flutters as my phone goes off on the countertop in the kitchen. My reaction is dumb because it can’t possibly be CP. He’s asleep at his house in Cambridge. More than likely it’s Paisley with her daily Have you documented all your headaches today? text.

  Bleurgh.

  I get up and pick up my phone. I swipe it, and to my absolute delight, it’s a WhatsApp message from CP. I eagerly open it and find a picture of full lips and a chin, with the image put into the shape of a puzzle piece. I read his text attached to it:

  Ace, consider this reverse Humpty Dumpty. I’m giving you pieces of a picture of me. Now you see my lips and my chin. Let’s see if you can put me back together again.

  P.S. The rhyme is completely unintentional.

  I can’t lift my eyes from the picture. There’s nothing disfigured about his lips and chin—in fact, they’re beautiful. His lips are wonderfully full, and the chin is strong and masculine, with no shading of facial hair.

  “Why are you smiling like that?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You’re smiling while you’re reading your phone,” Bryn says. Then she arches an eyebrow. “Did you get a message from a boy?”

  I bite my lip. I haven’t shared CP with anyone yet. While our relationship makes sense to me, I know everyone else would freak out that I’m talking to some guy in the UK whose full first name I don’t know and whose image, outside of his hand, I have never seen.

  “A funny GIF,” I lie, as I’m not yet ready to explain.

  Much in the same way I don’t want to explain my medical past.

  I message him back:

  Mr. Chadwick, you need to go to bed. While it’s only six here, and I’m eating a delicious pot pie, you should be sleeping before you go to class in the morning.

  I hesitate before typing more. Should I tell him what I think of his lips? Is this dangerous territory? What if it creeps him out?

  But then I remember my thoughts on Chelsea’s situation. After years of being protected by my family, encouraged to take every precaution for my health and well-being, I decide the little, caged bird needs to fly a bit more. I finish my thought:

  Your lips are beautiful.

  Then I hit send.

  Within seconds, the “typing” word flashes, and I know he’s answering me. I begin pacing in the kitchen, wondering how he’s going to respond. Soon, I have my answer:

  Beautiful is the word I’d use to describe YOU, Clementine.

  Is it weird I feel tingly all over?

  Whatever. I don’t care. I like it, and I’m going to enjoy it.

  CP continues to type. Another message drops in:

  Enjoy your pot pie. I, myself, love a steak pie. Have you ever had one? That’s what I always order at the pub. As you are a declared carnivore, I’m certain you would like it. More on that later. I should get some sleep. So, goodnight, Ace. Sleep well. Obviously later, as I hope you aren’t going to bed before seven o’clock.

  I’m still smiling as one more message from CP comes through:

  P.S. Upon my exhaustive study of Droopy Dog, I see NO resemblance, unless cuteness counts.

  If it wouldn’t be so obvious, I swear I’d put my phone to my heart and let out a little squee.

  The door opens, and Chelsea slams it shut behind her, practically tearing it off the hinges.

  “Chels?” I ask, concerned.

  Her eyes are red and rimmed with tears.

  “L-Lars,” she says, choking on the words. “H-he asked out another Swedish girl!”

  She promptly bursts into tears.

  “Oh, Chels,” Bryn says, leaping up from her chair.

  Before Chelsea can say another word, we have her enveloped in a three-way hug. She clings to us and cries. Then, as if she realizes something, she breaks free of the embrace and shakes her head.

  “This is stupid,” she blurts out. “I mean, Clem, you have your results on Friday. That is what’s important; this is dumb!”

  I stare at her. How does she know about my test results?

  “Chels!” Bryn gasps.

  Chelsea’s hand flies to her mouth. “Shit! Oh, shit.”

  “Wait. You know I’m going to a doctor on Friday?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ears.

  She shifts her gaze to Bryn, who looks at me with fear in her eyes.

  “C,” she says, using her nickname for me, “don’t be mad. Your parents told me when we were in the dorm.”

  I’m shaking, stunned by the admission. “You … know? For years, you’ve known?”

  She exchanges another glance with Chelsea. “Yes. Your parents wanted us to know symptoms in case something started happening. They begged me not to tell you so you wouldn’t be upset.”

  “Well, I am!” I roar, my temper going off. “How dare they! I’m not a child. I’m freaking twenty-two years old. I have my own medical rights now, and I don’t want people looking at me like I might grow a tumor and drop dead!”

  “No, we don’t, and we never have,” Chelsea implores through her tears. “All of this was done out of great love for you.”

  I clench my jaw. “Everything is done out of love for me, but it’s killing me.”

  The room falls silent, except for Shrek blaring in the background. Bear comes up and sits next to me as if he knows I need him.

  “Did you tell them about my headaches?” I ask.

  “I did,” Chelsea says, taking responsibility. “I’m worried about you.”

  “So that is why Mom kept bugging me about how I felt until I told her.”

  Bryn nods.

  “We love you. You’re family. This was all done because we want you to be healthy and happy,” Chelsea says.

  “I know, I know, but this still hurts,” I say. “I need time to process. Come on, Bear.”

  I take Bear with me down the hall to the room I share with Chelsea and flop on my bed, hot
tears stinging my eyes as he jumps up and we both squeeze onto the small bed.

  They knew this whole time, I think, hurt filling me. How could they not tell me?

  The tears begin to fall. I hate deceptions. Probably because my parents sugarcoated my diagnosis all those years ago, leaving me confused and afraid of what was going on inside my body. I had a right to know the truth, and it was denied to me because they didn’t trust me to handle it. Not until I had to have surgery did I get an abridged version, leaving me terrified when I searched everything on Google.

  Despite my anger, I know they did all of this out of love. But that doesn’t make it right.

  I was given a second puzzle piece tonight with Chelsea’s admission, but only one piece was needed to solve this one. Bear begins licking my tears, and I entwine my fingers in his curly fur.

  I wish I could talk to CP.

  The thought is so normal and so natural it should frighten me, but it doesn’t. I know he would have some wise words to make me feel better, and then he’d find a way to make me laugh. I close my eyes, hearing his rich voice, the deep chuckle he has, and remember the full lips I saw in the picture he sent.

  Unlike the puzzle I put together tonight, I have a good feeling about the one I’m starting to put together of CP.

  All I hope is that he sends me another piece sooner rather than later.

  Chapter 4

  An Omission for the Greater Good

  I can’t sleep.

  I glance at the clock, which blinks back at me that it’s three fifteen in the morning. I want to roll over, but since Bear is taking up that side of the bed, I stay in place and stare at the glowing numbers on my clock that are taunting me that I have to get up in a few hours.

  Not helping matters is my headache, which I’m sure if I mention in the morning, my friends would contact my parents the second I walk out the door to go to class.

  I’m at war with myself over my discovery last night. I know they were doing it as a favor to my concerned parents, and over time, it became something they did out of love for me. But, dammit, when do I get to decide what is best for me? My health is my business. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, or be afraid that any time I feel like crap I have a tumor. Or cancer, or a month to live.