A Princess for Christmas - Jenny Holiday Page 0,20

carried away. I studied engineering at university.”

A princess and a brainiac. It figured. “Where was that?”

“Oxford.”

Of course.

“Did you attend an institution of higher learning or undertake any postsecondary studies?”

He swallowed a chuckle. The formal way she sometimes spoke tickled him. “Nope.”

That was another lie. He’d spent four years working toward a bachelor’s degree in architecture at the City College of New York—which he’d chosen over the other, more prestigious colleges with architecture programs in the city because it was much cheaper. He’d only been going part-time, though, so when the accident happened, he only had two years’ worth of actual credit. He couldn’t see his way through to sticking with it. He had student loans already, which was one thing when it was just him, but he couldn’t have a negative income and keep a roof over Gabby’s head.

Maybe someday he’d be able to return, although at twenty-five he already felt too old to be an undergrad.

Anyway, it wasn’t like he’d been very good at it to begin with. He’d been holding on by his fingernails, his status as the first Ricci ever to attend college the only thing keeping him going some days.

He didn’t want to get into it with Princess Smartypants, though. Especially with the audience in the back seat. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t need anyone’s pity.

Leo deflected Marie from talk of “institutions of higher learning” by pointing out a few landmarks along the way to her first appointment.

“I wish I had time to do all the New York things,” she said with a hint of wistfulness. “Eat all the New York food.”

When he pulled up in front of the watch shop, and the backseat passengers unbuckled their seat belts, the princess’s battle with the butler resumed. “I’m going in alone.”

“But Your Royal Highness—”

“If you come in with me, it looks like I need a babysitter.” Mr. Benz started to say something—Leo was pretty sure he was poised to argue that she did, in fact, need a babysitter—but she held up a hand. “Is that the message we want to send about me in my role as the business representative of the Morneau brand? And do I have to remind you that right now, that’s what I am?”

“Why don’t you text me five minutes before you want us to pick you up?” Leo said, suddenly wanting to help her cause. He leaned over her lap to open her door for her. He would have gone around to help her out as a proper chauffeur should—he was probably scandalizing her butler—but he reasoned that would just give Tweedledum and Tweedledee time to get out, too. He made a little “hurry up” motion only Marie could see.

The dimples came out, and she was out of the car before the butler could issue another objection.

So was the bodyguard, though. Damn. But he could hear him assuring Marie that he was going to stand outside the store.

Well. Leo had done his best. He hit the gas.

“Where on earth are we going?” Mr. Benz asked.

“We’re going to get the princess a bagel.”

The morning started well enough, despite the fact that Marie hadn’t managed to elude Torkel and Mr. Benz. In retrospect, she’d won their early-morning argument regarding her chaperonage way too easily. She’d been naïve to think they would simply let her drive away with Leo.

Still, once she had Mr. Benz settled down, she’d enjoyed talking with Leo. And she was on familiar ground today. Work was a lot more comfortable for her than parties. When she called on a store owner as a representative of the Morneau line, they had an automatic topic of conversation. There was a social aspect to these calls, of course, but their primary purpose was business. It was important, her father believed, for the family to make occasional appearances in the shops of their retailers. He used to do it himself. Before he became the sad king and stopped doing anything besides peevishly issuing orders.

Marie was also happy to be alone in the shops. While it was true she’d never done these kinds of calls before—her father had still been doing his job last time there’d been a New York trip—she knew the Morneau line inside and out. Literally: she could pop one of those suckers open and talk crowns and mainsprings. Or if the retailer wanted to discuss marketing, or demand forecasting, she was well versed in those areas, too.

Having Mr. Benz, or worse, Torkel, hovering called attention to the princess part of