Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,37

a scowl, and she tosses the compass back to the floor, where it rattles against a bag of tent stakes. “I’ve gone shooting.”

“Do you see any guns here?” I sweep my hand over the supplies.

Sighing, Flora gets up from the floor, dusting her hands on the back of her skirt. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It isn’t as though we’re going to be in the wilderness all that long. They wouldn’t let us. The lawsuits if something happened to someone?” Snorting, she folds her arms over her chest. “This is all meant as a bit of show, a little ‘oh, look what an interesting and progressive school we are!’ they can put on the brochures alongside ‘chosen educational institution of royalty.’”

I look up at her. She’s standing by our door, her chin lifted, but there’s more than just her usual snobbishness at play here.

“That really bugs you, doesn’t it?” I ask. “Being part of the promo materials.”

“What?” She glances down at me, pursing her lips slightly.

“It’s just that’s the second time you’ve mentioned them using your family as an advertising thing,” I say, going back to counting out tent stakes. “So it’s clear that bugs, and I get it.”

Flora is still standing there with her arms crossed, but she’s watching me with a weird look now. “Nothing bugs me,” she finally says before turning back to her pile of gear, and I raise my eyebrows at her.

“Nothing?”

“Well, nothing save you at this moment, I suppose.”

Ah, okay, we’re back to the Flora I know and loathe. Shaking my head with a muttered “Whatever,” I go back to arranging my own things into piles. A tent, six stakes, two compasses, two thermoses—

“And even if I were ‘bugged,’ which I am not,” Flora suddenly says, “it isn’t as though there’s anything I could do about it. This is just . . . part of it.”

“What?” I ask. “Being a prop?”

Flora still isn’t looking at me, but her movements are jerky as she folds her own supplies. “Hardly a prop,” she says. “It’s simply that it’s irritating and slightly tacky to have people wanting you to be a walking advertisement simply because of your family. I happen to think I’m an interesting person with or without a crown on my head.”

Ah, so that’s it. It’s vanity. That’s actually a relief, because for a second there, I had been dangerously close to feeling a little sorry for Flora.

The horror.

“What are some interesting things about you that have nothing to do with being a princess?” I ask, and she looks up from her stuff, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Are you baiting me?”

It’s all I can do not to toss a tent stake at her. “No, I’m serious. Look, since we’re roommates and about to be partners on this whole Challenge deal, we might as well try to get to know each other better. So please, enlighten me on the Things That Make You Interesting that aren’t royal-related.”

For a long moment, I think Flora is just going to ignore me and go back to packing. Which might be for the best, really. But instead, she sits back on her heels, hands braced on her thighs, and says, “I’m an excellent shot.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Again with the gun talk? And okay, you can shoot clay pigeons or pheasants or . . . I don’t know, stags, whatever, but would you ever have the opportunity to do that if you weren’t royal?”

That perfect brow wrinkles again. “Well, I . . . I might have. And anyway, that was just the first thing that came to mind. I’m also very good at fashion. Knowing what goes with what, how colors can complement and contrast. Last year, I even predicted that floral would be big again, but not in the spring, in the autumn.”

She looks so pleased with herself that it feels mean to snort, but I really can’t help it. “Okay, so, again, would you have all this access to fashion and knowing what trends are going to hit if you didn’t also have access to a ton of fashion designers because, you know . . . royal?”

Flora mutters a very rude word under her breath before shaking her head and picking up a rain guard. “I don’t know why I even bother trying to impress you with my skills since you’re so determined to see the worst in me anyway.”

“Because literally all you’ve done is show me the worst,” I remind her. “You’re snobby, rude, and you