Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,49

but a few strands have escaped to curl around her face in the humidity of the laundry room. Little beads of sweat dot her forehead, too, but it strikes me that even down here, in the cellar, doing literal drudgery, there’s no mistaking Flora for anything but a princess.

“No one likes a smart-arse, Quint,” she says, but there’s a little smile curling there at the corner of her lips.

And maybe I smile back a little bit even as I say, “You know, this habit of calling me by my last name makes me sound like your servant.”

Flora hoots at that, slamming the dryer shut and twisting the dials on top. “Oh god, what a rubbish servant you’d make,” she says as the dryer begins to rumble and shake. “You’d probably spill tea on me just for your own twisted pleasure.”

I grin now, making my way over to the long low table in the middle of the room, where baskets of scratchy towels wait to be folded. “Actually, when I’m done with school here, I might apply for the job. Just commit myself to a lifelong scheme of revenge against you for what happened during the Challenge.”

I’m joking, but Flora’s smile dims a little as she comes to join me at the table. When she reaches out to pick up a towel, I notice that her manicure is chipped, two nails ragged like she’s been chewing on them.

Princess Flora, a nail biter? Who would’ve guessed?

“I am sorry about that,” she says at last, then looks over at me. “Truly.”

Clearing my throat, I shrug. I don’t like a sincere Flora. A flighty, pain-in-the-ass Flora is so much easier to deal with. “I know you are,” I say. “And we obviously didn’t die, so that’s a bonus.”

“We perhaps died, because this certainly feels like hell, or, at the very least, purgatory,” Flora counters, trying to fold a towel. Mostly she’s just balling it up, and with a sigh, I take it out of her hands.

“You might have a point, since ‘Teach a Princess How to Do Laundry’ absolutely feels like some kind of punishment from the gods.”

Flora rolls her eyes. “Oh, poor put-upon Quint,” she says, and I hold up one finger.

“No, we’re going to do this right. Observe.”

I pick up the towel, shaking it out and holding it by two corners. “First things first—we hold the towel like this. Then we bring these two corners together.”

I show her, and she picks up another towel, mimicking my movements. I have no idea if she actually doesn’t know how to fold a towel, or if she’s just going along with this because it’s a fun distraction from laundry, but in any case, she dutifully goes through the same motions I do until we both have a little square of towel in front of us on the table.

“Et voilà,” I say with a flourish, then grab another towel off the pile and toss it to her. “Now let’s see if the student has learned.”

Cutting me a look, Flora picks up another towel, snapping it out in front of her. “It’s hardly rocket science, Quint.”

She then proceeds to completely bungle folding the towel. Like, I can’t even describe what she does because it defies all laws of god and man, and also towels, and I laugh, shaking my head and walking over to her.

“Oh my god, Your Royal Highness,” I tease. “You are a royal disaster.”

Reaching around her, I pick up the towel, placing it back in her hands. Then, standing behind her, I go to guide her arms in the right movements.

“Corners together,” I say again, bringing her hands together with my own.

Only then do I realize just how close I’m standing to her, how her golden hair is falling over her shoulder and practically into my mouth.

How the way we’re standing feels awfully . . . close.

Clearing my throat, I back away so suddenly that Flora actually drops the towel. “Anyway, you’ll figure it out,” I mutter, going back to my own pile.

Flora is watching me, though, her cheeks slightly pink.

It’s just because it’s warm down here, the industrial washing machines and dryers making everything hotter and steamier than a basement room in a Scottish manor house has any right to be.

We finish folding towels in near silence, and I’m just reaching for a basket of sheets when I notice something shoved under the farthest basket, just at the corner of the table. It’s a magazine, an older one that’s sort of wrinkled and