Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,59

this is me? Just another version of me I didn’t know was in there.

We come to a pair of glass doors with ornate golden handles, and Flora tugs at one, opening the door. A wave of warm air and the smell of green, growing things washes over me.

“What is this?” I ask, and she pulls me into the room, shutting the door firmly behind us.

“An orangery,” she replies, and I glance over at her. She’s dropped my hand by now, and I chafe my palms up and down my bare arms, even though I’m definitely not cold. In fact, if we stay in here much longer, I might start sweating.

“I like when you say things like that as though they’re actually words,” I tell her, and Flora laughs, walking over to a nearby potted tree that, yes, has a few oranges on it.

“An orangery,” she says, placing one gloved hand under the fruit and modeling it like she’s a game show hostess. “Those of us from colder climes had to have special places to grow certain things, and oranges were once considered a luxury item.”

“Ahhhh,” I say, walking over to another tree. “So if you were really, really fancy, you had a special room in your house just for growing oranges.”

Flora inclines her head with a gracious nod. “Ergo,” she starts, and we both finish with, “an orangery.”

I laugh a little, shaking my head, and wander deeper into the room, which is all glass walls and potted orange trees. The floor under my feet isn’t the usual flagstone and marble I’ve seen in the castle, but a cream-colored tile, and in the center, there’s a mosaic of a giant orange with a few white blossoms attached. Overhead, the ceiling is painted to look like a bright blue Mediterranean sky.

“This is a very weird room to have all the way up here in the wilds of Skye,” I murmur.

Suddenly I realize Flora is right next to me, her own head back to study the ceiling, and I don’t know if it’s all the plants or her perfume, but something smells sweet and delicate.

“Lady Ellis had it built when she moved up here,” Flora says, still studying the ceiling. “When I was a little girl, and we played hide-and-seek, I always hid in here.”

I look over at her, my arms still folded tight across my middle. It’s dim in this warm, scented room, the only light coming from sconces placed at intervals around the hexagonal room, and it strikes me that this is kind of . . . romantic.

Clearing my throat (and tearing my eyes away from Flora’s sharp jaw), I look back at the ceiling.

“You must’ve really sucked at hiding, then. Everyone would’ve known where to look for you.”

She shrugs, that Flora Shrug that’s both elegant and careless and seems to sum up Everything Flora. “I never worried about it all that much.”

That makes me laugh. “You never worried about hiding during hide-and-seek?” I shake my head. “That is . . . very you.”

That grin flashes. “Isn’t it just?”

And then she’s taking my hands, pulling me to the center of the room, right over that gigantic orange. “Now, enough stalling. Let’s dance.”

“So which one of us leads?” I ask, and Flora gives me that look I’m getting used to. That one where she lifts her chin while looking down at me at the same time.

Now it doesn’t seem haughty to me, though. Now I see it as the joke she means, and I smile when she says, “Me, naturally.”

We stand there in the conservatory in our poofy dresses, and I slowly place my hand in Flora’s. My other hand lands on her bare shoulder, her skin warm and silky.

I fight the urge to stroke my thumb over the delicate rise of her collarbone, reminding myself for what has to be the thousandth time that Flora is the least safe of crushes for more reasons than I can count, but that’s hard to remember when she puts her hand on my lower back, pulling me close.

There are acres of skirts between us, and it strikes me that whoever came up with the waltz prooooobably didn’t imagine two girls doing it together.

Flora looks down at all that silk and tulle and giggles. “Oh, dear.”

I go to step back, but her hand tightens on my waist, keeping me from going too far. “This is stupid,” I say, cheeks red. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” she says, and her head comes up, her