Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Page 0,13
pair of binoculars.”
Alex starts to laugh, but cuts off when he hears rustling down the hall. Quiet footsteps approaching. Princess Beatrice lives in a different section of the palace, and so does Henry. The PPOs and his own security sleep on this floor, though, so maybe—
“Hold on,” Alex says, covering the speaker.
A light flicks on in the hallway, and the person who comes padding into the kitchen is none other than Prince Henry.
He’s rumpled and half awake, shoulders slumping as he yawns. He’s standing in front of Alex wearing not a suit, but a heather-gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. He has earbuds in, and his hair is a mess. His feet are bare.
He looks, alarmingly, human.
He freezes when his eyes fall on Alex perched on the countertop. Alex stares back at him. In his hand, Nora begins a muffled, “Is that—” before Alex disconnects the call.
Henry pulls out his earbuds, and his posture has ratcheted back up straight, but his face is still bleary and confused.
“Hello,” he says, hoarse. “Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos.”
He gestures vaguely toward the refrigerator, as if he’s said something of any meaning.
“What?”
He crosses to the freezer and extracts the box of ice cream cones, showing Alex the name Cornetto across the front. “I was out. Knew they’d stocked you up.”
“Do you raid the kitchens of all your guests?” Alex asks.
“Only when I can’t sleep,” Henry says. “Which is always. Didn’t think you’d be awake.” He looks at Alex, deferring, and Alex realizes he’s waiting for permission to open the box and take one. Alex thinks about telling him no, just for the thrill of denying a prince something, but he’s kind of intrigued. He usually can’t sleep either. He nods.
He waits for Henry to take a Cornetto and leave, but instead he looks back up at Alex.
“Have you practiced what you’ll say tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Alex says, bristling immediately. This is why nothing about Henry has ever intrigued him before. “You’re not the only professional here.”
“I didn’t mean—” Henry falters. “I only meant, do you think we should, er, rehearse?”
“Do you need to?”
“I thought it might help.” Of course, he thinks that. Everything Henry’s ever done publicly has probably been privately rehearsed in stuffy royal quarters like this one.
Alex hops down off the counter, swiping his phone unlocked. “Watch this.”
He lines up a shot: the box of Cornettos on the counter, Henry’s hand braced on the marble next to it, his heavy signet ring visible along with a swath of pajamas. He opens up Instagram, slaps a filter on it.
“‘Nothing cures jet lag,’” Alex narrates in a monotone as he taps out a caption, “‘like midnight ice cream with PrinceHenry.’ Geotag Kensington Palace, and posted.” He holds the phone for Henry to see as likes and comments immediately pour in. “There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.”
Henry frowns at him over his ice cream.
“I suppose,” he says, looking doubtful.
“Are you done?” Alex asks. “I was on a call.”
Henry blinks, then folds his arms over his chest, back on the defensive. “Of course. I won’t keep you.”
As he leaves the kitchen, he pauses in the doorframe, considering.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says finally.
He leaves Alex standing there alone in the kitchen, the box of Cornettos sweating on the counter.
* * *
The ride to the studio for the interview is bumpy but mercifully quick. Alex should probably blame some of his queasiness on nerves but chooses to blame it all on this morning’s appalling breakfast spread—what kind of garbage country eats bland beans on white toast for breakfast? He can’t decide if his Mexican blood or his Texan blood is more offended.
Henry sits beside him, surrounded by a cloud of attendants and stylists. One adjusts his hair with a fine-toothed comb. One holds up a notepad of talking points. One tugs his collar straight. From the passenger seat, Shaan shakes a yellow pill out of a bottle and passes it back to Henry, who readily pops it into his mouth and swallows it dry. Alex decides he doesn’t want or need to know.
The motorcade pulls up in front of the studio, and when the door slides open, there’s the promised photo line and barricaded royal worshippers. Henry turns and looks at him, a little grimace around his mouth and eyes.
“Prince goes first, then you,” Shaan says to Alex, leaning in and touching his earpiece. Alex takes one breath, two, and turns it on—the megawatt smile, the