But I’m staring at his shirt collar. When he shrugged, it moved over a little, exposing the skin above his collarbone. I swear I saw a tattoo.
I’m about to ask about it (because clearly I have no filter when it comes to him) when I hear footsteps behind me.
Harrison immediately drops his chin, his hands clasped in front of him.
I turn around, and there they are.
Prince Eddie and Monica.
In the flesh.
They both smile at me, and suddenly I have no clue what I’m supposed to do.
Curtsy? Right?
Or bow?
So I end up doing a curtsy-bow hybrid that makes it look like I have stomach cramps.
“How do you do?” I say to them as I straighten up, keeping a smile on my face while wincing internally at how ridiculous I must look.
“Monica,” MRed says to me as she comes over, her hand extended, a beaming smile on her face.
I’m in a daze as she shakes my hand, focused on how damn pretty she is. I mean, this is the woman I watched accept her Grammy for best new artist; this is the woman in the infamous burlesque R&B video that had her in a blond wig, grinding against Zac Efron; this is the woman on People’s 50 Most Beautiful People list (who should have been on the cover instead of Blake Shelton). I even watched her wedding on TV.
And she’s standing in front of me, giving me a genuine smile and a hearty handshake. She’s so much more beautiful in person. I didn’t think that was even possible. Her dark skin is even-toned and glowing, her curly hair piled into a messy topknot, not a lick of makeup on, and yet she looks like she’s ready for a photoshoot, even though she’s just wearing leggings and a flowing tunic that gives her this boho chic vibe.
“Hello,” Eddie says in a quiet voice, his accent as proper as can be, bringing my attention to him. “I’m Eddie.”
Again, I’m drowning in disbelief here. Eddie is only a few years older than me, and as I grew up, I watched as he grew up. His face and the face of everyone in his family have been constants in my life, whether I was paying attention or not. I mean, his father is on our twenty-dollar bills.
In person, he’s also better-looking. Compared to his older brother, who most people fawn over, Eddie is an unusual-looking guy with a piercing stare that says way more than he ever verbalizes, but he’s still handsome. He just has a way about him, and right now, I’m picking up on that quiet kind of charm. It helps that he’s wearing dark jeans and a navy polo shirt, a lot more casual than the Eddie I’m used to seeing in the press.
He shakes my hand, firm and warm, and I must be having an out-of-body experience right now, because I don’t think I feel the floor beneath my feet.
“You must be Piper,” Eddie says.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Monica adds.
I give her a nervous smile. The only way she knows anything about me is because of that big oaf standing behind me. I don’t dare turn around and meet Harrison’s eyes. I can only imagine what he’s said.
Still, I say, “All good things, I hope.”
Which in turn makes a moment of uncomfortable silence fall between us, Eddie’s eyes darting over my shoulder to Harrison.
“Of course!” Monica exclaims, flashing me her pearly whites. “Here, why don’t you sit down and get comfortable.” She gestures to the seat while she looks over at Agatha. “Can you bring us some refreshments?” Monica looks back to me. “Would you like something to drink? Sparkling water, tea, a glass of wine?”
I’m never very good in these situations. I should say I’m fine, I don’t want anything. Maybe a glass of water.
But because I’m nervous, and frankly I’m curious to see what kind of wine they drink, I say, “A glass of wine would be lovely.”
“Red or white?”
“Either is fine. Whatever you have open.”
“Are you sure?” Monica asks. “It’s no bother. We have everything.”
So much pressure. Everyone is staring at me to make a choice.
“I’ll have a glass of white,” I say. “Since it’s finally summer and all.”
“Hmmm, I think we only have sauvignon blanc chilled,” she muses, looking to Agatha.
“There’s a pinot grigio in the wine cooler in the cellar,” Agatha says.
Monica then looks back to me for my opinion. This feels like it’s already turning into a to-do. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Whatever is easiest,” I tell her. “I’m not fussy.”
Monica nods and gives me a small smile, probably picking up on how uncomfortable I’m feeling. “Agatha, can you get a glass of sauvignon blanc, please?”
As Agatha walks off, I look at Monica in surprise. “You’re not having any?”
Perhaps it was the wrong question, because she looks uncomfortable for a moment. “No, uh, it doesn’t agree with me.”