As she types away on her screen, I look at Miles again, and our eyes meet. Just like at the club, there’s this . . . beat between us. A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.

“There!” Glynnis says, triumphant as she puts her phone back in the pocket of her smart little Chanel jacket. “Shall we get on with it?”

I can hear the horses in their stalls, nickering and shuffling and being horsey. Now seems like a good time to mention that I’ve never been on a horse, but I deflect a little.

“Why are we doing this for photographers who are already there?” I ask. “Can’t we just, like, call them or something? Isn’t that what they do in Hollywood? We could go to lunch, have them take pictures there. There’s so much less potential for permanent maiming at lunch. Unless you do that thing with your face,” I add to Miles. “I can’t be responsible for maiming you if you do that thing with your face.”

“What thing with my face?” Miles asks, doing exactly that thing. It’s this lifting of his chin and tightening of his jaw that makes him look like he’s about to oppress some peasants, and I point at him.

“That thing.”

Glaring at me, Miles steps a little closer. “This is just what my face looks like.”

“That is unfortunate,” I say, and Glynnis claps her hands again.

“All right!” she trills. “The sooner we start, the sooner this can be over.”

As she leads me to a stall, she adds, “For something as delicate as this, it’s best if we let the photographers come to us rather than the other way around. Things feel much more . . . plausible that way. And given how sensitive this situation is, plausibility is our friend.”

“Okay, but horses are not mine,” I say.

Glynnis laughs, and I end up on the back of a gray mare named Livingston, which is a weird name for a girl horse, but I don’t want to point that out in case she hears me and decides to throw me off.

Miles gets this massive black stallion because of course he does, and within just a few minutes, the two of us are in Holyrood Park behind the palace, riding on horses like people who just fell in love in a tampon commercial.

This is ridiculous.

But it’s also really pretty here. If I ignore how scary it is to have a thousand-pound animal underneath me, I can admit that. The sky is blue and almost cloud free, and the park is green and lovely and nearly empty except for a few people jogging and a girl walking an insanely cute little white dog.

And, of course, the photographers. I see them there at the edge of the park, three guys who all look nearly interchangeable in pullovers, baggy jeans, and sneakers.

To take my mind off them, I make myself smile at Miles and say, “Is this your normal first date, then?”

He sits a lot more easily in the saddle than I do, the reins just draped in his hands while I’m clutching mine so hard my knuckles are white.

“This is actually our fourth date if we’re counting that time I walked you back to your room, the race, and the other night at the club,” he says, and I sit up taller in the saddle.

“If we’re counting those, you’re pretty much the worst boyfriend ever.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he says, and I jerk my head around to look at him.

“You’ve been a boyfriend?” I ask. “To a human girl?”

Shaking his head, Miles moves his reins from one hand to the other. “Let’s save that for our fifth date, shall we?”

His horse trots ahead a little, and I give mine the slightest little touch with my heels to make her catch up. To my relief, she does, and I try not to think about how much jiggling those cameras might be catching as I pull even with Miles.

“Is there going to be a fifth one?” I ask. “Can’t we just do . . . this and be done with it?”

Miles looks over at me, his sandy hair dipping over his brow, and his eyes are particularly green this morning. Maybe Glynnis chose the park to make him look his most handsome. Who can say?

“I assume they’ll want us to do the ball together,” he says, smiling broadly for the photographers.

“Ball?” I repeat, giving him the same bright grin, complete with a head tilt. This is some excellent work and better end up on at least one front page. I haven’t shown this many teeth in ages.

“We’re headed up north day after tomorrow,” he replies, complete with a little chuckle as he reaches out to cover my hand for just a second with his own. “To Baird House. There’s going to be a ball for Eleanor and Alex, and if Glynnis doesn’t make us sell this there, I’ll eat this saddle.”

“Oooh, you might choke, and that would be so fun to watch!” I say, tossing my hair over my shoulders.

Another laugh, and I swear there’s genuine warmth in his eyes now. It almost makes me wonder if he’s done this kind of thing before.

There’s a sudden flurry of barking off to my right, and I look over to see that cute little white dog I’d spotted earlier suddenly tearing across the park, filled with bloodlust for a flock of birds on the path right in front of us.

It’s a pretty nonthreatening dog, but Livingston doesn’t see it that way. Suddenly, my previously gentle and super-chill horse shudders, hooves pawing the earth, and then, as the dog gets closer, my horse loses her mind altogether, giving a panicked whinny and lifting her front hooves off the ground.

Shrieking, I panic, and instead of grabbing the reins I sink my fingers into her mane, holding on for dear life, my entire world becoming a panicked blur of barking, whinnying, my own shrill cries, and the vision of headlines reading, “FUTURE PRINCESS’S SISTER KILLED IN FREAK HORSEBACK ACCIDENT WHILE ON FAKE DATE!”

And then Livingston lowers her hooves back to the ground, still pawing and shuddering, and I see a long-fingered hand shoot out and grab her reins.

Miles.

His horse is right next to mine, our knees bumping as he tries to bring Livingston under control, and I manage to release my death grip on the horse’s mane, my hands fumbling to hold on to the reins, the saddle, anything.

I want off this horse now.

And suddenly, I am off.

A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I’m pulled onto Miles’s horse, my backside colliding painfully with the saddle.

Startled, I stare up at him, my hands landing on his shoulders. I’m basically sprawled in front of him, the saddle horn pressing into my hip, and holy crap, did he just yank me off my horse and onto his?

He did.

Which is some real next-level romance novel stuff, and I have no idea how to feel about it.

Miles still has one arm around me, his hand holding his own horse’s reins, and then he leans over to take up Livingston’s reins.

“All right, then?” he asks, like he didn’t just pull some major pirate maneuver, and I can only nod.

I guess that’s enough for him, because he turns both horses and leads us back toward the palace stables.

I’m still holding on to his shoulders—clutching, really—and behind him, I can see the photographers, can practically hear the clicks as they snap shot after shot of me perched on the front of Miles’s horse, my arms wrapped around him.

Looking up at his chin, I study the little glints of golden stubble there and try to think of something to say. My heart is still hammering against my ribs from Livingston’s freak-out, but if I’m honest, it might be a little more than that.