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“Yeah, I saw you jet out of there when we dropped her off. I was in the car, remember? You knew they might recognize you and make a big deal out of the king showing up on their doorstep.”
I cover my eyes. “Not the king. I’m just a prince.” I raise my hand before he can jump in. “A prince. A junior prince. And not the crown prince. That’s not even a thing here.”
He waves that aside. “King, duke, emir, whatever. It’s all catnip to American girls. Trust me.”
“When did you become the expert on American girls? I don’t remember you being such a Casanova when we were in school. You were kind of a dork.”
He claps a hand to his chest. “A dork?! I am wounded! If anyone was a dork, it was you. No one else in Rotheberg learned Latin. And I grew out of my dorkdom. Besides, I am an expert on royalty. I was homecoming king, remember?”
I roll my eyes, then leap out of my chair and execute my best bow. “Your Majesty.”
“You may be seated.” Hans swings around and pulls the last items from his suitcase. “On second thought, stash these suitcases on top of the wardrobe, will you? Put those extra inches of yours to good use.” He kicks the bigger suitcase as he strides past.
I nest the two bags, then slide them on top of the cupboard, my nose wrinkling at the laminate peeling away from the pressboard doors. Living on the royal estate among all those antique furnishings has made me into a bit of a snob. Although, to be fair, my parents always had good furnishings. Old and well used, but solid.
Hans tucks the last few items onto the shelf above the sink. “You never answered my question. When are you asking her out?”
So much for my attempt to derail his train of thought. “Someday. Maybe.”
“Dude.” He shakes his head, then sprawls across the now empty bed. “So sad.”
I return to my seat beside the desk. “All right, Mr. American Girl Expert, what do you suggest?”
“Gah, don’t call me that. It sounds like a doll salesman.”
“What?”
“American Girl dolls.” He spreads his hands about half a meter apart, one above the other. “They’re, like, this big and kind of—my cousins had ’em.”
I roll my eyes again. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness of Rotheberg. What do you suggest?”
He sits up, his eyes sparking. “If I was sultan of Freiberg, I’d use it. Send a royal messenger with a hand-engraved invitation. You have a footman, right? Or a henchman?”
“Did you learn everything you know about royalty from animated movies?”
“Well, that and The Princess Diaries. My cousins made me watch it.” He shudders dramatically, then drops back onto the bed. “Like, five times one year when we visited them in Hawaii.”
My eye rolling muscles have been getting a good workout today. I’d forgotten how ridiculous Hans can be when he’s tired. “Poor Hans had to watch a movie with his cousins when he went to Hawaii. I’ve never been there.” I rise and check my watch. “You wanna grab some dinner? If I leave you here, you’re going to fall asleep, and then you’ll be awake at three a.m.”
“You sound like my oma. I’ll be fine. Jet lag doesn’t bother me.” He gazes at me through half-open eyes, then covers a yawn. “But dinner sounds good. You know any place where girls hang out?”
Chapter Seven
EVA
At a quarter to six, someone jogs up the steps. I jerk out of my jet-lag stupor and yank my door open, just as the one next to mine clicks shut. My new “sibling” must be home. I push my door wide and finish my unpacking, slipping the small suitcase into the larger one, then shoving them under the bed. I’m not sure if I should take my toiletries over to the shared bathroom or carry them back and forth every day like in the dorms.
The next door bangs open, followed by a soft curse in French. I poke my head out. “Hello?”
A girl with long blonde hair appears in the doorway. “Hallo! I’m Lina D’Aramitz, from Belgium. You must be Eva.” Her English has an almost British accent. “My full name is Evalina—we’re name twins! Good thing I go by Lina.”
“That would be confusing.” I step closer, and we shake hands like adults. Does it feel as awkward to her? “How long have you been here?”
“Arrived three days ago. Isn’t this an amazing house? So modern! Renate has been awesome. It’s time for dinner. Shall we go down?” She speaks as if she can’t stop the words from pouring out of her mouth, keeping up a commentary as we clatter down the steps. “Wait until you see the Altstadt—it’s amazing. Have you tried the bread yet?”
I let her monologue flood over me in a warm wash of welcome. She pauses on the landing. A railing allows us to look down into the dining room and at two-story windows, currently covered by a gauzy curtain. She points at closed doors across the way, identifying Renate’s room and the bath, then she’s off. As we hurry down the last steps, my sock-covered foot slips on the tile, and I flail at the metal railing to maintain my balance.
“Watch out!” Lina cries unnecessarily. “The steps are slick. You should get some slippers.” She lifts one foot, encased in blue suede clogs with fluffy white lining around the opening and rubber soles. “I’ll take you to the store where I bought these. Super affordable—aren’t they cute?”
