On Saturday, I wake up to a note on the pillow beside mine.
Sorry not to be here, but I had to head out early to get ready for the match. Please accept coffee as my apology and know that I'm very much looking forward to seeing you this afternoon. -L
Sighing, I look over at my clock and am shocked to see that it's nearly 10am—late for me to sleep in, even on a weekend.
But considering all the, er, physical activity I've had in the past few days—not to mention the emotional stress of moving to a new city, sitting through royal strategy meetings, and getting a new job—I guess I've felt a bit more exhausted than usual.
I grab my phone from the bedside table and scroll through the texts I received while I was sleeping—just a couple from Olly and one from my dad—and then scan through my inbox to see if there's anything urgent I need to respond to.
Spying an email from Natalie, I click through and find my very own itinerary for today, including a tidbit that I had not been privy to prior to right this moment—that Hyacinth and Gareth will be meeting me at the apartment at noon.
I jump out of bed, not just to get myself ready, but to make sure their place is as clean as possible. Not that I'm disgusting, but I'm not always the most tidy human being in existence and definitely don't want my new landlords to think that I'm trashing their gorgeous flat.
But first, coffee.
After allowing myself ten minutes to down a cup, I snap to it, turning on a playlist of '90s hiphop before zooming around the kitchen, washing dishes and wiping down countertops, before turning my attention to the bedroom and bathroom.
When I've finished up, I nearly shriek at how much time has passed when I check the clock, and hop in the shower, hurriedly washing my hair and shaving all the spots that need some maintenance as quickly as I'm able to. When I'm finished up, I grab the hair dryer and know that there's no way I have time to use my round brush—I'll just have to dry my hair upside-down and hope for the best.
Why, oh why, did I have to sleep in today? I'm sure Emilia was up with the sun. On second thought, she probably wasn't, and even if she was, she has a whole staff of people to clean her house and make sure her every day is as stress-free as possible.
Not that being a member of the royal family is stress-free. I have feeling that she deals with ten times the stress that I do on a daily basis. But even so. Giving up my job and citizenship in exchange for a maid, personal assistant, and a cook doesn't sound bad at all right now.
When my hair feels mostly dry, I turn off the hair dryer and stand back up, horrified to find that my lower back hurts from freaking bending over to dry my stupid hair.
If this is what aging is like, I do not want anything to do with it.
Then again, it could be all the sex.
I smile to myself, going with that answer.
As I'm grabbing my makeup bag, I hear a knock at the door.
No. They're twenty minutes early. And I'm in a towel.
"Just a minute," I yell, racing into the bedroom to throw on clothes that are not a towel.
As I'm stepping into underwear, I hear a key turn in the lock.
Shit shit shit.
"Hello?" I hear a prim, posh-sounding voice say. "Maggie? It's Hyacinth."
YOU ARE READING
*An unedited royal romance* After graduating from journalism school in the midst of the American recession, Maggie Rhodes became frustrated with freelancing in New York. Having followed the British royal family since she was a child, thanks to the i...