#PastelPrincess

Chapter Six

“Son of a Swedish actress and an American lawyer, daughter of Gaelic professor and Governor of Massachusetts, and daughter of the Benovian Royal family enter a mall in Boston….” Macen teases, glancing behind at our security detail.

“We’re just a mixing-pot of the most awesome,” I smile.

Sophia laughs, “Just like your mom’s food! So good… I could eat at your house every day.”

“Your mom is multi-talented,” Macen nods, leading our linked arms towards Viola Lovely. “I’m very excited for her next book; I need to know what happens to Markesh and Soretta!”

My nose scrunches, “Still cannot believe you read my mother’s romance novels.”

“They’re not bad,” Sophia offers as we unlink to enter the store.

My bodyguard, Ivan, holds the door open for us and comes in with Sophia’s bodyguard, David, behind us. I glance between my best friends before getting into shopping mode. “Oh, no, don’t get me wrong – my mom is an amazing writer, I just… can’t stand reading the adult-romance part of her work. I mean, it’s my Mama…,” I shiver and make a face. “And it doesn’t help that the main heroine looks like me.”

Macen stifles a laugh, “Oh yes, because a Romani princess in love with a werewolf is so very much like you.”

“Oh, and don’t forget how her brother got turned into a vampire,” Sophia laughs by a monochromatic rack of blue items.

Fingering through a rack of grey, eyeing the rack of purple just beyond it, I change the subject to what’s really on my mind, “Did we really need to go all-out for my date with Christopher? It’s just Christopher….”

“If this was any other boy we would have been here at opening, gotten lunch at Luca’s, you probably would have wanted a blowout so your hair was more tame, and then we’d be back at your place for a eighties worthy montage for a couple of hours. Meaning, this isn’t even all out…. I know it’s ‘just Christopher’ but we should at least have a little fun, yeah?” Macen holds up a mint turtleneck that looks to be woven out of wool.

I shake my head, “It’s been raining.” Moving to the purple rack, my fingers go straight for the lavender.

With having to wear the school uniform morning to evening, Monday through Friday, and then black-tie gowns for events, I’m left with little time to actually wear what I want. Contrast to my center-stage, Leo personality, I preferred to have a wardrobe that consisted of whites, greys, blacks, then soft pastels like lavender or lilacs, baby blues, and pinks (often using the hashtag #PastelPrincess and #PastelGoth on my i********: and YouTube). Mama always voices that wearing bolder colors would complement my naturally tanner skin, but it makes me feel heavy.

Finding a cotton blouse marked for maternity, its flowiness made me think of a painter’s smock. I hold it up, “What about this? Over the grey jeans with black ties?”

Holding the shirt to my torso, Macen stands with his head slightly tilted and one fist under an elbow. “Hair down with a side part, pearl earrings, black Fossil purse, white marble ankle boots,” Macen nods.

Sophia comes to his side, “Are you sure so casual though?”

“Casual can be chic… anyway, he and I texted last night, remember? I didn’t want there to be a huge fuss over this, so we agreed on The Hate U Give at five-thirty and Amelia’s after.”

“Topical then a French bistro, I dig it. Did the thought of paparazzi help guide your decision?”

I rolled my eyes. “No.” But then my heart skipped, and I looked up from the grey peacoat I’d been eying. “Should it?” I look to Ivan, “Is that something I should be worried about, again?”

With the popularity of the social media outlets I control – private f*******:, unpersonal Tumblr, superficial YouTube, and a regularly updated i********: – the paparazzi hadn’t been something I’d have to worry about since my last boyfriend over a year ago. Of course, there are photographers at gala’s and other high society events I’ve had to attend, but the low-brow shutter rats hadn’t been following me in quite some time. Suddenly feeling the same panic spread through me like when the assholes photographed my breakup with Trenton, I pick up the peacoat and not so subtly rush to the dressing rooms.

Ivan is in step with me and lowers his head to my ear, “Do you need anything?”

Shaking my head, I palmed the doorknob. “Let Macen and Sophia in, would you?”

The dressing room was spacious enough for all three of us, reminding me of the bridal sweet Sophia’s cousin had trying on gowns at Kleinfeld. The two other peas of my pod are used to joining me while I change and are used to calming down my anxiety. The door opens quietly, shuts softly, Ivan and David’s low voices bouncing back and forth beyond the wall.

“I didn’t mean to stress you out, Lori,” Macen grips me tight against his chest. “That is literally the exact opposite of what I try to do.”

The pressure helps, my chest starting to ease, my heart slowing. “I know.” He lets go slowly and joins Sophia on the velvet sofa. “Sometimes I think things have been too quiet, you know? Like… tabloid or even valid news-wise, we haven’t been a focus in some time. There’s bound to be some scandal or other nonsense soon, right? Statistically?”

Sophia shrugs. “Your mom gets focus about her writing and there are factual pieces about your dad all the time. Then with the steady stream of stuff you release… I don’t know, I think your whole family does a good job of giving just enough to keep the wolves at bay.”

“And, anyway, he’s the son of the English Prime Minister… anyone that would be interested in him would be in England, right?”

New shirt over my shoulders, I look in the full-length mirror as I button all the little pearly buttons except the very top. “Right…. You’re right. It’s just a movie, just a meal.... People from our school hang out all the time. There’s nothing to worry about.” I turn back to them with hands out, “And this shirt is super soft and perfect and with my black peacoat, I’ll be all set.”