Jay grimaced, unimpressed, and turned back to Charlotte. “You reckon there’s somebody who can take the spot until Danny shows up? He’s gonna be here in an hour, but that’s a whole hour of losing prime customers. We make a lot of money the first night.” He released a sigh so large it shook his whole body. “This ain’t never happened in all my living days!”
Which only looked to be about eleven or twelve years.
“I can’t leave this booth, Jay.” Charlotte turned to Arran. “Could you stand in, just for the hour? It would certainly be a valiant thing to do to rescue one of the”—she made air quotes— “‘best money-making booths of the festival.’”
Valiant rescue?That sounded like a worthy way to improve her opinion of him. “Of course.”
“Jay, this is Prince Arran.” She shook her head as if she hadn’t planned to refer to him, title and all. “What exactly did you need help with?”
“Well, I reckon he’ll do.” The boy gave Arran a thorough perusal, lips at an uncertain smirk. “Doesn’t take a whole lot of thinking anyhow. Just gotta sit real still.”
Sit still?
Charlotte’s brow creased with a confusion similar to what Arran felt. “I feel certain he can meet that expectation.”
Her confidence was underwhelming.
“Alright, Prince.” He waved his hand for Arran to follow and used the word more like a first name than a title. “You’re so big, you’ll be aneasytarget.”
“Target?” Arran shot a look at Charlotte, whose eyes grew wide.
“Yeah.” Jay ushered Arran forward. “For the pie-throwing contest.”
Pie throwing?
A laugh erupted behind him, but when he turned, Charlotte wore a look of utter innocence. She offered a helpless shrug and waved toward the boy.
“Perfect, Jay.” Charlotte’s grin spread as slow and dangerous as the Cheshire cat’s. “Arran is the man for you. He loves pies.”
Six
Two hours.
Charlie hadn’t seen Arran in two hours.
What on earth had Jay done to the poor man?
As soon as her cousin Penelope relieved Charlie from her post, she rushed up the street, passing several vendors in search of the prince.
Fading daylight had ignited the glowing lampposts lining Main Street, but they failed to provide any sign of Arran. Then a loud shout erupted from the large crowd up ahead, slowing Charlie’s approach.
Her gaze lifted to the sign above the crowd: “Pie Throwing.” And scrawled in hasty handwriting beneath those words were:“Pie a Prince.”
Air burst from her lungs.
What?She squeezed through the crowd to the front.
And her jaw dropped.
And, maybe, the teeniest bit of pity welled up at the sight.
Two chairs sat a few feet apart. One held sixteen-year-old Danny, who regularly participated in the pie-throwing booth. Next to him sat Arran, much worse for the wear than Danny. White cream splattered his neck down to his knees, with vanilla pudding studding his torso in varying-sized blobs.
His blond hair curled up on one side, sticky and stiff, while the other side dripped flat.
Charlie stopped just in time to watch a pie land directly in the center of Arran’s chest with an unsatisfyingthud. The crowd exploded as the remainder of the pie slid down to the man’s stomach and fell over onto his lap.
Her bottom lip dropped.Oh, good heavens!
