“It’s a bit of a hike,” Miles says, still looking out the door, hands thrust in his back pockets. He’s got one knee cocked, and he looks like a Scottish farmer surveying his land. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is, and I bite back a sigh as I turn to the fireplace.

Off-limits, I remind myself. And snobby and basically a fancy servant, 1,000% devoted to the palace. You want nothing to do with this entire thing, and Miles has a permanent residence in Royal Land. Don’t even think about it.

Maybe if I keep repeating that, it’ll be easier to ignore how my pulse is racing.

I can hear the door shut behind me, and even though the wind and rain are still blowing outside, the bothy seems a lot quieter now. My face is hot, and I’m not sure it has anything to do with the smoky fire I’m crouching next to.

Miles goes to the pile of quilts stacked near the fire, taking one and fluffing it out. I’m relieved when a cloud of dust and dead insects doesn’t come billowing out, but that relief is short-lived because he suddenly crouches down near me, draping the blanket over my shoulders.

“You’ll freeze,” he tells me, ducking his head. His hair is hanging over his forehead, the rain and the dim light making it look darker than normal, and a fat raindrop slides down and splashes my collarbone.

The rain isn’t that cold, but my skin feels too hot, and I jolt, scooting back a little, one hand coming up to clutch the blanket closed in front of me.

Miles lifts his head, his eyes very green and very close to mine.

Tea cozy. Shoe trees. The absolute opposite of your type.

Clearing his throat, Miles straightens up, dusting off his hands on his jeans again.

“It won’t last long,” he says, then waves at the door. “The rain, I mean. It . . . these things usually burn themselves out in a few minutes.”

He drops his arm to his side, fingers flexing, and is . . . is he nervous?

That’s almost weirder than me thinking he was cute, so I turn back to look at the fire, ironically hoping to find some chill there.

The rain keeps hammering down, the fire crackles and smokes, and for a moment, I wonder if we’re going to sit here in total silence until people eventually find us, dead, smothered by the weight of our own awkwardness.

Then Miles says, “Flora dated my sister.”

Surprised, I twist to look at him. “What?”

He’s standing near the door again, his hat in one hand, and he thumps it against his thigh a few times. “You asked about me and Flora. That’s ‘the deal’ with us. She was dating Amelia, the palace wasn’t ready for that, so they put it out that it was me. That Flora and I were . . .”

He looks over to the window, his hat still tapping against one long leg. “Anyway, that’s what happened.”

Turning back to me, he tilts his head down, probably because looking down his nose at people makes him feel more comfortable. “I’m obviously entrusting you with something important in telling you that.”

I hold up a hand. “Got it,” I say. “And I appreciate it.”

I’m not going to tell him I already knew Flora was into girls, since I can’t tell him about Flora and Tamsin, so I shift against the floor, pulling the quilt in around me.

“So this isn’t your first Fake Boyfriend Rodeo,” I say, and he glances over at me, brow wrinkled.

“You’ve done this before,” I clarify. “Pretended to date someone for the palace.”

In the dim light, it’s hard to tell, but I think he might blush as he suddenly becomes really interested in his shoes. “I told you,” he says. “The Montgomery family are courtiers. It’s what we do. My great-great-great-grandfather actually fought in a duel for Seb’s great-great-great-grandfather. Took a sword to the eye.”

I wince. “Gross.”

That actually makes Miles smile, though, and I’m reminded again that smiling is a good look on him. It takes some of the hardness out of that aristocratic face, makes him look softer and nicer. More boy, less jerk.

“The point is, there are certainly worse things I could be asked to do than spend time with pretty girls.”

I am not turning red.

I am not.

I turn away to poke at the fire with the iron rod Miles left lying by the hearth. “Are you saying I’m better than a sword to the eye?” I ask, and he chuckles.

The sound is warm and soft, and I swear I can feel it, dancing over the knobs of my spine. Oh my god, this rain needs to end soon.

“Maybe not better, but certainly not worse,” he says, and then I look at him, which is a mistake.

There’s no fighting it this time. Miles is not just cute. He’s hot.

And he’s looking at me in a way I don’t understand, or don’t want to understand because no, no, no, this is not a complication I need right now. Besides, I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway. Why start something that has such a fast expiration date?

Breaking the spell, I stand, letting the quilt drop back to the ground. I chafe my hands up and down my arms as I ask, “So that’s why you do it? Family tradition demands that if the palace says jump, you say how high?”

I wait for Miles to scowl at me, but he just leans back against the wall and sighs.

“They’re paying my tuition,” he says. “Seb’s family. They’re paying for me to go to St. Andrew’s next year.”

I don’t really know what to say to that. I knew Miles was really loyal to the Bairds—obviously—but I thought it was more about friendship than the whole courtier deal.

“And not just that,” Miles goes on, “but the apartment in Edinburgh? That’s on their dime as well. Plus last year, my mum was sick—she’s fine now—but it was serious for a while. She needed private hospitals, specialists, all that, and I think they paid her hospital bills.”

“Miles,” I say softly, and he meets my eyes. All of this has come out in the lightest tone, like he’s just casually relaying some information, but his gaze is serious.

“I just want you to understand,” he says. “I owe them . . . everything. Everything.”

Pushing off from the wall, he tosses his hat to the chair by the door. “That’s why I was such a prat to you that first night.”

“To be fair, you’ve been a prat basically the entire time I’ve known you,” I say, and Miles gives the littlest smile. His hair is drying a bit in the heat from the fire, and it’s curling, turning a deep-gold color, shadows playing over his high cheekbones.

“I have,” he admits. “And I’m sorry. Truly.”

Swallowing hard, I wave that off. Now is not the time to start becoming friends, not when I’ve just realized he’s super good-looking and there’s rain and firelight and just the two of us, miles from anyone.

But I still can’t help but say, “It’s not like you haven’t done a lot for Seb. You keep him out of trouble. Well, as much as anyone can, I guess,” I amend, and Miles nods.

“It’s a big job for one man.”

I look back at Miles. “I’m just saying, yes, they’ve done a lot for you. But it’s not like it’s a one-way street.”

He’s watching me again. He really needs to stop with that because my toes are curling in my boots, my heart jumping around, and my face is burning.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and then, maybe feeling as weirded out as I do, he moves to sit down in front of the fire, taking my discarded quilt and making a little pallet there by the hearth. He sits, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, and after a second, I sit next to him.