Dedicated to Liss, for being completely and utterly awesome. I used to be insanely jealous of Liss and the fact that she had a certain story I was obsessed with getting my hands on. But now--with an extreme amount of effort (and the fact that I've got the story now...everyone does)--I've managed to stop pretending to be angry with Liss. It's a constant struggle.

To the rest of you readers--thank you so much for the kind reviews. You guys never seem to think I suck as much as I'm pretty sure I do. This is a good thing.

Each ray of the afternoon light, infracted by the stained glass window, held a different hue. His chocolate eyes were tinted amber, while his normally fair shoulders seemed to take on a golden sheen.

"You're like Midas," he chuckled softly, noting the hand I'd absentmindedly rested on his collarbone.

"You look like an Oscar."

"The Grouch?"

"The trophy."

His lips glanced my ear as he moved even closer to me beneath the sheets. "Trophy boyfriend?"

"You're too smart for that."

"And too good at Monopoly. You forgot that." His twig-like fingers danced across my stomach, overlapping one another as he tapped out a melody only he could hear.

I'd never been able to identify with the musical facet of Michael's personality. The extent of my talent in that area was the melody of "Heart and Soul" on the keyboard, and my playing style resembled the "hunt-and-peck" technique used by many an unskilled pianist.

Michael, though, was fascinated by all sorts of instruments—from the recorder all the way to some weird triangular German xylophone.

"It's a glockenspiel," he'd said tiredly when I pointed it out. Back when we were living together in New York, we'd make the twenty-minute trek to this tiny little shop every Sunday where Michael would pore over all sorts of musical gadgets, while I'd skim the Backstreet Boys sheet music.

"Come play this, Michael," I'd said one afternoon, beckoning him over to the baby grand where I'd propped up "Larger than Life."

Michael did cut short his inspection of the flute collection, but ignored my request, launching into another boy band tune instead, though one holding far more credibility in his mind.

Even though I couldn't fully grasp the fanaticism Michael had for music, it still fascinated me to watch him play. His fingers glided lovingly over the ivory keys, as I tried my best to hum along.

He shot me a sidelong smile, singing, "And wouldn't it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?"

My love for Nick Carter was all but forgotten as Michael whispered-sang to me, our gazes locked.

"We should do that," I said a few minutes later, breaking the comfortable silence between us. We were walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk after the store's customary request for us to make room for serious customers.

"Do what?"

"What the song said," I replied slowly, not wanting to enter the territory of begging Michael to make me an honest woman. We hardly ever breached this subject for a reason. It was just understood that we'd take that step someday. There was just no need to bother with all the formalities when we could live together sans Grandmere's involvement.

"We are together," he said matter-of-factly. "We're happy in our own little world. What else do we need?"

"It's not gonna last forever," I said, playing the voice of reason for once.

"This might not," he admitted. "But we'll always be together. Happy. Just as Dr. Brian Wilson ordered."

I grinned back at him, mollified for the time being.

"Do you still play the piano?" I asked present-day Michael.

"Liv's got this Fisher Price keyboard she doesn't play with any more."

"What about guitar? You've still got Old Yeller, don't you?"

Old Yeller was the pet name Michael had for his acoustic guitar, taken from his all-time favorite childhood movie.

He stretched his arms, sitting up slightly. "I don't know, Mia. I don't really mess with that stuff any more. It's probably over at my parent's house." A glance at the window seemed to worry him. Without another word, he threw back the sheets and headed for the bathroom.

I was not so eager to let the subject drop. "But wait, Michael—" I shut the door behind us. Michael didn't even look my way, but was holding his hand under the jet of water coming out of the spigot. "—you love your guitar. Why wouldn't you play it any more?"

"Well, maybe when you come back to New York," he said, patting my bare waist, "I'll bust it out and play you a Stones song or two. Does this feel too cold to you?"

I barely passed my fingertips under the spray. "It's fine," I said quickly. "But…what about New York?"

He stepped into the stall, holding his hand out towards me. "Well, I was thinking—"

"Amelia, where are you?" echoed an all too familiar aristocratic drawl from the front of the house.

And suddenly I knew what Michael had been worried about.

"What do we do?" I hissed frantically at him, snatching for a towel off the rack. Though the cause of my fear was over a hundred feet away, I still felt like a huge spotlight was beaming directly down on me.

"Go out there and—and tell her that you just finished taking a shower! Now it's my turn. We were out running. That's how we got sweaty, not…"

He paused for a moment, water running down his chest in rivulets, and flashed his pearly whites. "Well, we'll just keep that to ourselves."

"Good idea." The towel securely around my body, I slipped through Olivia's room and out into Grandmere's sight.

"Amelia," she said curtly, looking me up and down with disdain. "Perhaps I should have picked up something for you while I was out."

I laughed sycophantically, avoiding her beady glare at the same time.

"Where's my dad?" asked Olivia, staggering through the front door with a giant shopping bag dragging behind her.

Crap.

"He's, uh, well, we were out running. On the beach, you know. And then we came back, and I hopped in the shower. Then I got out, and Michael got in. So…so we're both just showering. At different times, of course."

"Your hair's not wet," observed Grandmere.

Again…crap.

"I…uh…um, I wore a shower cap, because I was just about to go swimming and didn't see the point in—"

But Grandmere's lilac heels were already clicking past me. With growing dread, I watched as she pushed open the door to her bedroom.

"I believe Marie made my bed this morning, as she always does." Marie was one of her many droids created especially in the palace dungeon to follow her every whim.

My throat felt like I'd just tried to munch on a sand castle. Grandmere and I usually didn't have these little tiffs over boys. In fact, her only issue with me on that front is that I never saw any.

So why isn't she jumping for joy to see my clothes crumpled into a pile on the floor with the jeans and polo of a fully functional, extremely bright, rather gorgeous member of the opposite sex?

"Well, that was one hell of a jog!" said Michael jovially, breaking the awkward silence as he entered the room with a noticeable bounce in his step.

"Good heavens," whispered Grandmere. She sank down onto the couch, looking as horrified as all those Botox injections allowed.

- - -

"What's so wrong with him?" I asked tearfully.

Grandmere had ushered me, her nails digging cruelly into my arm, into the bedroom where less than an hour ago I'd been laying blissfully with Michael.

"For one thing," hissed Grandmere, lifting up a trembling finger. "He has got absolutely no respect for our family. For the crown."

"Just because he isn't intimidated by you—"

"And," she barreled on, ignoring my weak objection. "if it weren't for him, we wouldn't be stuck in this mess."

"If it weren't for him, there would be no heir."

"He's not the only boy in the world, Amelia. In fact, he got rather annoyingly in the way of you meeting suitable young men."

My voice shook as I replied. "I want him. I don't want some duke or the prime minister's son. Michael's suitable enough for me."

"Nevertheless," said Grandmere, her hand on the doorknob. "Genovia has got higher standards. I'm sorry, Amelia, but I won't allow it. He goes, the girl stays. That's the end of it."

A tear ran down my cheek, followed quickly by several more. "It's not the end. I won't…even if he's not…not my boyfriend, he's still Olivia's father. They need each other."

She looked down coldly at me. "As far as I can tell, this Michael Moscovitz is highly overrated. Olivia has plenty of family at the castle. One measly man won't make any difference."

"You don't get it."

"Oh, I get it, Amelia. You're besotted with a fool, which is why I can't let the fate of Genovia rest in your hands any more."

"You're abdicating…for me?" I asked in disbelief.

"Of course not. I'm taking Olivia to the palace while you pull yourself together. Really, Amelia, you're not entirely hopeless, but you do a brilliant job of acting so at times."

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