A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Three: LEILA

Piles of laundry sit near my feet, none of it my own. And none of it stinks, except for one with a quite distinct smell. It's not unpleasant, not entirely. The scent reminds me of the bottles of Old Spice cologne my oldest brother used to wear. Before he lost touch with reality, losing himself to the world where Axe was the name on the tongues of boys. He's not even a boy, having turned twenty-seven on the same day Ariah hit twenty-two (unfortunately), but sure acts like it.

I crouch, careful to not rest my weight on the tip of my Dunk Lows. I shouldn't have worn my new shoes to work, but I like to dress classy, even if I will be surrounded by old people, who sometimes spill food on me. At least, some of them appreciate my beauty and make comments on how cute I am.

To be honest, it's slightly revolting to go through someone else's laundry. But I had to wash my shirt last shift in a state of emergency, and I accidentally left it here. I feel that it is too far gone now, lost just like my brother in another world, another pile of clothes that don't belong to me. Giving up, I grab the sweatshirt resting on the top of the pile, bringing it closer to my face to get a whiff.

The fragrance is too strong, and shouldn't have been placed with the washed items. It must have been Inaho who didn't sort through the clothing properly. She's so–

Someone clears their throat. The noise shouldn't have startled me, but I was wrapped in silence, so consumed by the smell and my thoughts that I didn't realize someone could be watching me.

I jump up, hugging the shirt to my chest as if I've been caught committing a crime. Smelling someone's shirt isn't a crime! I didn't actively go looking for it.

A man–okay, maybe a boy–stands in the doorway of the laundry room, glancing down at the sweatshirt then back at me. "Should I ask what you're doing with my shirt?"

His shirt? I work with a hot male and I didn't know? Since when? No simple terms come to mind to describe him, except that he screams my type. From his facial hair to his height, to his roadman dressing style and his black Air Max 95s. Perhaps, his blond dreads need some work, but I'm willing to ignore his hair for now, considering that I didn't even go searching and a boy showed up, hopefully single and ready to mingle.

I want to say, it's not what it looks like. However, every time I try speaking, I feel my throat constricting, and as though my heart will spill out of my chest. Am I hyperventilating? Oh, somebody help me. Help me, Allah.

When I was younger and in a compromising position, I would laugh to get out of trouble. Being the youngest meant it was easier to slip away, and have my older siblings and parents be lenient.

So, somehow as if I have regressed back to my childhood, on its own will, a giggle tumbles past my lips and out in the open where the boy stares at me as if I shouldn't work at a nursing house, rather I should be a patient in a psychiatric facility.

Then a smile splits across his face, like the sun on a snowy day, finally promising the arrival of warmer days.

"I'm not sure what's going on, but if I could have my shirt back..." he reaches out a hand for it, but in a hurry I toss it toward him, not giving my brain the chance to process his action. Oops.

A pair of ladies' underwear hangs from the sweatshirt's sleeve. Both pieces hit his face and he takes a step back, removing it from his person. It does nothing to waver the smile on his face. "I'll just... leave now."

My heart is hammering against my chest, too fast for me to speak, to stop him and let him know that an unsuspecting elderly woman's underwear is attached to the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Once he disappears from sight, I lean against the laundry and release long breaths to calm myself. I quickly pull out my phone and text Ariah. It's a habit to inform her every time I make a fool out of myself. And that just so happens to be very often.