Courting Royal

Chapter Three

"So what are you going to do?" Olly asks as we both stare at the photo.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going write about attending a Yankees game with Emilia Davenport?"

"Um."

"Mags," he says. "You have to."

"Do I?" I ask.

"You run a website about the Davenports. You hung out with Emilia Davenport today. Of course you have to write about it."

I know I should agree with him. I should be running home so that I can get to my computer and write the story. I should post the photo without a second thought.

But, I kind of just want this to be mine. Something I don't share with the wider world.

I told him everything about today, except for the part where Emilia basically instructed me to move to London. I don't quite know what to make of that yet, or how I feel about it.

"I don't know," I say. "I mean, yes, I know I should post everything. But, I almost feel like that would somehow invalidate all the reasons why Emilia wanted to meet me."

"She didn't want to meet you because of your ethics," Oliver says. "Obviously."

"Hey now," I say, defensively.

It's true that I've run some not-officially-sanctioned photos of the Davenports before, and that I sometimes write fan-fiction about what her conversations with Ben must be like at home. But that's just fun. No one takes it seriously.

I do always list the photo source and photographer credit, and will let readers know when something isn't coming from or been approved by the royal family. And if the photos are clearly, like, taken from behind a bush, I don't run those. Because creepy.

Besides, Emilia said she thought I was funny and clever, and has read my posts enough to know about my relationship with my grandmother. That most likely means she has seen some of my less classy posts before and still wanted to meet me.

"You know what I mean," he says. "She must be expecting you to post everything. She didn't make you sign anything, so the entire day is fair game. I definitely think you should write about the winking security guy who tipped off both the barista and you. Now that's a story."

"That would possibly get him fired," I say, even though I'm not sure it would. He was obviously acting on behalf of Emilia.

Olly shrugs and finishes the last gulp of his drink. "So what are you going to do?"

My shoulders sag and I bury my face in my hands.

"I should write about it," I say, knowing that I should. My readers will go nuts over this. I'll probably get more column offers.

"Correct," he says.

"I should probably write about it on HuffPo, though," I say, my journalist senses finally kicking into gear again. "But I selfishly want to put it on Davenport Diaries."

"You could do both," he says. "Write a short piece on HuffPo and then link to a longer, more in-depth piece that's on your site."

"You're a cad," I say.

"I'm an opportunist," he corrects. "And, babe, I'm just looking out for you. You're crazy talented. It's a shame that a real news source hasn't scooped you up."

I can't help but bristle at that. Oliver interned with Daily Intelligence and was lucky enough to be offered a full-time position out of college. I interned at papers too, but none of them had positions open when I was looking for jobs. He knows this.