Free At Your Service by Jen Malone Page A

guests a little printed photo book when they check out, so they can remember all the fun they had in Manhattan. It’s part of the patented Concierge Chloe package. While Ingrid’s smile is genuine, Sophie’s is plastic, and Alex’s is all “I’m cute and I know it.”
    At least I’m the only one snapping photos. None of the newspaper photographers who showed up to cover the initial arrival have made an appearance today, which I’m guessing means they’re more interested in the king and queen than their kids.
    So I don’t get it. Except for Ingrid, why on earth do they look so bored?
    At least Paisley is meeting us at Serendipity, and she gets along with everyone on earth, so maybe she can helpbreak the ice. We make the round-trip and get off the tram on the East Side, where the two matching bodyguards hop off first to clear a path through the nonexistent crowd. Oh, and when I say matching, I really do mean matching. Hans and Frans are identical twins and, in their coordinating black suits, you really couldn’t pay me to tell you who is who. One of them (Frans?) crashes down the stairs and keeps anyone from ascending to the tramway platform while we file down the metal steps. Hans brings up the rear. He keeps looking around like ninja assassins are going to come swinging down from the rafters at any second. Guess no one told him New York actually has a super-low crime rate. I
    Bill has the limo door open for us by the time we reach street level.
    I’m still getting a little tongue-tied when I try to talk directly to Alex, so I look at Sophie as I say, “Your Majesties, if you’d like to ride, please feel free, though we’re only going about half a block up Sixtieth.”
    Ingrid grabs on to my hand and squeezes. Ha! At least someone likes me.
    â€œWe’ll walk,” says Sophie. Then she takes off at a glideahead of me. Alex saunters along behind her like he owns the street (of course, back home, I think maybe he actually does own the roadways). I yank Ingrid along as we catch up and overtake them. I’m certain my weird speed walk looks nothing like Sophie’s graceful swishing, but I’m too annoyed to care. Hans and Frans trail us at a respectful distance.
    Ugh. This could be a long day.
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    I . It’s true. Really. Google it.

Chapter Thirteen
    W hen we reach Serendipity, Paisley is leaning against the iron-scroll fence next to the entrance. I’m super thrilled to see her, although, whereas I am dressed in another black business suit and short, patent-leather heels, Pay has on a pink Yankees hoodie, jeans, and canvas sneakers. Ergh. Does she not realize this is royalty we’re spending the day with?
    I motion Sophie and Ingrid to stop in front of Pay and wait for Alex to finish his casual stroll. Seriously. It’s like he has a MAKE WAY FOR A PRINCE sign on his chest. I half expect the elephant parade Prince Ali Ababwa had to announce his arrival in Aladdin . Pay, to her credit, does not actually drool, though a helicopter could land in her open mouth. I step on her foot with my heel.
    â€œOw!” she yelps, and grabs her toes, hopping a little.
    Ignoring her, I say, “Paisley, may I present His Royal Highness the Prince and Her Royal Highnesses the Princesses of Somerstein.”
    Pay places her foot back on the ground and sticks out a hand. “Hey. I’m Paisley.”
    I want to slap her forehead. Hey? Really, Pay? Hey?
    â€œHello there. I’m Alex.” Alex pumps Pay’s arm. “That’s Sophie and Ingrid.” Both wave and smile genuine smiles.
    Huh.
    Well, whatever.
    â€œThere’s a gazillion-year wait, like there is every Saturday,” Paisley says next.
    â€œNot for us, there isn’t,” I reply. I slide past the clusters of tourists jamming into the tiny front part of the restaurant, where they sell souvenirs and little gift-type stuff. In less than three minutes’