Free Diplomatic Immunity by Brodi Ashton Page A

Lopez, but by the time lunch rolled around, I’d failed to bump into him. Maybe his security detail was making him take less obvious routes. Which meant that probably everyone else’s detail was doing the same thing.
    I decided to try to make friends with Giselle. But every attempt of mine looked like:
    Me: Hey, Giselle! I want to be friends!
    Her: You sound like a loser! Please leave!
    I found myself watching the DI kids at lunch.
    â€œQuit staring,” Mack said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAt Rafael. It’s kind of obvious.”
    Faroush nodded in agreement.
    â€œNo, it’s not. I’m looking out of the corner of my eye,” I insisted. “And I’m looking at all of them. Not just Rafael.”
    Mack gave me a skeptical look. “Look, you think he’s hot. You’re not the only one. But try to be a little more subtle.” She crunched on a piece of celery. Her lunches were always made up of water and water-based foods like celery and watermelon. I wasn’t sure where her actual calories ever came from.
    â€œI don’t think he’s hot. I’m thinking of a story idea.”
    â€œâ€˜Hot Boys and the Girls Who Pine for Them’?” she said.
    I threw a piece of cheddar popcorn at her. “No. This isn’t Us Weekly .”
    I turned to subtly glance at Raf from the corner of my eye, only he was suddenly standing two feet in front of me.
    â€œGah,” I said, surprised. But a good reporter can gather herself after a surprise. “Hey.”
    â€œHey, Pip.” He stood there for another moment and glanced at Mack and Faroush.
    â€œOh,” I said. “This is Mack. She’s brilliant. This is Faroush. He likes Mack. Guys, this is Raf. He has . . .” What could I say that didn’t make me sound like I already knew a lot about him? “Very white teeth.”
    The three of them awkwardly shook hands, and then Raf said, “Actually we’ve all gone to school together for three years. We’ve met.”
    â€œAh,” I said. “I guess that makes sense.”
    â€œI was thinking about our conversation the other day,” hesaid. “The one about how I’m out of touch with the peasants?” He smiled as he said this.
    Mack raised an eyebrow.
    â€œIt happens with royalty,” I said.
    Raf grabbed a chair, swung it around, and straddled it. “Tell me more.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout my problems.”
    â€œI’m not the kind of girl who goes around telling people what their problems are.”
    â€œAll evidence to the contrary,” Raf said.
    â€œYou don’t know me,” I said.
    Mack chimed in. “She is like that.” At my glare, she added, “But in a cool way.”
    â€œGive me your best shot,” he said.
    I tried to remember my rules of interviewing through conversation: Open-ended questions. Silence. No aggression. Trust.
    â€œOkay, for starters, how many people are involved in getting you out of bed and through your day?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I shrugged and remained silent. At least I could count on Mack and Faroush to remain silent too. They were good at that.
    â€œWell, my father’s assistant, Lidia, posts my schedule. The house butler wakes me up. The cook makes me breakfast. Then I get dressed. The chauffeur takes me to school, where I spend all day actually fending for myself.”
    â€œWith your security detail.”
    â€œYes.” He looked wary. “Then the chauffeur takes me home. The cook makes dinner, which is served by the waitstaff. Then . . . sleep.”
    â€œCook, chauffeur, assistant, security, waitstaff . . .” I ticked them off on my fingers and I could feel that earlier frustration, the tension between the haves and the have-nots, creeping up inside me. Reporters weren’t supposed to succumb to their feelings, and yet here I was, succumbing all over the place. “My only other question