Seventy-nine:
Paisley Crawford
I didn’t care what anyone said. Prince Declan of Scotland wasn’t anyone else’s but mine. The first time he’d seen me, I’d been eight years old. I had gone to his birthday party. The month before, my Mother had died. In a plane crash. The last place I had wanted to be was at a birthday party surrounded by screaming, frightful children. I’d spent the entire time sitting by myself under a tree, ignoring everyone. I’d had a sketch pad and had been more involved with the sketch pad instead of paying attention to the other children. That included Prince Declan, who hated anyone who wasn’t paying attention to him.
As I was drawing, I found grass tossed on my sketch pad.
“You’re borin’,” Prince Declan declared loudly.
He was standing over me
