Surprise Packages

by Layla Valentine

  Maybe I wouldn’t even be believed. Maybe the king would assume I was a chaser of gold or titles, trying to get attention. Maybe, after hearing that Alex and I had indeed met in California, he would assume that now I was lying, trying to leverage our meeting for power or fame.

  Maybe he would convince Alex that I was lying.

  I hate this. I hate thinking these awful things about a man I don’t even know. But how can I trust him with my future and the future of my child, especially knowing what happened to his brother when he was in this situation? Enzo Gosar was removed from the throne, and Donato Gosar benefited directly from that removal. I can’t put my faith in such a man.

  So what’s left? Do I send Alex a letter with no information in it, asking him to contact me? He won’t, will he? This is the same conversation we had as he was leaving. It’s better for us to cut ties and not try to hold on to each other, that was Alex’s opinion. And if I write to him now, even if I say I have something important to talk about, he’s just going to think I’m trying to revisit that question. He’s going to assume I’m writing to him to reestablish contact and for no other reason.

  He might even throw my letter away unopened. He might consider it too painful, reading my words, hearing what he’ll assume are going to be pleas for reconnection.

  There’s no point in trying to establish contact this way.

  And, I realize heavily, that means there’s only one option left. There’s only ever been one option. I think it’s been in the back of my head since the little plus sign appeared on that pregnancy test. I think I knew when I was searching for information on Avaran and saw the pictures of the narrow, cobbled city streets and brightly colored buildings.

  I’m going to have to go there.

  I’m expecting it to feel like a chore. I’m expecting to dread it. But as soon as the decision crystallizes in my mind, I’m surprised by a fluttering of excitement. How long has it been since I’ve left LA, not including my brief trips home to Ohio? How long has it been since I’ve been somewhere new? I don’t even remember. And I’ve never been to Europe before.

  And I’ll see Alex again.

  At least, I have to hope that I will.

  I know it will be complicated. I know I can’t just walk up to the door of the palace and ring the doorbell. But I’ll have to figure out exactly how to put myself in contact with him once I’m there. Maybe Lizzie’s tricks will come in handy, and I’ll run into him getting coffee. And if not…I guess I’ll just have to speak to whoever’s in charge of admitting visitors to the palace and see if I can be granted an audience.

  It’s a long shot. But there’s nothing else for me to do but try.

  Chapter 10

  I want to leave right away, but life is never so accommodating, and I can’t disappear from filming or I’ll never be hired again. Fortunately, Martine has a family vacation planned in a few days, so we have a scheduled break in filming. It’s only for about a week, but it will be long enough for me to do what I have to do.

  Avaran is so small, it turns out, that I can’t buy a ticket directly there from the United States, so I end up with connections through New York and Rome. It’ll be the longest plane trip I’ve ever taken by a significant margin, and I’m not especially looking forward to being crammed into a metal tube hour after hour.

  I’m not afraid of flying, exactly, or of traveling alone, but I feel a need to let someone know where I’m going just in case something goes wrong. I decide, after careful consideration, on Gary Breyer, who has never been a gossip and who I think I can trust to keep sensitive information to himself. If Lizzie or Melissa find out I’m in Avaran, this thing is going to grow legs in a hurry. I shoot Gary a quick email explaining that I’m going on vacation for a week and that I just wanted to make sure somebody knew where I was, and I attach my itinerary.

  He must be at his computer because a minute later a reply pings back: “Have a great time! Let me know if you need anything.”

  With my trip planned and the details taken care of, the days start to flow together. Before I know it, I’m at LAX waiting to board the plane that will take me to Avaran and, hopefully, to Alex.

  The flight is interminable. I try to pass the time by watching movies on the little screen built into the back of the seat in front of me, but everything I find is either a shoot-’em-up-style action movie, which doesn’t appeal to me at all, or a story of lovers reuniting, which hits too close to home.

  The best thing to be said about the journey is that at least I haven’t been seated next to any overeager Royal Blue fans. The idea of spending the entire journey talking about the show and Princess Aeryn is overwhelming. I need to relax so I’ll feel calm when I arrive.

  The last plane, from Rome to Avaran, is shockingly small and largely empty. I have a whole row of seats to myself, which is unprecedented for me on a plane. I know Avaran isn’t a well-known place back home, but surely the Italians must know about it? They share a border. I wonder why so few people are traveling this direction.

  We land after just an hour, and I watch as a rolling set of stairs is wheeled up to the plane. I’ve never exited a plane straight into the outdoors before. Already this trip is foreign to me.

  I step outside into early morning, sunrise. It’s just a little off somehow, the air just a slightly different color and weight than what I’m used to back home. It’s not uncomfortable, and it’s nothing I can put a name to, but the difference is enough to be distracting. There’s something about Avaran that just doesn’t feel like home.

  I’ll have to ask Alex about that. He’s been to both countries. He’ll understand what I mean.

  Of course, first I’ll have to find Alex. And get him to agree to talk to me. And if we do get that far, I doubt we’ll be talking about the weather for quite some time. There are more important things to cover.

  Welcome to Avaran, I think to my baby. I’ve gotten into the habit of imagining that he or she can hear and understand my thoughts. Even though I know it makes no sense, it feels true, in a way. We’re so closely linked. We share everything right now. Why shouldn’t we share a mind?

  This is where your father lives. You don’t know it yet, but you’re royalty here.

  Well, that or an outcast. Or both.

  I feel a flare of anxiety. How are we going to be received here? I don’t think I’d be shocked by anything, from a welcome to exile from the country. It’s terrifying to face what’s in store, but I know I have no choice. I’ve made my decision. I’ve come this far.

  God, it all started out so simply. The purity of my attraction to Alex, my determination to get him into my bed, feels like a lifetime ago. How could I have imagined that an encounter like that would have no fallout? Even if I hadn’t gotten pregnant, I can’t ignore the fact that I’ve been mired in my feelings about him for weeks now. He’s proven impossible to get over.

  And now I’m going to be seeing him again.

  A vision of him, naked in my bedroom, flashes into my mind, and I close my eyes as a delicious shiver passes through me. That body. Those eyes. The way his hands felt on me all night long. The way I yearned to be closer to him, even as we became more and more intimate.

  I know it’s extremely unlikely that anything physical can happen between us again, and that’s going to make it even harder to face him than it would have been. And it’s going to make it doubly hard if he’s unhappy to see me.

  But how could he possibly be happy to see me? Alex must have been raised knowing the story of his uncle, Enzo, and the scandal that removed him from power. He’ll be mortified to find himself caught up in the very same situation.

  Inside the airport, the signs are in multiple languages. Luckily for me, one of them is English, and I’m able to find my way to baggage claim and then to the exit without too much trouble. There’s a line for taxis outside, and I join it.

  Once I’m inside a car, the driver says something to me in what I assume is Avaranian, and I hand him the slip of paper with the name
and address of the hotel where I booked a room. He looks at it and nods, shooting me a thumbs up.

  “English?” I ask.

  He shrugs and smiles.

  Just as well. I’m not sure I feel like talking.

  I settle back in my seat and watch as the Avaranian landscape surrounding the airport gives way to the city. It’s so strange that I was just looking at this place in the image results of an internet search, and now I’m really here. I can feel the cobblestones I noticed beneath us, rattling the car in a way I’m not used to. It’s different from driving on asphalt-paved American roads.

  The streets are narrower, and the rules of the road seem less stringent. My driver weaves in and out among traffic that doesn’t even seem to be staying in any particular lane. I’m glad I’m not the one driving, because I think I’d be completely spooked.

  The drive goes by quickly, and before I know it we’re pulling up in front of the hotel. It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is, because it looks nothing like an American hotel. It’s more like my idea of an old boarding school, with stone walls and a red tiled roof, columns and a walkway with arching windows. It’s not until I get out of the car that I realize I’ve forgotten to exchange my money.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to my driver, displaying a few American bills. “This is all I have…”

  He reaches into my wallet. It’s awkward, but he does it gingerly, pinching with two fingers as if he doesn’t want to disturb any but the bills he’s taking. He removes a twenty and a ten and shows them to me with raised eyebrows.

  I nod.

  He gives me another thumbs-up and drives off.

  Checking in goes easily. I give my name at the desk and receive a key with a room number on it. Finding the room itself is a little more difficult—none of the signs in this building are in English, and the receptionist doesn’t speak it either—but I follow the numbers and eventually find my door.

  It’s very different from an American hotel room. French doors open onto a balcony that overlooks the city. The floor of the room is tile instead of carpet, and the bed is a four-poster draped in mosquito netting. Do I need to worry about mosquitos here? I suppose I probably do if I sleep with those French doors open.

  I make a mental note not to do that.

  After a quick shower, washing off the stale feeling of the long hours of travel, I change into a fresh set of clothes. And just like that, I’m out of things to do. I’m here in Avaran, and I’ve got a whole day ahead of me.

  I could claim jet lag and take a nap, put off what I know needs to be done next, but I know I’d never get to sleep. My nerves have been jumping since we taxied to the runway at LAX. And now I’m here. I’m so close.

  It’s time to go to the palace and see how close I can get to Alex.

  The taxi driver seems highly amused when I hand him the scrap of paper on which I’ve written the address of the palace. He chatters at me in Avaranian—or, more likely, about me. I’m sure he knows I can’t understand what he’s saying. He’s probably making jokes about the tourist who came to Avaran to see the palace. He must deal with dozens of people like me every day.

  If only he knew the truth.

  I’ve noticed that I’m not being recognized here in Avaran the way I am back home. It doesn’t bother me—it’s a good thing, in fact, because it lets me move around a bit more freely than I’m used to. But I am curious about it. Royal Blue is an internationally famous TV show. Does no one in Avaran watch it?

  The taxi pulls up outside a large pair of wooden doors. The sign over them reads Tours in several languages, followed by a list of times. I glance at my phone. The next tour begins in an hour. I don’t want to wait that long.

  Fortunately, there’s a young woman sitting at a desk just inside the doors. The place has the look of a lobby. It doesn’t feel like part of a residence at all. Which makes sense, I suppose—the business of leading the country happens here too, it’s not just someone’s house.

  This woman has the look of a receptionist—she’s working on a slimline computer that completely fails to blend in with the rest of the space’s aesthetic. She’s flanked on either side by enormous, burly looking guards, and I imagine they’re here to protect the entrance to the palace as much as they are to protect her.

  She looks up when I come in. “May I help you?” she asks in accented English.

  Nothing to do but go for it. “I’m here to request an audience with Prince Alessandro.”

  The girl laughs. “His Highness doesn’t receive unscheduled visitors. I’m sorry. Would you perhaps like to sign up for the next tour of the palace?”

  “No, I need to see the prince,” I insist. “He knows me. Can someone take a message and let him know I’m here? I can wait.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” she says, rather patronizingly. “Tourists are not permitted to meet with the royal family. The prince is not going to take a meeting with you.”

  “Listen,” I say, hating what I’m about to do. “My name is Erica Steadman. I don’t know if you know who I am or not, but I play the character Aeryn Redfall on the TV show Royal Blue. I met the prince a few weeks ago when he was visiting Los Angeles—”

  I stop mid-sentence. She’s waving her hand for me to be quiet, an irritated look on her face.

  “Do you think I am a fool?” she asks. “I’ve seen that show. I know the woman you are talking about. Her coloring is different. And she is very fit. You do look somewhat similar, and maybe this has worked for you before, but this is the royal palace of Avaran, and we are not fooled by celebrity lookalikes.”

  My face grows hot. Of course my coloring is different under makeup and lighting! And I’m wearing loose-fitting clothes right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not in shape. Does this woman really think I’m an impostor? This has honestly never happened to me before.

  As I stand there, gaping like a fish, she turns to one of the guards behind her.

  “Please escort this woman off the premises,” she says. “Before she can make any trouble.”

  I can’t believe it. I stand like a statue, unable even to fight back or defend myself, as one of the bodyguards comes to life and moves toward me.

  “Erica?”

  The voice is familiar but drenched in shock and pain. I turn toward it with a confused rush of relief and apprehension.

  Alex.

  He holds up a hand to the guard.

  “Stand down,” he says, but he doesn’t approach me. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I—I came to see you…” I say, not knowing where to begin. The conversation we need to have obviously can’t take place in front of these guards and this rude receptionist. “I wanted to speak to you. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course it is,” he says, and for the first time, there’s real warmth and welcome in his voice. “God. Of course. Francesca, can you cancel my afternoon meetings?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly. “I can wait until you have some free time.”

  “Nonsense,” Alex shakes his head. “You came all this way. It’s the least I can do. And Francesca doesn’t mind rescheduling a few things, do you?”

  He glances her way, and automatically, I do the same. The woman’s face is as red as a sunset and she’s openly gaping, but she manages to nod.

  “Wonderful,” Alex says. “That’s all taken care of, then.”

  “And you’re sure it’s not a problem?” I say. “Really, I don’t mind if you need to go. I have a hotel here in town, and we can arrange a time to meet later and talk.”

  “Erica,” Alex says quietly. “You don’t need to be so accommodating. I want to see you.”

  My heart begins to race. Can that be true? Even though he left? Even though he decided it didn’t make sense for us to see each other again?

  “Shall we go somewhere we can speak privately?” Alex asks, cutting his eyes at Francesca the receptionist, who’s still hanging on our every word.

&
nbsp; “Where did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “I know a place,” he says. “Come with me.”

  And he takes me by the hand.

  Immediately, my hand becomes the most pivotal part of my body. I’m aware of every inch of it. I’m hyper-focused on how tight my grip is—tight enough to show him I want this, but not so tight as to seem clingy. It’s like walking a tightrope. And a little bit like coming home.

  He still feels something for me. Even if it’s only physical. There’s still something here.

  He leads me to an underground garage, to a dark blue car whose make and model I don’t recognize.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as I climb in.

  “To the coast,” he says.

  He starts the car and pulls slowly out of the garage. I can feel the thing rumbling with power, much more power than I’m used to, and I’m sure that once we get out of the city, it’s going to be incredibly fast. I don’t know what the speed limits here are, I realize, but if the traffic in town is anything to go by, speeding down the freeway is status quo. I’m a little nervous and a little excited.

  Maybe that’s just his presence, though.

  “There’s a private cottage on the coast,” Alex says. “A private stretch of beach. It belongs to the royal family, but no one will be there right now. We can spend the day out there and…no one will need to know about it.”

  “It’s a problem, isn’t it?” I ask. “People knowing about us.”

  “It’s something we need to be judicious about, that’s all,” he says. “I’m a public figure. So are you. I know you understand.”

  “I do,” I say.

  I understand better than he knows. I understand what happened to his uncle when he stepped out of line. Alex is almost certainly afraid of suffering a similar fate.

  Even though he doesn’t know I’m pregnant, it must make him nervous to see me and to know what I could reveal about our history together. Maybe he’s taking me out to the beach to talk me into keeping my silence.