by K. S. Thomas
Only when I’m done, do I realize how heated I got. I’m standing, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, and judging from the two women standing two shelves down staring at me, my voice must have carried.
Greer looks thoughtful as she climbs to her feet as well. “What if you were married?”
“Huh?” It’s not the parting thought I expected to leave her with after everything I said. “I suppose it would level the playing field again. If I were married, no one could argue the likelihood of another heir, and being an unwed father clearly couldn’t be said of me anymore either.” It’s irrelevant though. “But my father retires in twenty-three days. I can’t exactly whip up a wife in three weeks.”
“No,” she agrees, a sly grin moving in over her mouth. “But you could hire one.”
CHAPTER NINE
GREER
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, and I hear them out loud, I realize they’re possibly the dumbest words ever spoken. But insane as it may be, it’s the only way I can see for right to be restored where wrong is so freely running amok.
“How would I hire a wife?” Lachlan asks, clearly not sure whether to laugh at the idea or have hope in it.
“Well,” I start, eyes rolling to the side. “You might not be able to hire a wife,” I amend my former statement. “But you could hire an actress. Who could play your wife.”
He chuckles, apparently opting to be amused by the sentiment. “That’s very sweet, Greer.”
“Not all that sweet,” I tell him. “I’d expect to get paid. We could work it into the divorce settlement.” Then it occurs to me their sexist ways might not be hip to the concept. “You can get divorced as King of Linden, right?” The royals in England don’t seem to have an issue with it.
“Greer,” he says, brows half furrowed as if he’s not committed to being certain I’m the one who’s confused here. “I can’t just show up with a woman and claim she’s my wife. They’d expect proof. There’d be a royal wedding.” He looks like he has more to say but can’t decide if it’s necessary to keep going.
“I’m aware it wouldn’t be simple,” I tell him, making sure I have my sanest expression locked on my face and the calmest tone carrying my words at an even, steady pace. “But, it’s not impossible. And if it is possible, which it is, then don’t you owe it to Mo to at least explore the idea?”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head and begins to pace again, stopping a few steps in to start saying something only to wind up speechless a second time. By the third effort, words finally surface. “You’d have to move to Linden. For at least a month. Probably longer to finalize everything.”
“Traveling for gigs is something I always have to be open to,” I say matter of fact. “And the timeframe is always flexible. Sometimes a show runs longer than expected, other times it gets canceled before we make it to opening night. It’s not anything I’m not already familiar with.”
He gives up pacing and takes up roots in front of me. “What about nannying?”
“Nora always has an agency on standby for when I get a gig.”
He nods. Another concern checked off his list, but I can’t tell if I’m winning, or he is. We should both be, but it doesn’t feel like we want the same thing yet. “What about the audition you just had? You were really excited about doing that play.”
I shrug. “I doubt I even get a part.”
He makes a face. “Now’s not the time to tell me you’re a horrible actress.”
“I’m spectacular,” I inform him with flair. “but they were looking for a blonde with a more traditional Cinderella look, which I clearly don’t have.” I won’t go into the many ways in which the director verbalized his ignorance and discrimination. Instead, I’m focusing on the impact I could actually have by taking this role. As fake queen of Linden. If showing up for even a couple of months clears the path for Mo to be queen one day in a country that currently has its head so far up its ass it’s facing the past instead of the future and can’t even tell the difference, I’ll have made a greater impact than any other part will likely ever offer me. Not to mention, Mo gets to grow up with her dad.
“You’re serious.”
“I am.” I check in with myself one last time, just to be sure. “Let me do this. Let me help you keep your daughter and your crown.” Possibly the strangest sentence I’ve ever spoken, and I was part of an Improv group for three years.
He starts to nod, then slows the gesture, eyes taking me in as if he’s seeing me in a new light. Only takes me a second to catch up to his next concern.
“I can look the part,” I assure him. “I’ll go see my girl, Maci, tomorrow. She’ll tame the mane and turn it into something more conservative.”
He still doesn’t talk, but his eyes move up my arm and catch on my collarbone and the tattoos in both places, probably wondering where else I’m marked with permanent ink.
“Everything can be covered,” I promise. “Trust me. I’m a chameleon. Just tell me how you envision your future queen to look and by the end of the week, that’s who I’ll be.”
If I meant that to be comforting, and I did, it doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. Now he’s gone from concerned to dissatisfied.
“I don’t want you to have to change anything,” he mutters quietly, gaze cast down at his feet.
“I appreciate that.” I move in a step closer, peering up at him to meet his eyes. “But I will. So that your stepmother runs out of loopholes. And so that someday, when you find your real queen, she won’t have to. And neither will Mo. Because we’re going to go in, play by the rules, win and bam – break the game.” I grin, hoping it will nudge him to smile as well.
“Break the game,” he says, as if he’s trying out the words for himself. “I like that.”
“So, do we have a deal?”
Finally, his head shakes up and down in a committed yes. “We have a deal.” His hand moves out in front of him, though it doesn’t go far because I’m still standing inside his circle of personal space. Ordinarily, I’d find it uncomfortable, being this close to someone, but Lachlan’s space doesn’t make me feel crowded. It makes me feel...home.
As soon as the word flashes in my mind, I step back, removing myself from his bubble. I’m quick enough to extend my hand and shake on our arrangement to cover the awkward motion, but it’s not as easy to recover my previous smile. So, I start talking. “Perfect. Well, if we’re getting married, I suppose you better meet my dad, AKA, Papa Reads”
I expect him to jump back in a panic this time, but he surprises me. “Papa Reads?”
“One of the kids started calling him that way back in the day. It was meant more like a request, like Papa reads?” I giggle remembering. “Just kind of stuck.”
“I like it. Papa Reads.” His grip remains steady on my hand and he starts walking, taking me along with him. “Alright, let’s do it.”
He gets to the end of the aisle and stops, turning over his shoulder to look to me for further instructions.
“Go right,” I tell him, pointing with my free hand. “All the way to the back.”
He does as told and next thing I know, we’re strolling into the children’s corner hand in hand. I can’t dwell on it though, because the sight that greets us is more than my heart can hold for the moment.
My dad is sitting in the rocking chair, perfectly content, two sleeping beauties curled up in his lap, one in each arm.
“I don’t think they’re ready for Shakespeare yet,” my dad says in a hushed voice, gently chuckling as he does.
“Still using that trick at naptime, huh?” I whisper, remembering all too well the years he put me to sleep that way. “Where’s Aiden?”
My dad doesn’t use words to answer this time. Just tips his head slightly left to the bean bag chair covered nearly completely by the quilt I was using earlier. If it weren’t for the patch of brown hair poking out, I’d have missed him curled up under it.
Speaking of missing
things, judging by the sly look in my father’s eyes, the fact Lachlan is still holding my hand hasn’t gone unnoticed by him.
“I’d shake your hand and introduce myself, but it seems we both have our hands full at the moment,” he says still whispering, sly look reaching from his eyes down to his mouth now.
It’s almost as if Lachlan forgot he was holding onto me. His gaze drops to his side and our intertwined fingers, palms melded to each other perfectly. I don’t allow myself to look, just revel in the feeling of it, one I haven’t felt in a long time. Then, the feeling passes. His hand slides from mine and he takes a step forward, this time moving without me.
“Lachlan. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lachlan says quietly, waving his hand awkwardly in lieu of a proper handshake. “Thank you so much for looking after my daughter. The fact she fell asleep in your arms, says more about you than you can imagine.”
My father’s smile shifts from sly to soft, and for a second, I think maybe he’s getting the wrong idea about things.
“He’s Chase’s brother,” I blurt out, before my father can say anything that might imply he’s having fatherly feelings similar to Lachlan’s at the sight of my holding his hand.
My dad grins. “I know.”
I suppose he would. I did mention he was coming by. And that Mo was Chase’s niece. “Want us to take the baby load?” I ask, changing the topic entirely.
“If you think you can move them from my lap to the nap mat without waking them.”
Lachlan’s brow scrunches up slightly. “Nap mat?”
I point at the foam mats laid out in the shape of a giant caterpillar in front of the corner windows. “They’re for tummy time and such, but the kids nap on them all the time when we come here,” I explain, already moving to scoop Liz out of my father’s embrace. We do this often enough that we have it down to a science now. His arm moves with her until she’s completely flush against my chest, never breaking from the comforts of body heat in the transition. Getting her down onto the mat is more of the same, except we trade the coziness of warm skin for a fleece blanket I grab from the basket in passing.
I’m just getting her settled when Lachlan shows up next to me, going through similar motions with Mo. Before long, both girls are successfully relocated and still blissfully lost in dreamland.
“Coffee?” my dad offers when we return to find an empty rocking chair still rocking in his wake. I turn toward his voice and am pleased to see him walking toward us from the coffee counter in the opposite corner, two mugs in hand.
“Always.” I smile, hurrying to meet him halfway.
“Thank you,” Lachlan says, catching up half a second later to take the second cup from my father. “This is perfect.”
“You haven’t even tried it,” I muse, watching him cradle the mug in his hands and appreciating the fact he savors the moment before he has his first sip same as I do.
“I know.” He smirks. It’s silly and entirely too adorable for my mental wellbeing. “But I’m sure it will be. Because all of this is.” His eyes travel around the store until they come back around to me and my dad. “This store. The kids sound asleep in this cozy place. You. Your dad. Our new plan.” He winks. “All perfect.”
My dad laughs, turning back toward the coffee counter and the third cup he left behind there. “There’s a plan?” he asks, his back still to us. “Involving my daughter and a man?”
“Don’t get excited,” I tell him. “It’s a plan to work together.”
I can see him nodding as he stirs sugar into his coffee. “Of course. That sounds more like you.”
Lachlan makes a weird face, but I push past it and pretend I don’t notice. “Thing is, I’m going to be gone for a couple of months.”
My father reaches for the creamer. “So, this is a nannying job?”
I shake my head, realizing after the fact, he can’t even see me do it. “No, it’s an acting job.”
My dad turns around, moving slowly and careful not to spill. He’s great at fixing coffees for others, but his own he always fills to full. “What sort of acting job?” I can’t tell if he’s curious or suspicious now.
“You’ll like this,” I tell him, “it’s like something straight off one of your shelves in here.”
“Oh, yeah?” His left brow arches, clearly intrigued.
Meanwhile, Lachlan seems just as interested in hearing me spell the gig out for my dad. “I can’t wait to hear this.” He chuckles quietly, raising his cup to his mouth again. I can’t help but feel it’s an intentional move depriving me of the opportunity to tell him to shove it while I’m selling my dad on the acting gig that could easily sound like a ploy to commit fraud if not told properly. Not that my father won’t be able to see through whatever fictional veil I attempt to drape over the matter. Still, I’d like to maintain some degree of respectability here, and Lachlan making fun of me right out the gate, isn’t helping.
“Imagine a prince,” I say dramatically, waving my hand in a wide arc through the air as if I’m setting the scene. “Prince Lachlan of Linden.”
Lachlan snorts.
My dad laughs.
I’m off to a rocky start, but I press on. “The prince, of course, is heir to the throne. Or, he would be, if it weren’t for his evil stepmother trying to steal his birthright out from under him to secure the crown for her own son...the spare.” I flash my eyes as I hiss the words. “Now, the only way Prince Lachlan can save his kingdom from the greedy, power hungry clutches of his step-monster, is to sacrifice his only child or,” I pause for effect, and also to make the following sentence the obvious solution...and not a ploy to commit fraud, “marry.”
“Ah,” my father says, understanding but playing along. “But how will he meet his future wife in the nick of time? A ball?”
“A bookstore.” I smirk. “A magic bookstore run by a fairy godfather who bestows the desperate prince his only daughter to take as his wife.”
My father’s eyes widen a bit and I have to give myself a mental pat on the back for delivering a plot twist even he didn’t see coming. “The spell won’t last forever,” he says slowly, though I can hear the hint of a question in his tone.
“Only until midnight on the final day of the second month,” I finish. “Then, the spell will be broken, the young maiden returned home, and the prince unmarried once more. All will be as it was, but for three significant differences. The crown will be his. The kingdom safe. And his daughter, forever, at his side.”
No one says anything for several seconds after I finish talking.
When the silence drags on too long to be bearable, Lachlan is the first to break it.
“Fairy tales aside,” he pauses, clearing his throat and looking about a hundred times more uncomfortable than he did when he had to tell me what he’s about to tell my father, “I really am a prince. And -” he shakes his head, chuckling, though I sense it’s more in disbelief than amusement. “Actually, I’m not sure there was any part of that story that wasn’t true. Though even I’ve never heard it put quite in those words.”
“You’re a prince.” My father’s lack of emotion suggests he’s still grappling with the whole concept.
“Prince Lachlan of Linden,” I remind him. “It was right there at the beginning of my story. I have to tell you, I thought it’d be a stronger opening. The kind that hooks you right from the start, not the sort you skim over and forget about.”
“Oh, I was hooked,” my father assures me. “I just didn’t realize it was more documentary than fiction.” He turns back to Lachlan. “Linden. You’re famous for your yarn.”
Lachlan laughs in surprise. “Yes. As a matter of fact, we are.”
“That’s a weird thing to know about a place, Dad,” I mumble, breaking away from our pack to refill my cup. “It’s also a weird thing to be famous for. When I’m queen, that’s the first thing I’m changing.”
LACHLAN
THE LONGER WE STAY here, chatting with Greer’s dad (Morton, I finally asked), t
he less crazy and impossible our plan feels. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, a desperate attachment to this glimmer of hope I’m being given by her, or maybe it’s because of how easy I’m finding it all to believe myself. The more we talk about our impending nuptials the less it feels like we’re playing pretend. There’s just something about being here, with her, with all of them, that feels natural.
“What’s the backstory of this tale then?” Morton asks, settling back into the rocking chair, this time sans two sleeping beauties putting his arms and legs to sleep. “You’re not going to have a formal ‘find a wife’ ball, I assume, but are you still running with the love at first sight trope?”
Greer, now sitting on a large pillow on the floor with her second cup of coffee, legs crossed like she’s about to go into deep meditation, makes a very non-Zen face at the suggestion. “Absolutely not. I thought he was a demon trying to rob me of my soul and coffee first time we met.”
I’m the only one still standing, mostly because I can’t decide between the couch which I could easily get up and down from, or the bean bag chair I want to sit in but definitely can’t get in and out of with the grace befitting of a prince. Every other piece of furniture in the children’s corner of the store is too small for me to sit in without having it be crushed by my weight or blasted to bits from the size of my frame. So, I stand. And return the grimace Greer just shot me. “A demon? How exactly did I look like a demon the first time we met?”