by Liz Johnson
If she was going to miss anything about Brightloch, it was the way her country decorated for the holiday. Something about Christmas décor made the ache from missing her father ease a touch. It’d always been his favorite time of year. They’d press chocolate chip buttons onto snowman-shaped sugar cookies, with classical holiday music crooning in the background, mingling with the faint dusting of leftover flour hovering in the air…
“So. Come here often?” Her driver glanced at her again. This time she noticed his eyes—while still teasing—were significantly blue. Striking, even, against the dark gray hat. Regardless, he must not be used to formerly addressing the royal family. Small talk was frowned upon.
“Miles, did you say?” After his confirming nod, she looked out the window at the passing gray-shrouded sky that blurred with the concrete freeway. “Miles, your constant jokes remind me of a quote.”
Amusement lit his face as he changed lanes. He couldn’t be much older than she. “Please, tell me. I beg you.” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice an octave. “I mean, I implore you.”
“Hysteria is only possible with an audience.”
He snorted. “Does that mean you’re rejecting your position as my audience?”
“I’m no one’s audience.”
“Prefer the spotlight on you, huh, Highness?”
Actually, no. That’s why she was here. But that was none of his business. Indignation flared—made worse by the fact that she couldn’t stop appreciating the intolerable stranger’s eyes. “I’d like to speak to your manager upon our arrival. Please provide a business card at once.”
He shook his head with a short laugh as he exited the freeway. “Brightloch, right? Is everyone in your country so…forthright?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is everyone in your country so brazen?”
Appreciation glinted in his gaze. “Touché, your Highness.” He tilted his head. “And, to answer your question—probably.”
The honest response soothed the raw edges of her aggravation. The tension in her shoulders eased a notch. She lowered her chin. “Same.”
“You do realize that quote is from an American, though?”
She knew. She’d assumed he wouldn’t. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Victory lit his overpowering blue gaze. Perfect. She’d been in America for about forty-five minutes, and had already lost the upper hand to a snarky chauffeur. She could almost sense her mother’s smug smirk from across the pond and the silent I told you so forming on her lips. That wouldn’t do.
Time to change the subject. She tugged off her gloves. “Please adjust the air. It’s getting warm.”
Miles reached up and fiddled with the dials below the dashboard. “At your service, ma’am.” He met her gaze again. “Can I call you ma’am?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, may I?”
“Any respectable title is acceptable, although you might want to work on responding only when being addressed.”
“I see. Is that a rule?”
“It’s a courtesy.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees, hating how ingrained and automatic every motion, every word, was inside of her. How would she ever break free of its grip? Normal women didn’t talk to their drivers this way, did they? Did normal women even have drivers? She could only imagine.
Then again, she’d never imagined she’d be escorted by such a curious—and antagonizing—blue-eyed specimen like this one.
He steered to the left. “Then am I allowed to tell you that we’re here?”
The sullen skies full of threatening snow had darkened with the rapid approach of evening, and now twilight gave way to what must have been hundreds of strands of twinkle lights draped across quaint store fronts. Black lampposts, like something from a fairy tale, stood at the ready in intentionally spread out stations down the streets. A white lattice gazebo stood guard in the center of town, directly across from a hardware store, a coffee bar, and a vintage record shop.
Charming. It was all so charming and so very opposite Brightloch and her ultra-modern updates.
“It’s lovely.” Eleanor fought the urge to press her nose against the glass to see as much as possible as the limo steered serenely down Main Street toward her designated B&B. She’d learned on the flight over that B&B stood for Bed and Breakfast, which was a good thing, being breakfast was her favorite meal of the day—a fact that displeased her mother to no end. One shouldn’t start their day with endless carbs, Eleanor. That correction blended with a dozen others over the years. Chin up, Eleanor. Shoulders back. No autographs, Eleanor—even if they beg.
And her least favorite. A princess doesn’t grieve in public, Eleanor. Dry your eyes.
She could still feel the irritating scratch of the white lace handkerchief against her cheeks.
“I’ve heard they do a lot around here at Christmas time,” Miles said, jerking her back to the present. “There’s a gingerbread contest, a parade on Christmas day, and a street that’s always lit up—the neighbors there go all out, like something out of Christmas Vacation.”
“Christmas Vacation?”
“A movie. You’ve never seen it?” His dark brow furrowed. “Brightloch is on planet Earth, right?”
“Very funny. I thought you were a professional driver, not a comedian.” She looked away as the limo stopped in front of a two-story, muted-yellow structure with a turquoise front door. A swinging wooden sign above the wrap-around porch read Snowflake Cottage in cursive letters.
Her irritation fell back and peace filled the empty space. Snowflake Cottage—her temporary new home. It already felt more welcoming than her imposing castle in Brightloch.
Miles shifted in the driver’s seat to face her. “Hang tight where it’s warm. I’ll bring your luggage to the porch, then come back for you.”
She assumed “hang tight” meant “wait,” so she did, soaking in the view of the B&B. It wasn’t impressive by anyone’s standards, but it looked clean and boasted a seemingly fresh coat of paint—and best yet, it didn’t contain a single servant. Or her mother. Therefore, it was downright delightful.
Her door opened. Miles extended his hand to help her from the limo. She accepted it and swung her legs out, knees together as practiced a million times despite the modest length of her skirt. A princess can’t be too careful. Maybe over the next few weeks, the queen’s voice would fade.
Eleanor straightened, but Miles continued to hold her hand. In the car, she hadn’t noticed the close-cut dark beard trimming his square jaw or the breadth of his shoulders. This close, she noticed. That definitely wouldn’t do.
She tugged at her hand, but he resisted with a wink. “By the way, that whole exchange in the limo—your man told me to make sure you felt as normal as possible.”
She paused, frowning. “My man?”
“Jackson, right?”
She swallowed back a gasp. Jackson told him what? Impossible. “I don’t—”
Humor lit Miles’ eyes, somehow now even bluer in the glow of the cozy lamplight above. “Something about treating you like a regular citizen and your needing to escape the crown for a bit. Did it work?” Without waiting for an answer, he let go of her hand and she automatically flexed her fingers against the electric tingles charging up her arm.
A knowing grin slid across his face. “Still want that business card, Princess?”
If there was one thing Liam Neal knew, it was beautiful women. He’d dated them, befriended them, dumped them, and danced with them…though not always in that particular order. Up until about a year ago, anyway, when he’d finally seen the light—the fluorescent ones of the emergency room. With whiskey breath and zero memory of the incident that had totaled his car and landed him on a gurney, he’d made a life change.
Unfortunately, no one else in the Neal family dynasty seemed ready to accept it.
And no one in America seemed ready to believe it.
He tugged his gray beanie off his head—the dang thing always itched his scalp after a few hours—and watched from the shadow
s of the limo as Eleanor—Princess Eleanor—made it safely inside the B&B.
Miles Channing. The nickname already fit pretty snugly, and he’d only worn it for about three weeks. The alias was perfect—Miles was his grandfather’s middle name, and Channing was his sister’s middle name. Familiar enough to not slip up, but vague enough to be discreet.
Moonlighting as a chauffeur at his Uncle Albert’s car service hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d expected when he left California exactly nineteen days ago. His counselor had recommended he “take some time, get his head on straight” after his father’s latest scandal, so here he was, sans flip-flops, driving famous people around while hiding his own identity as a Neal. So far, Tinsel was just cold.
Until the Princess’ arrival, anyway.
The curtain on the upstairs corner window twitched. Speaking of...
Her lilting accent still rang in his ears. It was a cross between British and something a little softer, but equally formal. He grinned as he put the limo in reverse. She’d felt that connection too, when he’d held on to her hand. Instant chemistry. He still wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised. He couldn’t believe he’d acted like that with her, so forward… he just couldn’t resist teasing her a little, especially after obtaining Jackson’s instructions to help her feel normal. It seemed like that coat of hers was buttoned a little too tight.
Why was she here?
Hopefully, she’d never know why he was. His father, Vincent Neal, had done plenty of damage this time. Liam had pried the latest gossip magazine out of his uncle’s hands yesterday, just in time to see his own name as a leading headline. Thanks, Dad.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He might be nearing his thirtieth birthday and still unsure what he wanted to be when he grew up, but he knew two things he didn’t—a professional chauffeur.
And anything like his father.
Chapter 2
“Rise and shine, dear!”
The bright and cheery greeting jolted Eleanor from sleep simultaneously with a sturdy knock outside her bedroom door. She sat upright and grimaced as she tried to orient herself.
Not Brightloch. America.
Tinsel, to be exact.
And apparently, it came along with an overzealous B&B owner. What was the woman’s name whom she met last night? Right. Mrs. Hough. Sweet lady, with poufy, gray-streaked hair and wise eyes.
Eleanor’s own hair fell in her face and she shoved it back, squinting at the sunbeams pouring through the blinds and leaving strips of light across the carpeted floor. She’d never had carpeted floor. Oriental rugs over hardwood, yes, but never actual carpet. She’d buried her toes in it last night after taking a shower, all while trying to shake off the lingering image of the flecks of black from the bathroom tile. Clearly, this B&B had never experienced the adequate cleaning brush of her family’s long-term maid.
Mrs. Hough must not have ever experienced jet lag, either. Why she was trying to rouse her so early? Eleanor hid a yawn with her hand and fumbled for her cell phone. 9:45 a.m. Uh oh. She’d slept later than she meant to. Her stomach growled on cue and she pressed her hand against it.
A knock sounded again outside her door, followed by a scrape and a clank. “You’re the last one up, dear! I’ve got your breakfast ready for you. Bacon and eggs!”
Room service? Eleanor frowned. Mrs. Hough meant well, but Eleanor really didn’t want special treatment. She could certainly make herself presentable and come downstairs like the other guests. That was the whole point—blend in, act normal…be normal. She had a choice to make about her future.
Never mind the fact that her mother thought she’d already made it for her.
Her stomach growled a second time. First things first. “Just a minute, please!” Eleanor swung her legs out of bed, hating that she already somewhat missed the silk sheets back home, and cinched her robe around her waist. She quickly gathered and smoothed her long hair over her shoulder and dabbed the corners of her eyes, then swung the door wide with a gracious smile, one she’d practiced and bestowed readily upon the people of Brightloch.
Then her smile, the one that regularly made magazine covers, faltered. Not Mrs. Hough.
Miles.
He braced one hand against the doorframe, the other holding a tray of food. Her food. “Ready to go, Princess?” His eyes skirted over her robe and he smirked.
“I most certainly am not.” She debated between clenching her robe closed tighter or grabbing for the food before his sarcasm could taint it. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up.”
Her heart raced and she covered it with her hand, her skin flushing warm with embarrassed heat. “But I didn’t call for you.”
“Ah. You must be forgetting about the explicit instructions regarding your schedule.” He pronounced schedule the way she had last night, though she had little doubt that was how he normally would. “Remember? Ten o’clock pick up for…what’d you call ‘em? Sundries?”
Oh, yes. She had requested that. Before she’d even left Brightloch, she’d written out a rough itinerary of things to do to get acclimated in Tinsel—the first being a run by a general store for essentials to stock in her room. A stop by the library was next, and if she recalled correctly, a local boutique after that, for some less formal attire. It’d be hard to feel natural in Tinsel with her current wardrobe.
Miles adjusted the gray beanie on his head. “I gotta be honest, Princess, I have no idea what sundries are, but hey, if they’re snacks, I’m game.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then I must be honest as well. I have very little idea what you meant by most of that horridly slang sentence. Nor do I care to find out.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, holding out her breakfast. “I assume this is yours?”
She took the plate.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” He leaned one shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. His very broad arms, over an even broader chest. “Bacon, or purchasing toothpaste and Cheez-its?”
She glanced down at the plate in her hands, away from his T-shirt pulling taut, and inhaled the rich aroma of breakfast meat. Then, begging herself for forgiveness at one last Princess-type-move, she lifted her chin and offered her most haughty, authoritative stare. “Both.”
Then she shut the door in his surprised face.
She’d been staring at the same bottle of nail polish for at least six minutes. That was after they’d already lingered in the toiletries section of the general store for roughly twenty minutes, and the packaged snacks another thirteen. You’d think the woman had never seen a box of Goldfish crackers before.
After Eleanor—Princess Eleanor—had taken her bacon and slammed the door on him an hour ago at the B&B, Liam wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed or impressed. He decided to go with the latter, because it was rare for a woman—or anyone—to treat him that way.
Then again, she didn’t know who he was—a huge blessing, because at least he knew her interactions toward him were genuine. Most women doted on him out of celebrity-awe or personal agenda. Usually both. A year ago, he’d have eaten that up and taken full advantage, but now, he was sick of the games. Honesty was much more appealing.
And once he finally got his new security business off the ground, he’d be able to prove himself capable—without using a single dime of his father’s money.
Liam eased up casually behind Eleanor, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, and stooped to whisper in her ear. “I think that one’s called Rebel Red.”
She jumped a mile, which he expected. He grinned. Then her fist swung out in a smooth karate chop, landing solidly against the side of his neck, which he definitely did not expect. He bent over double and grabbed the offended spot on his throat, sure to leave a bruise, and swallowed back a handful of the words he tried not to say anymore. “Ow, Princess.”
“I’m sorry.” She lifted her chin with dignity, but even he could see the pleased crinkle around h
er eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, which he couldn’t help but appreciate every time he glanced in the rearview mirror of the limo. “You shouldn’t sneak up on royals. I’ve been taking self-defense lessons since I was twelve.”
“I can see that. Tell your instructor I said well done.” He gave an experimental cough, then cracked his neck to the side. “Are you going to pick one of these puppies or what?”
She set the bottle of red polish back on the shelf. “I can assure you, if there were puppies here, I’d pick one. But that wouldn’t be a timely process, either.”
Ah. So she wasn’t impossibly prim and proper. Just mostly. “Dog lover, are you?”
“Yes.” The gleam in her eyes surpassed the level of calm in her tone, which he reckoned she was forced to stifle often. “We have dogs at the castle in Brightloch, but they’re for show or for protection, never for enjoying.”
“That’s too bad.” He had a Golden Retriever named Digs back home, currently under the care of his maid. He’d actually Skyped with the pooch last night—not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. It didn’t exactly fit his reputation.
But then again, wasn’t that one of the things he was trying to change? Not that anyone was letting him. Maybe he should start sharing Digs with the media. But man, he shouldn’t have to pawn his dog like that for the world to believe he was a better person. It exhausted him just thinking about it.
Speaking of exhaustion. “Hey, if you want to make it to the library before New Year’s Eve, I suggest we leave soon.”
Eleanor ignored him, calmly plucking another bottle of polish from the offerings on the shelf. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
Personally, he’d go for that bright pink a row down—it suited her. He’d bet the name of it was even Princess Pink. “I beg to differ, as would my family.”