by Liz Johnson
The past faded, and there was only Miles, watching her with an inquisitive stare, as if trying to follow her wayward trek down memory lane. “So, are you saying you don’t like this tree?”
“This tree is perfect,” she admitted.
“Okay, then.” He nodded briskly, as if somehow securing the right tree rendered him worthy of some sort of masculine trophy.
“But isn’t it a little too nice?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her below his beanie.
“What about that one?” She pointed across the path. The much skinnier tree had seen better winters. It’d lost its stature. But despite the sparser leaves, the branches seemed sturdy and ready to celebrate Christmas. It deserved a chance.
Then the wind rustled, and a handful of loose green needles dropped to the ground.
Miles squinted at her.
She shrugged. “Sometimes perfect is overrated.”
His gaze darted back and forth between the two trees, as if trying to see what she saw. Then understanding lit his blue eyes. He stepped closer to her, his voice lowering. “You’re rooting for the underdog, aren’t you?”
Her chest tightened. “Perhaps.”
“Because you’re tired of everything being so regal all the time?”
A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “That’s one way to put it.” And an understatement, at that. She suddenly felt incredibly grateful for her yoga pants and furry boots—the likes of which her mother would have never allowed, even in casual company. And here she was, in public, of all things, in an ensemble that rivaled the comfort of her pajamas.
She liked America.
Miles rubbed his beard. “Well, I’m a sucker for a Charlie Brown tree, like I said earlier. I just don’t know if Mrs. Hough will agree—this is for her B&B, after all. I’m sure she’s going to expect it to look a certain way.”
The challenge of giving this tree the chance it deserved sparked something inside Eleanor—a little bit of Christmas spirit that had been long absent. Her heart swelled and she smiled. “It’ll look amazing when we get done with it. I promise.”
“We?” He jerked a thumb toward the skinny tree. “You expect me to help string popcorn and cranberries on this sucker?”
“Of course. You’re invested in this now, too.”
Miles snorted. “It’ll take more than my black thumb to make this thing look festive.”
Her previous bubble of inspiration hitched. “Do you doubt it can be done?”
He studied her, and his gaze slowly morphed from teasing to serious. “No. I think you’re capable of far more than you realize.”
Her breath shortened as he reached out and traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Then adrenaline jolted her heart with a jerk. She leaned slightly into his touch, his fingers warm against her chilled cheek. No one had complimented her that way before—not without wanting something in return. His intentional words, his gentle caress, implied nothing but genuine honesty.
Miles was a good man.
She could trust him.
And maybe she could also trust this little bloom of something undefined and terrifying blossoming in her heart toward him. Like a tiny bud in spring, attempting to peek through the slow-thawing soil of winter. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be sunshine and hope and possibility on the other side. A foreign concept, but one she wanted very much to consider.
Their gazes mingled together as his thumb moved across her jaw and down the side of her neck. She closed her eyes and shivered, yet not from the piles of snow crowding her boots. Who would have thought after the recent parade of princes that Miles—average Joe, small-town Miles—would be the one to send an electric current down her spine and possibilities traveling across her heart?
Brightloch suddenly seemed just a smidge farther away, and she was absolutely fine with that.
“All right. You’ve convinced me, Princess.”
Her eyes flew open at the sudden sound of his voice. “What?” Her heart thundered. Had he interpreted her thoughts? Had she accidentally spoken them out loud?
“That we’ve found our tree.” He shot her a wink and gestured to the tree salesman that they were ready.
A few buzzes of a chainsaw and a wad of cash later, and they were on their way—with a perfectly imperfect tree secured to the roof of the limousine.
He was falling for a Princess.
And she had no idea who he was.
Liam slid out from under the frame of the lifted luxury sedan and tossed the wrench he’d been using back into the toolbox near the front passenger tire. He sat up from the rolling creeper, rubbing his hand over his beard. The short hairs scrubbed against his calloused palm, and he realized with a start he enjoyed having evidence of hard work printed on his hands. If he wasn’t driving Eleanor or another client around, he was tinkering under the hood of the imported vehicles, changing oil, or whatever else his uncle conjured up for him to do in the garage.
It beat sitting around watching the news blare in the office—and for now, it beat being back home, where Christmas and all the magic of the season melted away under the California sun.
But something about Eleanor made him look forward to the rapidly approaching holidays, the ones he’d been dreading just a few weeks ago. She’d brought her own form of magic into Tinsel.
Their tree-shopping adventure yesterday lingered in his thoughts. He’d almost kissed her, right there in the tree lot, like a big idiot. Like he hadn’t just sworn to do the exact opposite and keep his distance regarding all things romance. But the way she’d halfway closed her eyes made him think she’d wanted to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss her, and it’d almost done him in. Thankfully, he’d caught himself in time and mumbled something dumb about finding the right tree.
And yet, the thought of the almost-kiss warmed him about as thoroughly as if he’d made contact. Which was dangerous. He’d come here for a temporary break from his family drama, but had found a much deeper respite in her company.
Great, now he was even thinking like her. Found a deeper respite in her company? He braced his head in his hands, adrenaline pumping a coarse rhythm in his veins. He had it bad. Really bad.
“I know that look.” Uncle Albert’s voice sounded across the garage.
Liam looked up as his uncle approached, a grin not unlike his father’s stretched across his face, along with a smear of oil streaking his jaw. Liam couldn’t help but smile. His uncle had found a respite of sorts in Tinsel, too—privacy. A solid reputation. And the opportunity to protect and serve other celebrities looking for a moment of the same. “What look?”
“The look of defeat.” Albert crossed his arms as he leaned against the side of the limo parked adjacent to Liam. “Which means one of two things.”
This should be good. Liam propped his elbows on his bent knees. “I’m listening.”
Albert held up his pointer finger as if ticking off items on a list. “You aimed for the fence and struck out.”
He snorted.
“I agree. It was the least likely of the possibilities.” Albert held up a second finger. “Two, you realized you can’t possibly aim for the fence, because this girl is already out of your league, and now you’re bummed because you can’t try to win her after all.”
Liam stood up, wiping his hands on the back pockets of his jeans. “You forgot possibility number three.”
Albert raised his eyebrows.
“Your baseball analogies suck.”
His uncle chuckled. “Maybe. But my subtext is, what do you kids say? On fleek?”
“If I ever say that, please feel free to slap some sense into me.” Liam planted his foot on the creeper and rolled it like a skateboard toward the storage closet.
“Seriously, though.” Albert followed him, bracing open the closet door as Liam stashed the creeper inside. “You’re starting to fall for the princess for real, aren’t you?”
It would feel worse to admit it out loud. Liam shut the door and faced his uncle. “Th
is has nothing to do with my dad’s goofball suggestion.”
Albert rolled his eyes. “Goofball isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Well, I’m trying to stop using the words Neals typically use.”
“So that’s a yes. You’re starting to fall for real.” Albert shook his head. “You do realize you’re setting you both up for failure, huh?”
Frustration flared and he clenched his fist. “I’m not setting anyone up. I actually operate on honesty these days—I’m not my dad.” Liam brushed past his uncle toward the office, his head on overload. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. And he couldn’t chase them away with a beer anymore. He had to figure this out.
And unfortunately, the best option seemed to be denying himself. He just needed to enjoy the time he had with Eleanor for as long as it lasted—before they went back to their real lives—and chalk it up to a nice Christmas memory. He’d dive into his security business venture once he got back to the Golden State, begin the long journey of fully separating himself from his father’s money and influence, and think fondly of her every year when he glimpsed a Christmas tree.
That was it. That’s all they had.
Hopefully, she’d stop looking at him the way she did and make the effort a little easier on his part. And stop making him want to do mushy things for her, like bake Christmas cookies and hang glittery garland on too-skinny trees and sneak her hot chocolate in the middle of the night via a closed food truck.
“Hey Liam? One more thing.” Albert’s voice, a little more authoritative this time, reminded Liam he was technically employed through his uncle, and owed him respect.
Liam hesitated at the office door, then drew a deep breath and turned to his uncle. “Sir?”
Albert leveled his gaze from across the garage, arms folded against his chest. “Next time you’re trying to impress a girl, don’t strap a tree to the top of my limo.”
Chapter 8
Eleanor took a sip of the spiced apple cider Mrs. Hough brewed that morning and savored the taste of Christmas on her tongue as she scrolled through her overflowing inbox of emails on her laptop. Her administrative assistant, Evan, would be taking care of the more routine duties, and her mother’s staff would handle anything beyond that—but she couldn’t help but look. It felt odd to stare into the window of her old life and think of someone else doing her job.
It bothered her a little…but why? She didn’t want the role anymore. Wasn’t that the whole reason she was here?
She was free. She could drink anything she wanted and eat anything she wanted while wearing anything she wanted, and not be confined to the rules of war, so to speak. She could sob in public and smear her makeup and eat oysters to her heart’s content—figuratively, of course, as she determined yesterday via take-out that she didn’t actually like them.
So why did it irritate her that she couldn’t respond to any of these pressing items?
She drew her mug close across the table, and the cinnamon scented steam wafted into her face. She gazed through the open blinds of the kitchen window into the snow-scattered town square, and she knew. She wasn’t leaving Brightloch because she didn’t care anymore. She was leaving because of how much she cared, and how little that mattered. If she had a true voice, she could surely put up with the monotonous restrictions on her schedule and wardrobe and diet.
She kept scrolling.
Then the next email made all the reasons why she left come crashing back—an inquiry from the children’s director of the Brightloch hospital, politely checking on the status of their last meeting.
Eleanor’s stomach clenched and she shoved the mug away from her. There had been no update to give until the recent rejection, hence her current delay in providing one. And now, she couldn’t.
Would Evan shoot off a heartless form response? Or would he pen something personal and compassionate, as Eleanor would have done, explaining the lack of funds available and the hope to secure them at a future date? Or would he ignore the entire plea and chalk it up to just one more thing the Crown couldn’t do for its people, and callously move on?
Maybe she’d acted too hastily by telling the hospital director she hoped to secure funds for the children’s wing improvements before getting them officially approved by the council. But at the time, she’d been emotionally driven by the faces of the children there and moved with empathy.
Now, she was just emotionally driven and empty-handed of resources.
She shut the laptop with a thud.
Mrs. Hough strolled into the dining room, wearing a red and green sweater adorned with a gold reindeer pinned by the collar. She smiled as she set her mug on the table by Eleanor’s. “How’s your morning, dear? Can I heat you up a leftover scone?”
“No, thank you. It appears I’ve lost my appetite.” Maybe she’d already lost a lot more than that. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“Rough day already?” Mrs. Hough tilted her head, lips slanting to the side in sympathy. “Can I help?”
Eleanor wished the older lady could—and she wished she had an answer to the tug of war in her heart. She didn’t want to go back to Brightloch. If her presence there mattered so little, what good would it do to be inside the country’s borders? Wouldn’t it be easier to make a clean break and start over somewhere fresh? Somewhere like Tinsel?
Neither option sat well in her spirit.
She forced a smile at Mrs. Hough, grateful for the kind woman’s attempt to help a near stranger. “I don’t think so. But thank you.”
“Well, I’ll just be in the living room enjoying that beautiful tree of yours, if you’d like company.” She patted Eleanor’s shoulder before taking her own mug and leaving the room.
Eleanor fought back the wave of tears pressing against her eyes. But these tears were more angry than sad. The sad tears had been spent the day that she, as a pre-teen, left her father’s guarded bedside the night before he died and snuck into the children’s wing of the Brightloch hospital, unable to stand the sight of his labored breathing one more moment.
The children’s wing had breathed life into her, even as it drained from the king. The primary-colored walls adorned with festive circus animals brightened her mood, as did the faces of the polished staff as they entertained children with balloon animals. An eager volunteer had come in that evening and given every patient a brand-new teddy bear, and the excitement in the ward had been palpable. She’d played a card game with a bald little girl for nearly two hours and for that brief time, didn’t think about what was happening on the floor above.
It’d replaced, for however briefly, the stench of sickness and pending grief.
Now, the once brightly-colored walls were chipped and faded, and the children didn’t smile nearly as often as she remembered. There were fewer volunteers, no give-away treats, and the overworked and understaffed nurses were frazzled and rushed. The wing badly needed a makeover and additional workers.
And her own council had rejected the request.
Another guest wandered past the doorway of the dining room toward the foyer, and Eleanor abruptly wiped her eyes and straightened. No one could see her cry. But wait, that didn’t matter here in Tinsel, as it did back home.
Regardless, there was no use mulling over things outside of her control.
She quickly took her empty mug to the kitchen and deposited it into the sink, then grabbed the nearest magazine from the basket in the foyer where Mrs. Hough kept an array of packaged snacks and reading material. Miles would be arriving soon for their next round of errands—and she highly anticipated a run for Cheez-its while they were out. In the meantime, she might as well occupy her brain with America’s frivolity and distract her wayward thoughts. She flipped open the glossy pages as she headed slowly to the stairs.
The face of the Neal family stared back at her in a collage of photos, a mishmash of dark-haired, beautiful people, including the patriarch, Vincent Neal. There were several photos of the beautiful, curvaceous Tristan Neal, though
the shots weren’t as flattering as usual. She appeared hung-over and puffy-eyed in one. Another showed her face twisted in anger as she confronted a reporter on the streets of L.A.
One larger shot in the center of the collage commanded her attention—a candid of the family favorite, bad-boy Liam, crossing the street in a crisp suit, a harried look on his face as he left the local courthouse.
She shook her head as she paused at the foot of the staircase. Always drama. Eleanor had staff specially trained to help keep her family out of the worst of the media circus—but there was something to be said for not having anything to give the reporter-hounds means to gossip about in the first place. The Neal family apparently knew nothing of such wisdom.
Liam Neal was handsome, she’d admit, even if he was immature and foolish. He was probably one of those men who looked good on paper, but would annoy her to death on a date with his inherent selfishness. The dates her mother had set her up on might have bored her, but they did possess propriety. It must be too much to ask for a man to be both engaging and mature.
Miles flickered to the forefront of her thoughts. He was slowly revealing himself to be the best of both—even if his maturity was somewhat unconventional. As for his appearance, well. Her grip tightened on the glossy pages. He resembled Liam a little, in coloring. But to her, Miles was much more attractive. He was genuine, honest, masculine.
And she’d never admit it to her mother, but she’d always admired a man with a strong beard.
“What’cha reading?”
Eleanor gasped, the periodical slipping from her fingers and landing on the wooden floor. She turned to face the sudden male voice that echoed across the foyer.
Miles smiled at her, gray beanie securely in place. “Mornin’, Princess.”
Her heart thundered like a summer storm. She exhaled abruptly to release the adrenaline. She hadn’t even heard the door open. “Where did you come from?”
His grin turned lazy. “Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much—”