by Liz Johnson
“And why not?” Gram looked regal in her rich purple gown, white gloves running up to her elbow and just beyond. “You’re my granddaughter, and if I want to say you look like a princess, then I will.”
“But people will talk.”
They already were, actually. Especially after Andrew had brought Charlie and Gram to Marvonia for New Year’s Eve and put them up in the best rooms in the castle. They’d dined with the king and queen each night and toured the beautiful country. After meeting some locals, Charlie understood why Andrew loved his country so much. And she would figure out a way to move here.
“Well, if Andrew has half a brain, he’ll make you his princess for real.”
Charlie brushed her fingers against the tiara in her hair that the queen had leant her and caught her reflection in the mirror. It sparkled even in the muted lighting. Having a real one—a royal one—and all the spotlights it came with didn’t sound terrible. As long as it came with Andrew too.
As they made their way down the grand staircase and were announced to the waiting ballroom, every set of eyes turned in their direction. She spotted Warner and Ginger standing off to the side, Ginger’s cast the only reminder of her accident. She’d insisted they travel for the ball as soon as her mother had been released from the hospital, certain to make a full recovery. Charlie nodded in their direction and Ginger waved brightly.
The king and queen watched her carefully too before their gaze darted to Andrew, who stood midway up the steps, his arm held out to her. The Duke of Something-She-Couldn’t-Remember helped Gram the rest of the way, and Charlie stepped forward. She hooked her hand into her prince’s elbow and beamed up at him.
“So, Prince. What do you predict for the coming year?”
“Oh, it’s going to be a good year—a very good year.”
“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow. “You sound quite sure.”
“As long as we’re together, how could it be anything less?”
THE END
About the Author
By day Liz Johnson works in marketing. She makes time to write late at night—that’s when she thinks best anyway. Liz is the author of more than fifteen novels, a New York Times bestselling novella, and a handful of short stories. A Christy Award finalist and two-time ACFW Carol Award finalist, she makes her home in Phoenix, Arizona, where she enjoys theater, history, and decorating for Christmas. She writes stories of true love filled with heart, humor, and happily ever afters. Find out more about her writing at www.LizJohnsonBooks.com.
Other Books by Liz Johnson
PRICE EDWARD ISLAND DREAM SERIES
The Red Door Inn
Where Two Hearts Meet
On Love’s Gentle Shore
Christmas at the Red Door Inn
GEORGIA COAST ROMANCE SERIES
A Sparkle of Silver
A Glitter of Gold
A Dazzle of Diamonds
A Tinsel Holiday
Ashley Clark
For Nathanael—may you always find Christmas as magical as you do right now.
Chapter 1
“Darling, don’t forget to keep your chin parallel to the stairwells as you descend. You are a princess, after all, not an ant.”
Mother was always saying Beatrix had her gaze up in the clouds. Beatrix ran her tongue over her teeth, a habit she’d developed so her lipstick wouldn’t hinder a photo-ready smile. “Yes, mother.” She held tightly to the grocery basket full of items, tucking her mobile device between her ear and shoulder as she scanned through the contents.
“Do enjoy your last week in America. When you return, you’ll be astonished at the décor your sisters have chosen for the palace this holiday. Simply lovely.” Mother cleared her throat, and Beatrix imagined her sipping from a floral teacup as she looked out over the royal gardens. “Perhaps your sisters, in turn, will be equally astonished if you return from the States with a fiancé.”
Not nearly as astonished as I.
Beatrix blinked. She hadn’t intended the thought. Charles was perfectly handsome, perfectly trained for royalty, and perfectly mother-approved. Marrying him was fairly inevitable, though she had to wonder—was inevitability the best basis for marriage, royal or otherwise?
The problem, of course, was Tyler James. The American journalist with whom she’d spent the most magical twenty-four hours of her life a full two years ago. Poor Charles wasn’t to blame. Simply put, no other man would ever be Tyler.
Her mother hesitated. “Surely you’re not still harboring doubts about Charles? But I’d hoped his presence on your tour of America might solidify your impressions for the better.”
Beatrix swallowed. “Speaking of Charles, he’s waiting on me now.” Outside of the store with our driver. “I love you, Mum.”
“I love you too, my little princess.” Well, at least there was that.
Beatrix placed her mobile in her clutch, just above the tube of red lipstick she carried at all times but never had the audacity to wear. When she returned to her grand home after this American tour, the pressure from her mother would increase in proportion to the watchful gaze of the media.
An array of Christmas-themed magazines on the stand beside the registers caught Beatrix’s attention. The covers were delightful, complete with quaint holly wreaths and candy cane recipes and gingerbread cookies so delectable-looking that Beatrix could almost smell them. Her kitchen was the one thing she had missed while on tour in America. Baking was a precious, rare escape from the role of being a public icon.
A tabloid just past the holiday magazines stopped her line of thought.
The headline, so dreadfully predictable that Beatrix nearly groaned. Nearly—not actually—she was a royal, after all.
MORE SCANDAL FOLLOWS PRINCESS BEATRIX. MANY SUSPECT A FALLOUT WITH ROYAL FAMILY IN FERRYRIDGE. RUMORS SWIRL ABOUT PARTIES, MULTIPLE MEN.
Parties? Tea parties, perhaps. Beatrix rolled her eyes beneath wide-framed glasses and shoved a container of single-wash hair dye and a bottle of cheaply-brewed iced tea toward the self-checkout register. Both items would give her mother a coronary incident, which was precisely the reason she was purchasing them. Not to kill her mother, that is—but because after twenty-one years of life she still hadn’t the slightest idea how someone may feel with unnatural red hair or why people bought stale tea.
On impulse, she added a tree-shaped Reese’s cup to her assortment of items, then paid at the kiosk and loaded her own purchases into her own plastic Target bag. She took one sip of the tea, nearly gagged, and threw the rest away.
Okay, so her mother was right about one thing.
The circular green Starbucks logo beside the store entry drew her nearer like a homing device. Yes, surely the beverage chain would know how to make a more proper cup of tea.
Charles and the driver were likely to have a fit as it stood, with her insistence upon shopping alone. But was it really so impossible for her to spend ten minutes having a typical experience in an American store?
They could wait two minutes longer.
Beatrix had all the intentionality of a woman on a mission, alongside the awful displeasure of having no destination whatsoever. Mother’s firm tone back home as she rolled that pearl necklace back and forth along her collarbone came to mind. You will marry someone of proper station, Beatrix Camellia Dawkins, and you will learn to become the proper princess I know you are.
First, saying goodbye to Tyler. Then, her mother’s reaction. Even now, the memory from two years ago soured Beatrix’s stomach, and she couldn’t get the aftertaste of stale tea from her lips. Running away, leaving behind a handwritten note at the palace may have been childish. Admittedly. But all she could think about as she tried to get over Tyler were those two details: the pearl necklace and the visceral panic. And all she could imagine now was how in a few months, if her mother and Charles had their way, this is what her life would be. Pearls and inner turmoil. Such a delightful combination.
As a princess, of course, Beatrix would publically ad
here to a long list of traditional roles and rules, many of which were obsolete and most of which were restrictive. The last thing she desired was a personal life just as dull. And yet, her mother insisted, as her mother often did. Beatrix knew deep within her trembling heart that after her little rendezvous with adventure, she would never again have the luxury.
So she must instead love Tyler within her own mind, her own heart. Love the memory of him and what might have been, had Tyler James not been an American reporter and she not been Beatrix Camellia Dawkins, Princess of Ferryridge.
“Ma’am?” The woman behind the register asked. “What can I get you?”
Beatrix started to order an Earl Grey with a splash of milk, then hesitated. She raised her chin. “I will take an iced passion fruit tea.”
The barista started to work on the beverage while Beatrix paid at the kiosk. Emotion tinkered inside her heart like a tin Christmas ornament in October, and she wasn’t quite sure if the feeling was excitement or nerves.
“You have a charming accent.” The woman put a lid on the tea. “You must be heading toward Tinsel.”
“I’m sorry?” Beatrix reached for the cup on the counter. That name sounded familiar. “Tinsel, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am. The little town up the way.” The woman pointed as if sure such a gesture would bring Beatrix clarity. Then she leaned closer, her voice hushed. “Movie stars and all sorts of important people go over there on vacation. Rumor has it that they even get the occasional royal. No media or paparazzi allowed. I just assumed with your accent and darling hairstyle…” The woman made a waving motion with her hand. “Forget I said anything. You enjoy your tea, sweetheart.”
“Sounds like a charming town.” Beatrix nodded gracefully, being sure to keep her shoulders raised because her posture was at least one thing that did not disappoint her mother. “I will remember that for my next holiday.”
But her heart began to race as she realized with sudden clarity why Tinsel sounded familiar. With her free hand, she pulled out her phone and checked her schedule. As she thought, the next two days were completely clear of activities—her mother had suggested a bit of time to sightsee at the end of the tour, which Beatrix suspected actually meant a bit of time to fall in love with Charles.
Beatrix stepped outside and took a long sip from her tea. The iced beverage was beginning to chill her hands. She wouldn’t linger outside any longer—snow was starting to fall in gentle sheets, blanketing the fresh day with a chance for new footprints.
She opened her own door before Harry—the driver, that is—could help her, and slid into the back seat with a smile toward Charles. “I have an update to our destination.”
The driver turned. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Tinsel, please.”
He pointed to the glowing Galileo device on his dashboard—oh, but in America those were called something different. GPS, perhaps? As the new directions loaded, he pivoted in his seat to face her. “Tinsel?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded and shifted the car into reverse. “The little Christmas town? If I may be so bold to ask, what takes you there, Your Highness?”
Memories of a dream.
Beatrix folded her hands in her lap to hide her giddy excitement—a trick her mother taught her from a young age—as she looked out her window at the falling snow. “Oh, you know. With the magic of Christmas and all, I’d just like to see what Tinsel has to offer.”
Chapter 2
Standing on a ladder several feet above the ground, Tyler James ripped open another bag of zip ties with his teeth as his four-year-old nephew watched wide-eyed. In retrospect, the whole plastic-in-his-mouth thing might’ve set a poor example to little Ollie, who liked to copy his uncle’s every move.
Tyler cleared his throat and pointed toward a long strand of garland, accented by large red poinsettia leaves. “Hand me that, would you, buddy?” He’d learned from time spent with his sister and Ollie that any poor example set for a preschool-age child could quickly be remedied by diversion. Or candy.
Ollie did as told, then watched as Tyler secured the garland from the top of the inn’s porch using the zip ties. In Tinsel at Christmastime, The Melody Inn’s porch was as legendary as the inn’s gingerbread scones, and since he hadn’t the slightest idea how to replicate the scone recipe, Tyler really needed to deliver with the décor.
He shaped the garland so it drooped down like an old-fashioned banner, then zip tied the next section and took a glance at the length of the porch. He sighed. This could be a while. But he had no choice. What was Christmas without plastic greenery?
Bah humbug.
No, the truth was, he enjoyed owning The Melody Inn—he did. The pace was slow, the guests were kind, and he had the opportunity to hear lots of people’s stories, which always had been his favorite part of traveling when he was a journalist.
But there were certain things he missed about writing. And by things, of course, he meant opportunities. And by opportunities…
Tyler cleared his throat. Never mind about that.
What happened in Ferryridge was worth all the sacrifices he’d made since. She was worth it all, indeed.
Tyler checked to be sure Ollie wasn’t standing behind the ladder as he stepped down, then moved it several feet to the right. Ollie had humored himself by diving into the piles of Christmas garland, pretending to be—what else?—an astronaut landing.
Tyler climbed the ladder to start the next section.
“Uncle Ty, you be a rocket that is launching toward the moon, and I’ll be an astronaut landing.” Ollie threw himself into the garland once more. If he kept that up, he was likely to crush all the leaves, but who was Uncle Ty to interrupt the moon landing?
Tyler was zip tying another section when he heard a car pulling into the circular, brick driveway at the front of the inn. He glanced back at Ollie to be sure the kid stayed safe on the porch and the astronauts didn’t dart off into space, then began his descent from the ladder.
He was one step away from the ground when someone at his back cleared their throat. “Excuse me, groundskeeper,” the man said. “Could you point us toward the manager of this establishment?”
Tyler chuckled, then stepped down and turned to realize the guy was serious.
Tyler’s turn to clear his throat. He tugged at the hem of his plaid shirt and forced himself to stop grinning, then extended his hand toward the man who could only be described as posh. Okay, so he could also be described as European. And rich. Actually, there were numerous adjectives springing to mind now that he thought about it.
“I am he,” Tyler said.
The man bristled, as if he’d suddenly realized an ant were crawling on his foot. He looked at Tyler’s hand a moment too long, but Tyler must have passed the silent test because the man did finally grace him with the courtesy.
“Do you have any current availability?” The man asked. “We are in need of three rooms.”
“Three?” Tyler lowered the corner of his mouth in a half-frown and sucked in a gulp of air. “I’ll have to go inside and check the computer for that. How many nights would you need?”
“None, if it were up to me,” the man murmured.
“I’m sorry?” Tyler asked. He looked at Ollie and waved toward the door. “Come on, buddy. We’ll finish this project up later.”
“We only need the rooms for one night. I’ll meet you inside.” The man turned back toward a Mercedes with tinted windows. Now things were getting interesting. Tinsel frequently welcomed all sorts of famous visitors because of its strict no-paparazzi rule. But tinted windows typically indicated one of three things: rock stars, Presidents, or princesses.
Tyler’s pulse skidded to a halt. Time stood still like the broken long hand of the inn’s Christmas clock—never quite turning to the next minutes that might turn into the next hours.
He raked his hand through his hair. Who was he kidding? He would never see her again. It was time he stopped pretending she may
be just around every bend. She was his past, but not his future. Practically fiction to him.
Ollie flung the door wide open and stuck his arms out like an airplane flying through the lobby. Sometimes Tyler imagined what the place must look like to Ollie, with its curved staircase and large, open entryway. And now that it was Christmas, how much more magical would it be?
The smell of a cinnamon candle wafted toward them from the check-in desk. Tyler’s sister must have purchased it earlier today. She’d been busying herself with all sorts of decorating around the place, from flower arrangements to snowmen cookies to twinkling white lights in the entryway.
But he’d insisted she stay away from the tree and let him at least help with that much. Tradition was tradition.
Although part of him wondered how much of her offers to “help” came from her distrust of his decorating choices. He had to admit, she had a knack for it. She could see a snowman in a pile of cookie dough or a winter wonderland in a stack of white lights—she could see all sorts of things.
Tyler stepped past the nine-foot tree in the center of the lobby and walked toward the desk to check the inn’s availability. Three rooms for the night was pushing it any time of year, but especially at Christmas. Guests came from far and near to be part of Tinsel’s festivals and activities.
Arms wide, Ollie flew into the kitchen where his mom was baking muffins. The front door opened, but Tyler’s view of the guests was blocked by the mammoth tree. Why had he let his sister talk him into buying one so tall?
“My, what a tree.” Her voice was smooth as an ice sculpture, and the blood came rushing back through Tyler’s veins all at once.
No, it couldn’t be. Stop imagining a woman you’re never going to see again, he chided. How would she know where to find you, even if she wanted to?