by Liz Johnson
Of course, he’d told her once, when they met two years ago, that he lived in a little town called Tinsel. But she wouldn’t have remembered that. And she’d have no reason to visit here, a town so small it didn’t even have a Dunkin’ Donuts.
By the looks of the press she was getting lately, a town that practically shut down by dinnertime would hardly keep her interest, compared to the glittering parties of who’s who she was attending. Tyler had been to those parties in years prior. He should know.
Yet he had to wonder if the press had it all wrong. Because he knew about that too. And the pictures in the papers didn’t seem at all congruent with the woman he once knew. Well, so much as he could know a person in twenty-four hours.
The woman stepped into view, and the sight of her melted him like caramel. His heart began to beat again, even race, for the first time in two years.
She wore her hair tightly wound at the top of her head, showing off trendy glasses and red lipstick. Her lips matched the color of her pleated pea coat, and her heels had to be killing her feet. But then again, she was a princess, so she was probably used to these things.
Tyler opened his mouth to speak as she stepped closer, but no words came. And then it happened. She noticed him too. Their eyes met, and in that moment he and she were back in Ferryridge as she played commoner for the day and he pretended not to know the truth. He and she were back at the palace where he finally admitted he was a reporter and had followed her to get pictures. But bewildered as he was, he would never sell the pictures, of course.
And in that moment, he and she were back in the royal gardens, where he told her goodbye and kissed her, and both of them wished to live in another world.
The princess was searching his eyes as she kept walking closer as if she, too, were looking for words. Why was she here? Did she need him? Was she safe?
Tyler was vaguely aware of two other figures but couldn’t take his eyes off her until someone tapped against the desk.
“Excuse me?”
Tyler blinked. A different European man stood in front of him.
“Is this the sort of ineffectual service we can expect here? Because judging from this interaction, I’m not exactly filled with confidence about the rooms.”
Tyler shook his head. “Forgive me, sir.” Usually he wouldn’t let anybody speak to him so rudely, but this guy could call him a donut for all he cared if it meant more time with her. He scrolled through a list on the computer and typed a few notes. He could do some rearranging and get them two rooms, but three was out of the question. He explained as much.
“Fine.” The younger man rolled his eyes, while the older one—who was looking far less snobby now—stepped closer to the desk and offered a debit card.
“Allow me,” the man said.
Tyler took the card and tried to remember all the steps for check in. Beatrix’s presence mere feet away pulled all rational thought from his body like a magnet.
Tally total. Swipe card. Ask for signature.
He swallowed, doing his best to keep from looking at Beatrix again. After all, he didn’t know the situation or why she was here. He needed to keep a low profile to maintain her privacy, just in case. These men were obviously traveling with her. Security, maybe? Yet neither of them seemed to acknowledge the recognition that passed from Tyler to Bea.
He was reaching for two iron room keys—the old, historical ones—when Ollie came flying back into the room and nearly crash landed at Beatrix’s feet. Her laughter floated like a puff of snow though the room. She was grace and beauty and enchantment, and Tyler wondered if he might actually have two days with her this time, judging by the length of the reservation.
The time was far too short and yet far more than he ever would have expected.
Ollie pulled himself up from the floor, and Beatrix offered him a hand.
“Hey. I know you.” Ollie continued holding onto her.
“Do you?” Her accent was just as charming as Tyler remembered.
“Yes, I’ve seen you somewhere,” Ollie said.
Tyler’s stomach dropped.
No! No, Ollie, please don’t say—
“I know! I know!” The boy began jumping again, even more emphatically than his earlier landing on the moon. Perhaps because this time, the imaginary was actually coming true.
“Perhaps you’ve seen a book or magazine with a woman who looked like me, little one?” She ruffled his hair.
“That’s not it. No, I’m sure.” Ollie shook his head. “You’re the lady from Uncle Ty’s picture. My mama said you’re the one who flew away. Whatever that means.” He scrunched his little nose. “Went away? Got away?” Unable to settle on the precise phrasing, Ollie shrugged. But he was plenty close enough, it seemed, as quiet settled over the lobby.
The two security workers looked at each other, but Tyler didn’t care. His eyes met Beatrix’s ever-widening stare, and he wanted to say yes! Every word of that is true.
But instead he simply smiled at her and called, loudly, for his sister.
Chapter 3
As his sister walked into the room, Tyler laughed at the little boy and said, “Now Ollie, what an imagination you have.” So Beatrix followed suit by smiling broadly as if to be recognized as famous by the child was the most significant compliment she had ever received.
Perhaps she wasn’t acting.
So he kept a photograph of her, did he?
Beatrix danced her toes up and down inside her heels, a little jig she’d mastered years ago to keep others from seeing her emotion. And goodness me, was there ever emotion as she looked into the face of Tyler James, who had only grown handsomer, it seemed, in the past two years. Handsomer even than memories, which anyone will tell you is a near impossible feat. Why, just think of your own memories and imagine it.
His eyes had grown softer. His jaw, sharper. His shoulders, broader. And she could only imagine the memories his kiss might exceed.
She needed to get a hold of herself. She squeezed her toes against her shoes, ending their secret little dance.
She was here with Charles. Sort of. They weren’t exactly dating, but the suggestion was there, and as a royal, suggestion was everything, was it not?
Still, she rebelliously allowed herself one waltz into Tyler’s eyes, savoring the rise-and-fall, rise-and-fall of the dance before she blinked.
Beatrix steadied her resolve using all her best tricks, from drawing a slow and steady breath to loosening her knees to folding her hands to keep them from visibly trembling. Her tricks never failed her.
Her tricks scarcely worked this time.
She leveled her chin parallel to the ground. Her mother would be so proud. Then she stepped toward Tyler and extended her hand. “Forgive my companions’ blunt manner. We have been traveling and are all rather hungry. I am Beatrix.”
Tyler met her halfway, closing the space between them and so gently enveloping her hand in his own that she began to think she might float away from the sheer bliss of it, fading as a rainbow might from the sky.
“Beatrix.” He said each syllable of her name slowly, finally landing on the x in such a magical way she very well thought to ask him if he might read the alphabet just so she could hear the sound once more. His hand lingered on her own. “A pleasure to have you.”
Charles must have sensed the enchantment because he stepped closer and draped his heavy arm over her shoulders, parting that very magic with the cut of reality, so that she remembered once more she was a princess and not a woman of common means.
In other words, she was a princess, and her title decided everything.
Still, the thought of him keeping her photograph all this time sent her heart spinning in time to the memories. Which photo, she wondered, had he kept?
She had kept them all.
“Charles Addington.” He shoved his hand toward Tyler but glanced toward Beatrix, and his attention lingered on Tyler’s hand over her own. “Apparently my manner was curt earlier. My apologies.”
Tyler’s sister readied two keys, holding them out toward Charles to decide how to divvy up the rooms. He hesitated.
If he thought there was any chance she and he would be sharing a room, he could think again. Paparazzi or no, she had not come here for a romantic rendezvous with Charles.
Oh, she shouldn’t take her moxie out on him. She really shouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault he was no Tyler James, was it? And he was perfectly fine in his own way. Their inevitable marriage would be completely tolerable.
But who would reach for a Dickens novel with a first rate Jane Austen right here in front of her? Truly.
Beatrix snatched her key from Charles’ hand to curb any misperception before it may happen. “Thank you.” She smiled at Tyler’s sister, placing her hand to her chest. “I am Beatrix, and you are?”
“Hazel.” The woman returned the grin, but her glare toward her brother was less subtle than lightning. This really is the princess? Your princess? She seemed to be asking.
Beatrix really wanted to blurt out her identity right then and there to clear up all the back-and-forth questioning. But that would mean admitting to Charles she had already met Tyler on a previous encounter. Which would, in turn, mean divulging precisely what happened on the day she ran away.
Which may, in turn, mean admitting the time spent with him was the loveliest time she’d ever lived.
So needless to say, Beatrix wouldn’t do any blurting, and she was perfectly fine with that because she was adept at hiding her real thoughts on things. All sorts of things. Princesses, after all, did not have the luxury of offering personalities.
Tyler’s jaw clenched as he tilted his chin ever-so-slightly. He appeared utterly horrified that first the child, and now Hazel, were both so poor at nonverbal communication.
But they needn’t worry. Charles was staring down at his mobile phone and had missed the entire thing. Charles missed a lot of things.
Beatrix pressed the grooves of the metal key in her palm. The lightest sort of thrill tickled her heart unexpectedly as the implications of Tyler keeping that photo began to sink in. If Tyler kept the photo then he had also, one would assume, kept the memory.
Tyler stepped out from behind the check-in desk and folded his hands, then opened them to gesture toward the right side of the stairwell. “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, I’ll show you the location of your room.”
Charles locked his phone and slid it into his trouser pocket. “You said ‘gentlemen.’”
“I did. You’re gentlemen, are you not?” Tyler winked toward Beatrix, and her heart fluttered as a snowflake to the ground.
Charles pivoted on his loafers. “But what about Beatrix? I assumed you were offering adjoining rooms.”
Tyler shook his head. “Unfortunately, this is the best I can do.”
Charles huffed and looked to Harry for his opinion. “Perhaps we should find a different place to stay—”
“No!” Beatrix covered her mouth with her freshly-manicured fingers. She took a quick breath to gather her wits and composure, then looked up toward the fancy plaster ceiling, the elegant stairwell, and the tree, lingering over the sight. “Why, just look at this place.” Her gaze fell until she met Tyler’s. “It’s magnificent.”
Tyler held on to her gaze, hesitating a moment. “Indeed.” He looked toward Harry, then Charles. “And I hate to share the bad news, but with the Christmas festival coming up, you won’t find a room within miles of Tinsel if you don’t take this one.”
Charles huffed. “Fine.” He reached out to gently touch Beatrix’s elbow. “That is, if you’re okay with the situation? I know it was your idea to come here.”
She felt her cheeks warming. Yes, it was her idea, wasn’t it? Though Tyler had probably already assumed…
“I’m quite comfortable,” she told Charles. “Thank you.”
He tossed the key to his and Harry’s room up into the air with a glance over at Tyler. “Nothing but the best for her, I always say. That’s the kind of boyfriend I am.”
Tyler shifted back as if an invisible boulder rolled into him. He pointed between the two of them. “So, you two are…” He moistened his lips and swallowed. Had he assumed Charles, like Harry, worked for the family?
“A couple,” Charles filled in.
Not exact—Beatrix stopped herself before finishing the words, lest they spill out from her mind to her lips. After all, Charles was the one her mother and everyone else, for that matter, had chosen. How they referred to themselves in the present was of little relevance.
Hazel hurried over to Beatrix’s side, saving her from the temptation to clarify all this to Tyler. “I would be happy to show you your room.”
“Thank you.” Beatrix breathed in a whiff of cinnamon—whether it came from the candle at the desk or from the kitchen, she wasn’t sure. She smiled at Hazel. “Your assistance is much appreciated.”
And while you’re at it, perhaps you can also show me that photograph.
Beatrix trailed the wooden handrail with her fingertips, careful not to unravel any of the lush Christmas greenery wrapped around the banister.
Hazel had offered to take her little suitcase and Beatrix had accepted, much to the chagrin of Charles and Harry, both of whom liked to handle her baggage themselves. “Sorry, I got a little overzealous on the garland.” Hazel laughed.
“Not at all.” Beatrix smiled. “On the contrary, I find the arrangement quite charming. Traditional in all the best ways.”
“I found the idea on Pinterest.” The two of them reached the landing, and Hazel extended the handle of the small suitcase. “Your room is just this way.” She gestured toward the first door in the left hallway.
Beatrix slid her key into the keyhole, satisfied to hear the click as it engaged with the lock. What she saw when she opened the door was nothing short of magical.
Deep green wallpaper with a subtle vine pattern adorned the wall behind the four poster bed. The linens were fully white, but the pillows, bursting with color and the loveliest of florals. Beatrix had the distinct feeling as though she had stepped into an enchanted garden, complete with a jar full of candy canes on the nightstand.
She took in the thick curtains and the antique furniture as she slowly turned toward Hazel. “Such charm,” she said. “Did you have a part in these decorations as well?”
“I did it all, actually. Tyler was willing to help, but his tastes are different from mine. More along the lines of neutral patterns and solids. Very masculine. I had the hardest time talking him out of helping until he finally realized I truly did want to do this on my own.” Hazel rolled the luggage over to an inconspicuous spot near the window and came to stand beside Beatrix. “I’m so glad you like it.” Her smile flashed bursts of color, for she seemed smitten with the décor. Beatrix couldn’t fault her a bit for the reaction.
“You really have an eye for it, Hazel.” Beatrix twisted her pearl earrings absentmindedly. They both stood still a long moment, neither one of them addressing the obvious topic and yet neither of them willing to give up the rare opportunity to talk with one another.
Finally, Beatrix grew brave enough to meet Hazel’s eyes. And between the gentle lines framing the woman’s gaze and the soft corners of her smile, Beatrix read all the answers to the unspoken questions.
One by one, she loosened the buttons of her pea coat and draped it over the bed frame. The red overcoat had suddenly become restrictive, and Beatrix was struggling plenty without the added weight of it.
She pressed a wrinkle from the hem of her silk blouse, then looked back up at Hazel. “He was so kind to me, your brother.”
Hazel rubbed her forearms with her hands. Chills, perhaps? “So it’s true then?”
In all the scenarios Beatrix had imagined these last two years of admitting her one-day tryst from the throne had resulted in a one-d
ay romance, this was the part where she’d say what’s true, exactly? and then recount the events in detail as they happened.
Funny how reality is quite often different from the things one imagines.
“Yes.” She swallowed as relief and panic and unfettered joy all raced through her veins as if contesting for her demeanor. “Yes, I imagine it is.”
“I can’t believe you’re real.” Hazel took a step closer, leaning in. “The way Tyler described you made it sound like you were a character from a movie or fairy tale. And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am, indeed.”
Very much not a fairy tale, despite how her mother would love to disseminate that very notion among the media. Beatrix, meanwhile, was oh-so-tired of the charade. Appearing perfect all the time as a surprisingly impossible endeavor.
One simply had to wait for the proverbial chips to fall. And even if they did not—even if she kept pretenses and followed all the royal traditions, the papers would still invent their own stories and maybe even suspect what she, too, feared. That she was human, after all.
“I don’t mean to overstep, but why now?” With her hands, Hazel brushed her hair behind her ears. “How did you know where to find him?”
Beatrix shifted her feet in her heels. Her ankles were beginning to ache from standing so long. “I didn’t,” she said.
“You mean all this is a coincidence?”
“Well, not completely.” Beatrix hesitated, then sat on the bed and removed the heels. Now barefoot, she stood and realized she and Hazel were nearly the same height.
“It’s about time you got comfortable.” Hazel pointed to the shoes. “I was wondering how long you could last in those things.”
“Many people assume royals are impervious to discomfort.” Beatrix nodded slowly. “Many people are wrong.”
Hazel laughed. “You never answered my question.”
“Oh, yes.” Beatrix ran her tongue along her teeth out of habit to clear any lipstick marks. “Well the truth is, I did know Tyler lived in Tinsel. And of course I wanted to see him again. But I had no idea he and you now run an inn. What happened to his career in journalism?”