by Liz Johnson
If anyone but she and Tyler were to find out, she imagined such knowledge may become a hole, slowly (or rapidly, for that matter) deflating the fairy tale she so deeply cherished and would continue to cherish for the rest of her life.
After dinner, she bid Charles and Harry a good evening and went back to her room, eager to try her temporary hair dye. As it turned out, her mother was right about that too. When her hair turned the color of an old British telephone box, Beatrix panicked. What if she couldn’t get the color out?
Thankfully, three scrubs and a healthy amount of conditioner later, her locks were back to a natural auburn, and all was restored.
Or so she thought.
But now, as she tossed back and forth beneath the high thread-count sheets, the chemical smell of cheap hair dye overpowered the green tea scent of the conditioner, the cinnamon candle down the hall, and the aroma of fresh, powdered snow that had lingered in her memory after caroling. The dye became so strong, so overwhelming, Beatrix grew a little nauseated and wondered why she ever thought it was a good idea to try to be something she was not.
When sleep finally did come, her dreams were vivid and stressful. She dreamed of Charles most of all. She was back at the palace, standing in front of a large group of people whenever she realized she hadn’t brushed her hair and that it must look every manner of disheveled. Then she remembered she hadn’t worn stockings.
Bright flashes from camera lights startled her every time she blinked her eyes, and reporters called out from every direction. Is it true? They asked. And somehow within her dream, she knew they meant that you’re a fraud.
She shook her head no, but words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Her sisters and mother stood on a platform on the third floor of the palace, smiling and waving at her, Charles, and the media. Oblivious to her distress, they captivated so effortlessly.
And she wondered if they, too, ever had thoughts like what if beyond the magazines and social media, everyone finds out who I really am? That where I should be perfectly royal, I am actually perfectly average and perfectly boring. That I wake up without makeup and keep getting photographed outside the palace because without little trips into the city, I would suffocate inside these tall, polished walls?
Charles gently touched her arm. “Darling,” he said, drawing her gaze back toward him and the hoard of reporters behind them—if one could even call them that. Paparazzi might be more appropriate terminology.
“Yes, Charles?”
His hair was neatly frozen in place by hair products, and his outfit displayed the royal colors well. No doubt that, too, had been scripted, just as everything else about Charles had been. He was always saying the appropriate things at the appropriate times and reliably dressed for all occasions. He was the textbook sketch of a duke-to-become-prince, filtered so that little humanness was visible at all. It was no wonder her mother loved him.
Charles knelt down on the right knee of his caramel-colored trousers, and slid a ring with the largest diamond Beatrix had ever seen onto her left hand. “Marry me, my beautiful princess?”
The weight of the ring was far more than Beatrix had expected, and her hand nearly fell to the ground under it. Such a sizable diamond. Full of sparkle, but better suited to a different sort of hand. She began shaking her hands—furiously shaking them—as the paparazzi continued snapping photographs, but she could not get the ring off.
Beatrix startled up to a sitting position in the bed and gasped. In the dark, she grabbed her left hand, checking her ring finger for the engagement band. When she found no such diamond, she drew in a deep breath of relief even as her pulse continued racing.
She knew she could not hold the real-life Charles accountable for something dream Charles had done, but a whiff of the chemical hair dye turned her stomach and she could not shake the question that turned it even more.
Why did he put the ring on her finger before he asked?
Another wash of her hair seemed to finally remove the phantom chemical smell that lurked about her locks. Beatrix blew the strands dry and changed into an off-the-shoulder sweater the color of the ice rink they’d passed while caroling and some dark-wash jeans with a comfortable amount of stretch.
She tiptoed down the hallway, for the other guests would surely be sleeping by now. Twilight had long given way to the hour before midnight, and she would be alone, but she didn’t mind that so much.
Beatrix took the curved stairwell two steps at a time but stopped halfway down when she saw the tree. Her breath caught. Someone had decorated the large fir between the time she’d eaten dinner and gone to her room to dye her hair.
Glass ornaments in every color adorned even the hard-to-reach branches, and Beatrix smiled when she saw the rocket ornament that had so clearly been painted by Ollie. She followed the rest of the steps down to the lobby and stood transfixed by the tree’s transformation.
A Louis Armstrong jazzy Christmas tune came from somewhere in the background, and a sudden flood of this is what happiness feels like overcame Beatrix with such strength that she closed her eyes so she could remember the moment just as it was right now.
Perhaps… it was a wild idea, but perhaps she could get started making some gingerbread for Tyler’s contest? The woman at the bakery had mentioned that the inn was famous for gingerbread scones, and scones just so happed to be Beatrix’s best recipe. Typically her mother frowned upon Beatrix baking, calling it “servant’s work” rather than a hobby fit for a royal. But she made an exception, suspending her disapproval however temporarily anytime Beatrix made the scones.
Beatrix would be taking liberties in the kitchen, but Tyler had already suggested she bake the scones tomorrow, effectively granting her permission. The question, then, was simply a matter of timing more so than anything else. And timing was often fluid, was it not?
Beatrix nodded once to herself. Yes, baking scones into the midnight hour seemed a perfect way to pass the time until she could more successfully shrug off that disturbing dream she just had about Charles.
She stepped into the kitchen, sneaky as a mouse until she determined no guest rooms would be affected if she turned on the light. The New Orleans beat of the holiday music got the best of her, and Beatrix’s feet began shuffle all on their own accord.
The measuring cups were easy enough to find, as were all the ingredients in the cupboards. All she needed now were utensils as well as some mixing bowls. She found several, all with various Christmas scenes printed on them. Though she didn’t recognize this American brand, she imagined they would suffice just fine. What they lacked in utility they made up for in charm.
Beatrix hummed with the music. She gently drummed a mixing spoon against the bowl as she incorporated the flour, cinnamon, and clove into the dough and stirred. Then she preheated the oven and set to work greasing the baking sheet with butter. She would’ve preferred French butter, but this Cabot brand would have to do. On second thought, had she heard of this brand before?
Beatrix snapped. The cheese company! Yes, that was it. She’d desperately wanted to tour the cheese factory two weeks ago, but they hadn’t the time. Thanks to Tyler, it seemed she could try the Cabot products after all. Though she didn’t imagine any dairy could match up with the products she used back at home.
She laughed to herself as she dipped her finger into the dough and took a little taste, making sure she had all the proportions correct prior to baking anything. Once the scones came out of the oven, she would dust them with crunchy topping.
Yes, the dough was quite delicious, and the butter would work well. Beatrix slid the pan into the oven and took a glance at the clock to make sure the scones baked for just the right amount of time.
Beatrix was in the middle of mixing sugar with cinnamon for the topping whenever she heard footsteps behind her. She froze, her incriminating wooden spoon poised just above the little bowl.
“In the mood for a little baking, are we?” His voice was warm as the cinnamon, with the same hint of spice too
. And as she slowly turned to face him, all the cool panic in her veins melted into puddles of glee as sweet as the topping.
Tyler wore plaid flannel pajama pants and an oatmeal-colored sweatshirt to match. He crossed his arms over his chest. Even wearing lounge clothes, his frame was distractingly tall, his shoulders distractingly broad, and he reminded her of the Prince Charming illustrations in her favorite children’s books from years ago.
His strong jaw gave way to a gentle smile as he stepped closer toward her, eyebrows raised in silent inquisition.
She held up the spoon in defense. “I’m making scones.”
“A perfectly practical endeavor.”
“You said you needed them.” Beatrix turned back toward the bowl and stirred the mixture once more. Then she checked the clock. The scones should be done, and she didn’t want them baking too long and getting dry. She slid her hand into an oven glove and removed the pan from the oven.
Tyler reached for the dial to adjust the heat. “Can I try one, at least?”
“Patience.” Beatrix was already off to work dusting each scone with topping. Taking advantage of the heat was imperative for the topping to crunch as it should. “Now you may take one.”
Tyler worked a steaming-hot scone free from the pan and blew gently. “I have to say, Bea, I’ve got high expectations after the way you described these. Think they’re up for it?”
Beatrix dusted the last scone with topping and turned to face him with a smirk. “Oh, they’re definitely up for it. And they will win that gingerbread competition.”
Tyler rotated the tiny scone in his hand as if studying it. “Well, you’ve already got points for presentation. This reminds of something on a cooking show Hazel is always watching, The Great British Bake Off.”
“That’s televised in America, is it?” Beatrix raised her chin, savoring his compliment. “Go on, take a bite and see what you think. Be sure you get some of the topping.”
Tyler’s lips parted to taste the pastry. He covered his mouth as he chewed, his eyes widening. “Beatrix.” He held up the remaining half of the petite scone. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She feigned a curtsy. “Why, thank you.”
“I’m not exaggerating.” He popped the rest of the scone into his mouth.
Beatrix reached for a platter—also Christmas-themed—and began plating the rest of the pastries. Then she held out the topping bowl toward Tyler. “There’s a little left in here if you want it.”
He took the bowl, his fingers swept along her own. His touch was warm against her cold hands, and she fought against the unexpected urge to brush against his fingers once more.
Tyler didn’t seem to notice. He dipped his finger along the ridge of the bowl as one would when scooping up cookie dough, distracted by the sweet cinnamon topping.
Beatrix brushed some sugar from her hands against her jeans. “So, where’s this gingerbread shindig going to be held? You know, since I’ve pretty much won the competition for you.”
Tyler grinned. He glanced toward the clock.
Beatrix turned, following his gaze. “Why are you checking the time?”
His grin widened. “You have a coat or something?”
“A coat?” Beatrix reached for one of the scones to taste them for herself.
“Yeah, you’ll need it. It’s pretty cold out.” Tyler reached for another. “By the way, is your hair redder than usual?”
Chapter 6
Tyler held open the front door of the inn for Beatrix and was greeted by a loud meow. “Hi there, Felix.” He crouched down to scratch the tabby’s ears before taking the porch steps down to the sidewalk.
Beatrix was a step ahead and turned when he spoke to the cat. “I didn’t realize you had a… Felix.”
“Oh, he’s not mine.” Tyler caught up and blew into his cupped hands to warm them.
Beatrix frowned. She tugged on the wool hat he’d insisted she borrow. “Then why is he on your porch?”
“Oh.” Tyler came to a stop beside her. “Well, I feed him. And he has a crate here with some blankets.”
Beatrix raised her eyebrows. “But he isn’t yours?”
Tyler shrugged. “The whole block takes care of him. Nobody really knows where he came from, but he first showed up as a stray several years ago, and everybody’s left food and blankets on their porches ever since. We do have to coordinate vet visits though. Years ago, he was caught and taken to the vet’s office three times in a single week, and let’s just say by the third time, he was not a fan of the experience.” Tyler grinned. “But the point here is…” He leaned closer to Beatrix. “Obviously Felix likes my place the best. I don’t know if it’s my porch decorations or Hazel’s cooking, but something’s working for him.”
Beatrix watched Tyler a long moment, then began to laugh. A zigzag of fresh snow fell from the sky, and she opened her palms to the heavens to catch some in her gloves. “Funny, I would’ve suspected you were a dog person.”
Tyler cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his fisted hand. “Felix is not mine,” he reiterated. The words may be in jest, but the sentiment was true.
He pointed toward the left side of the sidewalk. “We’re headed this way.”
Beatrix nearly skipped to keep up, tightening her grip on the neck of her coat. Was she already that cold? “Will you tell me what we’re going to see and why we’re walking in the middle of the night?”
Tyler fell into step beside her. He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “Will you tell me why you showed up at my inn today?”
“That’s fair.” A slow smile grew from the corners of her lips. “I’m sorry for all the secrets, Tyler. Truly, I am. I never meant to—” But she caught herself mid-sentence. What had she intended to say? He started to ask, but she continued before he could.
“How much of the truth do you want?” She asked.
“All of it.” At least, he thought that’s what he wanted. Unless the truth was she’d forgotten completely about his existence and her appearance here in Tinsel was complete coincidence. Then he didn’t need to know that part. “Let’s start with Charles.”
She stepped under the canopy of a large tree branch with icicles that hung just over the sidewalk. “Charles and I are not exclusive. I’m not even sure I like him all that much.”
Well, that sounded promising. Because Tyler wasn’t sure he liked Charles all that much either. And if Beatrix wasn’t engaged or even dating the guy, that left plenty of opportunity for Tyler. So long as he moved fast.
She seemed to read his thoughts, and interrupted them with her resigned expression as her gaze trailed to the sidewalk and stayed there, studying it as though she might be quizzed later about any cracks in the concrete. “However, to answer the question behind the question, the one you implied—yes, I probably will marry Charles. He is the most qualified.”
Did she just say qualified?
Tyler could have groaned. Didn’t she see that she was worth more than that? Maybe he could show her. An entirely unlikely chance with the princess was still vastly more opportunity than he had yesterday.
And Tyler had never shied away from the entirely unlikely. Actually, he kind of thrived on it.
He checked both ways for cars though he knew the streets would be empty this time of night, then gestured for Beatrix to follow him across. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her fancy red coat as her slender legs shuffled like toothpicks across the road.
“Beatrix—and I say this with all sincerity—has it ever occurred to you that your future marriage is not a job description? That you’re both capable and worthy of someone more than simply qualified?” He reached out toward her hat and tugged the edges so her ears kept warm. “Is it really so audacious to think you may actually fall in love?”
There. He’d said the words. He may regret them, but he would take his opportunity while he had it.
Beatrix bit down on her bottom lip and looked up at him, her eyes wide.
No doubt with surprise. “I wish I had the privilege, but Tyler—” She shook her head. “I fear I do not. I have a duty to my country, to my family.”
“And what of your duty to yourself? Are you not a better ruler, a better family member, when your heart is fulfilled?”
“You and I know these things.” She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “But the press and the royal traditions and my mother do not. It’s not so simple as following my fancies.” Was it his imagination, or did she inch closer? “No matter how strongly I am compelled,” she added.
Tyler took a deep breath. He was getting nowhere with the question, so he decided on another strategy. “Why Tinsel?” he asked.
Beatrix blinked, holding his gaze and looking deep inside. And he knew from the widening in her eyes then that she had not forgotten him, and that her visit here was no mistake. She was making room for him in her gaze, as much room as she could.
“I had several open days at the end of my American tour to sightsee.”
“And you decided to get a taste of small-town America in Vermont?” Tyler looked up at the street sign. They were nearing the library, and the clapboard houses along this block were a sure indication they were close to their destination.
Beatrix shook her head. “No, Tyler,” she said. “I wanted to see an American I fell in love with two years ago. Despite my better judgment.”
Tyler’s heart thundered in surprise. He stopped mid-step and turned to her, but words failed. For a moment’s time, he completely forgot the direction they were headed or the fact they were standing along a fence lined with icicles or that this fresh snow would need to be shoveled in the morning.
And in that moment, he was standing in Ferryridge, dancing in a rose garden with the princess and thinking this woman is the love of my life.
One question repeated in his mind as a refrain—was it the falling or the visiting that she considered against her better judgment?