Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

  “What interest do you have here?”

  Charles slunk backwards toward the wall.

  “Charles!” Was the boy really such a coward that he wouldn’t even speak? “I have just caught you red-handed. Explain yourself.”

  He squirmed with both hands folded behind his back like a child waiting in line to see the headmaster.

  Oh, insolence. He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he?

  Harry removed his own mobile from his pocket. “Perhaps you would like to explain directly to the Queen?”

  Charles stilled his fidgeting. “The…”

  “Queen.” Harry nodded slowly, then slid his mobile back in place. “You didn’t actually think I was a driver?”

  Charles pointed left and right, aimlessly really, as he tried to make sense of the thing. Mercy, was Harry going to have to spell out every little detail?

  “I’m head of security for Princess Beatrix.”

  Even in the dim lighting of the stairwell, Harry could see the boy’s face pale. Watching Charles’ panicked expression was greater entertainment than BBC, and truthfully, Harry deserved some sort of award for holding back his own amusement.

  Harry continued. “Surely you didn’t think Her Majesty would send one of her three daughters traipsing around America with a driver and the likes of you?”

  “The likes of me?” Ah, so the boy did have the capability of handling conflict directly.

  “Yes,” Harry’s tone remained unflinching. “The likes of you. A meager duke whose desperation for power and money has caused him to act like a child. You’ll pardon me if I don’t mince words, Charles. I have grown very close to Beatrix and her mother in these past two years, and truthfully my distaste toward you has grown steadily by the day.”

  Charles opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Finally, he seemed to realize Harry intended to be taken seriously.

  “You’re right.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I followed them into the bookstore with every intention of spying to take pictures.”

  “Charles.” Harry hissed the name. He knew he shouldn’t—he should let the boy continue and keep his disapproval at bay until he had all the facts—but he couldn’t help himself. Beatrix had become like a daughter to him. Charles was just lucky he didn’t add a few colorful colloquialisms after the name.

  Charles shook his head, brushing his hand through his polished hairstyle until the wild hair began to resemble a bird. He seemed anguished between defending himself and acknowledging the implications of having been caught by Harry.

  “It started off as a hoax on my anonymous Twitter account,” he mumbled.

  Okay. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “A hoax?” Harry asked. “In what way?”

  Charles leaned back against the brick wall of the stairwell next to the safe. “Beatrix and I met at a social engagement, and I took some pictures of her because I truly found her… well, mesmerizing.”

  “The most coherent sentiment you’ve expressed thusly.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “Go on.”

  “I posted them with some sort of coy statement about spending time with the Princess.” Charles scratched the back of his neck. “Within an hour, my account had gone viral. Thousands of people were sharing the pictures, and paparazzi started contacting me, wanting to know if I was dating her and if they could get a story and if I’d sell them the photos.”

  “So you feigned genuine interest in her while funneling information about her to the media for profit.” A chilly draft wafted from the rooftop doorway.

  Charles hesitated, then looked down into his palm and rubbed it with his thumb. “Yes.”

  Harry nodded.

  “It spiraled out of my control,” Charles sputtered. “I never meant for the whole thing to carry on this long.”

  “Interesting you should say that.” Harry took one step closer. Was it his imagination, or were the boy’s hands shaking? “Because I happen to know you’ve been very forthright with the Queen about your intentions to propose to Beatrix.”

  From this angle, Harry could see Charles’ throat warble. Harry ought to film the whole interaction and sell that to the press. Paparazzi would have a field day. But alas. Sometimes his own integrity prohibited him from doing the fun things.

  “I have a chance to marry into the monarchy,” Charles said. “Besides, Beatrix is gorgeous. If you had such an opportunity, would you not seize it?”

  “You mean if I were an opportunist intent on objectifying a female ruler for my own personal gain?” Harry shrugged. “I can’t say, as unlike you, I’ve never been a snake.” Harry put one hand on his shoulder. “Also, Charles—I think the past tense is more appropriate here. You had an opportunity. You certainly have it no longer.”

  “What does that mean?” Charles shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Are you threatening me?”

  Harry patted the boy’s shoulder before releasing his hand. “A threat would imply you had some sort of agency in the matter.” He started toward the stair steps. “Let me make myself clearer. You have until tomorrow afternoon to tell Beatrix everything—and I do mean everything—before I take it upon myself to do so.”

  Charles took the nonverbal cue and followed him down the stairs.

  “Have I mentioned my unique relationship with the Queen?” He looked over his shoulder and met the boy’s eyes. “Push me on this, and you’ll find Her Majesty takes my counsel very seriously.”

  Charles hesitated on the step. Finally, he nodded his head. His now-messy mop of hair shook every which way with the motion. “Understood.”

  “Excellent.” Harry took the final step to the floor. He walked through the aisles of books until he reached the heavy antique door at the storefront, then curiosity got the best of him. “Might I ask you something, off the record?”

  Charles reached for the handle of the door. The two of them were greeted by a blast of cold from the chilly air outside. Must be nearly midnight by now. Would the church bells chime when the clock hands struck midnight?

  “You may,” Charles said.

  Whether he would tell the truth was still to be determined.

  “Were you ever in love with her?” Harry tucked his scarf closer to his neck and exhaled small puffs of air as he adjusted to the temperature. “When you realized Tyler was the American tourist she fell in love with two years ago—you’ve no doubt heard all the rumors—did that knowledge even bother you?”

  “Why should it?” Charles raised his chin. “Are you truly suggesting I ought to be threatened by an inn owner from a tiny Christmas village in the middle of Vermont?”

  Harry all but groaned. The boy still wasn’t getting the point, was he?

  “Are you really such a hopeless romantic?” Charles turned to glance toward him as they both picked up their pace. The merriment of the decorations and profuse amount of Christmas lights on this street was almost ironic, given that Harry was stuck with such company.

  Despite himself, Harry’s mind flittered off with thoughts of the Queen, sitting with her legs crossed at the ankles and looking out over the royal garden, taking her afternoon tea.

  Yes, he knew a thing or two about courting royals, and his sympathies lied entirely with the innkeeper.

  Charles and Harry were about to turn off Candy Cane Lane, toward the next blocks of sidewalk, when a man behind them cleared his throat very loudly.

  Harry startled.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The man wore a Christmas sweater so tacky, Harry couldn’t determine whether or not it was meant to be ironic. He dangled a key ring from his fingers. “Found these on the sidewalk outside the bookstore. Might I ask what business you two have with Tyler James’ keys?”

  Charles mumbled something unintelligible, per his usual. But before Harry could offer his own explanation, the man stepped closer.

  “I’m Mayor Hayden, and we here in Tinsel pride ourselves in being crime and paparazzi free. I don’t know where you’ve come from or what your interest is h
ere, but you two are going to have to come with me.”

  Chapter 10

  Something magical happened to Beatrix on the rooftop of that bookstore as she looked out over the town square of Tinsel.

  Every step back toward The Melody Inn was a step back toward reality.

  There was a part of herself she once thought was lost… a dreamer who used to lie awake at night imaging what life would be like if she were perfectly ordinary. And she just assumed that as she matured, she grew out of such fancies.

  But Tyler was helping her see that perhaps we never really grow out of such fancies, and that maybe we shouldn’t aspire to. Maybe, even, the problem is not a lost part of ourselves so much as a hidden one. Pushed down underneath all the obligations and the heavy layers of tulle.

  So when she and Tyler reached the long sidewalk leading up to the The Melody Inn with all its wintry majesty, Beatrix was feeling every manner of feelings. She was at once grateful for these new realizations while also entirely melancholy that her time with Tyler was drawing closer to their inevitable parting.

  Such were her thoughts when she saw a figure building a snowman in front of the building. Beatrix stopped short. So did Tyler.

  “Is midnight snowman-building another inn-sponsored activity like the caroling?” She mumbled.

  Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Let me handle this,” he whispered. The concern in his tone sent a prickle of unease through her. Why was somebody outside on the lawn at this hour, much less playing in snow?

  But as Tyler drew closer, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. He stopped mid-step on the sidewalk, then pivoted toward the snowy yard. “Hazel?”

  The figure patted the top of the snowman’s head and stood up, laughing. “You caught me.” She leaned her head around the snowman to get a better look at them both. “Beatrix, is that you?”

  “What are you doing out here?” Tyler asked. Beatrix stepped forward to join him in the snow.

  Hazel pushed a carrot nose into the snowman’s face, then brushed snow from her mittens. “I could ask the two of you the same thing.”

  Tyler shot a quick glance toward Beatrix, and the gesture sent her heart into an upward spiral. She would let him answer that one.

  “We, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact with his sister. “Beatrix wanted to see a little more of the town square.”

  A humored grin rose from Hazel’s lips, but she didn’t press her brother on the subject. “I see.” She took a few steps backward, studying the snowman. “I made this thing for Ollie. Before bed tonight, he started talking about last Christmas and how he woke up one morning to see snowmen out his window. His dad made them the night before.” She looked over at Tyler, and a mutual understanding passed between them. Where was Ollie’s father now? Had he left the two of them? From what Beatrix had assumed, it seemed Hazel and Ollie lived at the inn with Tyler. Did Ollie’s father have something to do with that arrangement?

  Beatrix had enough training with the press to know better than to ask details. Hazel would volunteer the information if she felt comfortable. There was nothing worse than someone prying their way into your private life.

  “He’s a real winner of a father, all right,” Tyler murmured sarcastically. “At some point, Hazel, you’ve got to stop trying to be supermom to make up for the man.”

  “I know.” Hazel removed one of her gloves to scratch her nose. “But that day isn’t today.”

  Slowly, Tyler nodded. “Fair enough.” He leaned closer and offered his sister a side hug. “This really is a great snowman. Ollie will love it.”

  Hazel blew out a deep breath, which instantly turned into a chilly fog of air. She slid her fingers back into her glove. “Besides, I’ve got to do something to keep my mind off my speech tomorrow.”

  “Speech?” Now that was something Beatrix knew a thing or two about.

  Hazel nodded. “Yeah, I volunteer with an animal rescue organization that’s hosting a Christmas event called I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  Beatrix grinned at her. “That’s very clever.”

  “Thank you.” She returned the smile, but her gaze trailed off toward the porch. “Problem is, I hate speaking in front of people. Like, I’d rather spend an entire afternoon at the dentist or fold five loads of laundry or give up pastries for a month.” She hesitated, pointing toward the kitchen. “Speaking of pastries, did you two know there are gingerbread scones on the counter?”

  Tyler’s chuckle enveloped Beatrix with a sudden wrap of warmth. She savored the feeling. “Beatrix made them,” he said.

  “Well, they’re delicious and may be just the ticket for us to finally win that contest.” She looked directly at Beatrix, who allowed the compliment of her baking to sink in.

  Back at home, few people knew about her love for mixing bowls and recipes. It wasn’t exactly a hobby fit for a royal to share. But she did always think that if she’d been born as something other than a princess—as maybe the daughter of a banker or a writer or a musician—she would aspire to own her own bakery.

  Hazel continued. “I digress. See, this is how much I dread public speaking. I can’t even talk about it.” She tugged on the knit hat she wore to better cover her ears.

  “Can I help?” Beatrix felt a strange twinge of nerves about asking. She had been thoroughly and formally and experientially trained. She had managed large groups of people staring and waiting for communication. But she didn’t know a whole lot about these types of everyday situations, and she hoped she hadn’t overstepped her bounds.

  Hazel’s attention shot toward Beatrix. “Are you serious? That would be amazing.” She grabbed Beatrix by both arms. “Please tell me all your secrets.”

  Beatrix stifled a yawn with her hand. How untimely, regardless of the near-midnight hour. She would much prefer to stay up all through the night, lollygagging with Tyler and his sister. Maybe eating another scone would help to give her some energy. “I absolutely will,” she said. Well, maybe not all of them because a few of them were sworn secrets of the Crown. But Hazel probably hadn’t meant that literally.

  Beatrix pointed toward the front porch. “What do you two say we continue this conversation over some gingerbread scones?”

  Hazel nodded emphatically. “Yes, please. I’ve very nearly turned into a snowman myself.”

  Tyler took the lead. “I’ll put a pot of coffee on.” He turned toward them, angling his head slightly. “Question is, decaf or the real stuff?”

  “Decaf for me.” Hazel took quick steps up the stairs as if she’d climbed them so many times, she needn’t look where she was going.

  “I’ll have the real thing.” The words slipped out of Beatrix’s lips before she could think better of what she was doing.

  As it turned out, they were all out of caffeinated coffee, which would’ve been a real travesty in the morning if any guests had noticed. Talk about a quick way to get a star or two removed from an Internet rating.

  Without the jolt of caffeine, all three of them began yawning. Which, of course, caused more yawning, as it’s prone to spread. And despite himself, Tyler could not come up with a reason to keep talking to Beatrix alone once she finished her discussion with Hazel.

  For a night filled with such magic, it all ended rather anticlimactically.

  Now, Tyler lay wide awake in bed, staring at the fan circling air around the room. He didn’t need caffeinated coffee to keep him alert. His pulse raced, his teeth clenched, and his stomach was in knots.

  His mother used to have a motion-sensor snowman that broke into carols every time a person walked past. Nearly made him drop his hot chocolate once. Wondering what would happen when he saw Beatrix again in the morning offered much the same feeling.

  He fidgeted with the sheets, but he was too warm to sit under them wearing these flannel pajamas, so he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over to the chair by the window.

  Typically, he enjoyed living at the inn. It made for a more immersive experience, and
he was always on hand should his guests need anything.

  But tonight, knowing Beatrix was under the same roof, the walls seemed to tease him. No matter how close he got to her, it was never close enough. She was his almost, never-quite, forever love.

  What did it mean that his once-in-a-lifetime meeting with her had come around a second time?

  He checked the clock on his phone. Two minutes past midnight.

  Now that it was tomorrow, would the spell be broken?

  Tyler’s thoughts spun. He could hardly put coherent words together in his own mind. He stood from the bed and shook his head.

  He never should’ve let her go two years ago. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He would take his chance while he had it—for surely she, too, felt something between them? Even beyond his attraction, and he had a healthy tug of attraction, he and Beatrix fit together like pieces of Ollie’s Christmas puzzles. She was the marshmallow swirl for which his altogether-predictable hot chocolate begged. She was a flame to dark candles and the carol he’d forgotten how to sing.

  She understood him, and he would like to think he understood her just as well.

  He reached into his closet for a sweater and tugged his arms through the holes, then hopped one leg at a time into a pair of jeans. He would say what needed to be said. He would ask her if, under any circumstance and by any royal tradition, he might know her beyond these few hours.

  His nerves rattled like those inflatables on Candy Cane Lane.

  But his nerves never had anything on his determination.

  Tyler buttoned his jeans and raked his hand through his hair. Tension pulsed within his head, and he pushed against his temples to keep it at bay before it turned into a headache. He took a deep breath and gulped back his emotion. He needed to think as clearly as possible so he could get the words out in some semblance of order.