Tangled Games (Dating Games)

by T. K. Leigh

His expression falls slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a hard swallow, his facial muscles pinching. “And this is a woman who’s suffered an immeasurable loss. Who watched as the car holding the man she hoped to spend the rest of her life with went up in flames. Who was then told their baby no longer had a heartbeat. Who had to give birth knowing there would be no baby’s cries greeting her. There would be nothing but silence.”

  I feel an arm wrap around me and glance at one of the women through my tears. She squeezes me, offering an empathetic look, making me think she’s no stranger to the pain of child loss.

  “Despite all that,” Anderson continues through his own emotions, “despite enduring something I couldn’t even begin to fathom, she never lost hope. Never gave up. Which is why I’m not going to give up on her. I’m not—” He stops abruptly, lips parting as he stares at something over Carly’s shoulder.

  I look away from the large screens and through the studio windows, wondering what caught his attention, our gazes locking.

  He blinks, once, twice, as if worried he’s hallucinating. As if he’s been seeing me everywhere lately and wants to make sure I’m really here.

  Suddenly, he shoots to his feet, ripping his microphone off his shirt as he darts from the studio. At first, Carly’s surprised. But when she peers out the windows, her eyes finding mine, she smiles. Then, being the opportunist she is, she waves a camera man over. After a brief conversation, he takes off running, a camera in his hand. Suddenly, the shot of Carly transitions to the backstage area, Anderson darting through the maze of a studio, people scrambling out of his way.

  The crowd gets louder and louder as we watch him navigate through hallway after hallway, someone in a page’s jacket escorting him out of the stage door. Finally, he steps into an alley before turning onto the Plaza.

  Knowing exactly where he is, I spin, the crowd parting so I can get through, my legs not carrying me nearly as quickly as I’d like.

  After what feels like miles instead of mere yards, I turn the corner toward the Plaza and skid to a stop when my eyes fall on Anderson for the first time in two weeks. To most, it may not seem that long. To me, it was a lifetime.

  His gaze focused on mine, he takes several slow steps toward me, chest rising and falling quickly, not a hint of the uneasiness he sometimes experiences when walking.

  When he reaches me, he stops and smiles. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I manage to squeak out. An electricity buzzes in the air between us. But it’s even more poignant than it’s ever been. “I though you—”

  “Nora, I—” he says at the same time, both of us laughing nervously.

  He treats me to that sly smile of his that’s always been reserved just for me. “You first.”

  “I thought you’d be arrested if you told the truth. That’s why I left. Didn’t want you to have to come forward and implicate yourself.”

  His expression remains stoic. “I know. But I couldn’t let you take the blame anymore. Not for something I should have disclosed.” He licks his lips, still standing a foot away. “Do you want to know why I didn’t fight harder for you when this all went down?”

  I nod. “Because of your MS.”

  “Yes. But there’s a deeper reason.” He steps toward me, but still doesn’t touch me. “Because I thought by saving you from a lifetime of being with someone like me, it would keep my conscience clear. So instead, I broke my heart.” He averts his eyes as he draws in a deep breath. “But how could I have a clear conscience when I allowed them to throw you to the wolves?” He smiles sadly. “So I did what I felt necessary to finally clear my conscience, once and for all.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask shakily.

  “Went to the police. Told them the truth.”

  My shoulders fall as I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. “You didn’t have to. You—”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Will they be arresting you?” I ask, although I don’t want him to answer. Don’t think my heart can take it.

  His expression sobers. Then a brilliant smile tugs on his mouth. “No.”

  I blink. “No?”

  He shakes his head. “I did what the royal household didn’t want me to do. Told the truth. Despite everything I shared, the DA declined to pursue charges. Apparently, his sister has MS, too, so he’s more than aware of some of the complications. And thanks to the foundation I started last year was able to receive treatment she otherwise couldn’t afford.”

  I blow out a small laugh. “With great power comes great purpose.”

  He nods, advancing toward me and cupping my cheeks in his hands. “With great power comes great purpose,” he repeats, slowly edging his lips toward mine. “You are my purpose.”

  I sigh, bringing my own hands to his face. “And you’re mine.”

  He starts to erase the last remaining distance, but stops, something catching his attention. Taking my right hand in his, he exhales a tiny breath when he sees his ring prominently displayed.

  “You’re still wearing it,” he says in awe.

  “I couldn’t find the strength to take it off. Wasn’t ready to admit we truly were over.” I bring my hand back up to his face, and he melts into my touch. “Wasn’t ready to give up my faith.”

  Closing his eyes, he momentarily basks in my declaration. Then he loops an arm around my waist, yanking my body against his. I faintly make out people in the assembled crowd begging Anderson to just kiss me already, but I tune them out, all my focus on this man. On the promise of his kiss.

  On the promise of us.

  “I’m going to kiss you now. And once I do, there’s no walking away.”

  I run my hands through his hair, mussing it up. “Is that a promise?”

  “You bet your arse it is.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he covers my mouth. The entire Plaza erupts in cheers, but I don’t care about any of them. All I do care about is this man who just flipped the game on its head. Who made a move everyone told him was foolish. A move that would cost him everything.

  He put the king at risk to protect his queen.

  And, in that one move, won everything he ever wanted.

  Epilogue

  Anderson

  The comforting aroma of cinnamon and apples clings to the walls of the palace, growing stronger the closer I get to the private living quarters. This has always been my favorite time of year. The grand halls decked out in Christmas decorations, everyone in a more joyful mood. It was a time of year my mother always made special.

  I remember spending hours in the kitchen with her frosting cookies, decorating gingerbread houses, rolling out dough for pies. The memories we made as a family over food was something I’d always look forward to all year long. As was the feeling I’d experience when we went to a local shelter to donate all the food we’d made to those less fortunate than us.

  That all changed when my uncle died and we were ripped from the life we once knew. Then it changed again mere months later when my grandfather also passed away, making my father king and me heir apparent. There were rules about everything, from the way we styled our hair to the way we celebrated Christmas. There were no more hours spent in the kitchen baking and laughing with my mother. Instead, my family had to do what my grandfather did on Christmas, and his father before him, and so on — host a large dinner for the family and other important people on Christmas Eve, then attend midnight mass.

  All my mother wanted to do that first Christmas was bake cookies.

  She wasn’t even allowed to step foot into the kitchen. That wasn’t the way things were done around here.

  If they knew it would be one of her final Christmases, would they have granted her this wish?

  Based on centuries of always doing things the same way, I’d assume not.

  As I step into the private residence, my heart warms at the unmistakable scent of cookies and pie, coupled with the sound of Christmas music and joyful voices. I shrug off my suit jack
et and loosen my tie, tossing them onto the oversized sofa. I continue toward the sounds and smells, careful not to trip over the myriad of toys scattered around.

  Approaching the kitchen I had built when we moved in earlier this year, I pause, leaning against the doorjamb, taking a moment to appreciate the scene in front of me, something I never imagined could be a reality years ago.

  But that was before I laid it all on the line for Nora.

  Before I stopped living according to the rules.

  Before I took a risk.

  After the interview where I shared the good, bad, and heartbreaking truth of Nora’s and my story, people rallied behind us, despite the powers that be predicting the truth would be disastrous not only for me, but also the royal family.

  Instead, the world fell in love with us all over again. I was once able to travel to certain countries without being noticed, particularly away from Europe. That was no longer the case. In the days following the interview, everyone wanted a piece of me. Of Nora. Of us. And not because of some scandal. But because of what our story embodied.

  Forgiveness.

  Redemption.

  Love.

  Because I’d been so candid about everything we’d been through, people found us to be an extremely relatable couple. More importantly, they found me to be relatable as this country’s future king, the voters overwhelmingly rejecting the constitutional referendum to limit the monarch’s power.

  Since then, we’ve experienced a lot of changes. Not only in our personal lives, but also in our royal lives. Nora’s no longer merely Nora Tremblay, but Queen Nora Jean Wellingston of Belmont. And I’m now officially king, having been crowned a few weeks after our son’s first birthday, who we named Hunter William Anderson Gabriel Wellingston.

  Naming our son after Nora’s former fiancé hadn’t even been on her radar, but I felt it a fitting tribute. Not only to him, but also to our love. After all, it was Nora’s journey to say goodbye to Hunter that brought her into my life. It won’t bring him back, but maybe he’ll look down upon us and smile at the thought that one day, a little boy named for him will become king. Even though little Hunter was born after we finally got married, with the new Royal Marriages Act and law of succession that was passed before his birth, he’s considered a full heir.

  But since he’s only a few months shy of his third birthday, all he really cares about are trucks and trains. He doesn’t realize who he is or what his future holds, and we’re happy with that. He deserves the childhood I had before it was taken from me. Deserves happiness. Deserves to be a kid, not an heir.

  “Papa!” Hunter squeals, looking up from where Nora stands over him at the kitchen island. She peeks up, too, a bit of frosting on her temple.

  The room more closely resembles a disaster area — mixing bowls containing the remnants of batter, cookie sheets and pans piled high in the sink, flour covering the kitchen island. It certainly isn’t what one would expect a room in a palace to look like.

  And I love every bit of it.

  “Hey, little man.” I walk toward them and scoop Hunter off the step stool, giving him a big hug before pulling back. “Have you been good for your mama?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how about your great-grandmimi and grandpapa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because you know who’s coming tonight.”

  “Santa!” he replies with all the enthusiasm of a little boy.

  “That’s right.”

  I press one last kiss to his cheek, then place his feet back onto the floor, tousling his blond hair before turning my attention to Nora.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  “Hey yourself,” she responds, lifting herself onto her toes and brushing her mouth against mine. “How was your day?”

  “Better now.” I hook an arm around her waist, pulling her tighter against me. “Much better now.” I press my lips more firmly against hers, coaxing her mouth open so I can have a taste of her before our home is overrun with friends and family.

  But this year, there won’t be a formal dinner at the palace to celebrate the holiday. No putting on a show for the people of this country. Instead, it’ll be a private, low-key affair. Only close friends and family. Like my mother wanted.

  Like Christmas should be.

  “Kiss kiss! Kiss kiss!” Hunter exclaims.

  “They sure do that a lot, don’t they?”

  We pull back, darting our eyes toward the doorway to see Esme, my father, and grandmother.

  Unlike previous years when Christmas was a formal affair and everyone would be dressed to impress, it’ll be more casual this year. Much more casual. Our instructions were for everyone to wear an ugly Christmas sweater.

  My father probably went as conservative as possible, opting for a red sweater with the infamous leg lamp from A Christmas Story on it.

  Esme, being the snarky and irreverent woman I love, wears a black sweater that says Feel The Joy, two red gloves covering her chest.

  But I think my grandmother actually wins for best sweater. Or at least best execution. Leaves and ivy, along with a few sleigh bells, cover the shoulders and arms. On the front are what appears to be reindeer footsteps in the snow.

  “You guys look great!” Nora exclaims. “Especially you, Grandma.”

  “You get it?” she asks.

  “Of course! ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’! It’s genius.”

  “I have to admit, it was quite fun making this.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I watch Nora and my grandmother, the warmth and affection both women have for each other obvious. It’s no secret Nora never had a strong mother figure in her life. But my grandmother seems to have become that for her, the two often spending hours playing chess in the study.

  When I first brought Nora here and my grandmother was so against the idea of us together, I never could have imagined that possibility. However, my grandmother has relaxed quite a bit over the past few years. She now cares less and less about her role as queen mother, something that used to be her sole identity. Something she clung to out of fear that if she didn’t, she’d cease to exist. Not anymore. Now, her focus is little Hunter.

  Truthfully, I think she quite likes not following every little rule and requirement of royal protocol anymore. It gives her freedom to do things she actually wants. To follow her passions. While she can still be a stickler for decorum and etiquette every so often, she’s let go of certain traditions that only served to keep the idea of the royal family antiquated. My goal as king has been to allow us to be seen as a modern family, one that’s no longer resistant to change.

  As for Nora’s mother, she finally got what was coming to her, something that should have happened ages ago. After my interview, her license to practice psychiatry was revoked. Not only did she lose her means of making a living, but when her latest divorce was finalized, the judge refused to award her alimony. With no other way to maintain the lifestyle she’d grown accustomed to, she reached out to Nora, pretending to be the caring mother she’d never been. So Nora bestowed the same compassion on her that she’d shown Nora all her life — absolutely none. Last I heard, she’s working as a cashier at some grocery store in Florida and living in a rundown trailer park.

  As my mother once said… Karma is like a rubber band. You can only stretch it so far before it comes back and smacks you in the face.

  Nora’s mother has finally gotten the smack in the face she’s always deserved.

  “Why don’t you all head into the living room,” I suggest. “I just need to change, then I’ll be right down.” I give Nora a kiss on the cheek and tousle Hunter’s hair before dashing up to our bedroom.

  Thanks to the infusion treatments I’ve started, I can dash most days. Some are still better than others. There are times I do need to use a cane to help me get around. I’ve finally accepted my diagnosis, though. I thought I had years ago, but there was still quite a bit of denial at play. Especially when I refused to try a differe
nt treatment plan and constantly pushed myself to my limits just to prove to everyone I could do things. That there was nothing wrong with me.

  Because of that, I almost lost Nora.

  Never again.

  I may have MS, but MS doesn’t have me. I won’t let it.

  As I slide on my jeans, a knock sounds. I glance toward the door. “Come on in.”

  “Hey.” Esme peeks her head in. “Do you have a minute?”

  I nod subtly. “Sure.”

  She walks in and closes the door behind her, then sits on the reading chair in the corner. “I saw who you’ve assigned to be on the security detail for my diplomatic trip in January.”

  “I have no control over who’s assigned to you, Esme. You know that. That decision comes from the General of the Royal Guard and is based on who’s best at what they do.”

  She smiles, but it feels forced. “That may be true, but you have the power to override his decisions, especially when your chief protection officer is being pulled from your detail. I’m just looking out for your safety, Anders.”

  “And I appreciate that. But I’m not doing any traveling next month, which is why you’re taking this trip in my place. I have some infusion treatments and need to stay in the country while I undergo those. Creed’s skills will be wasted if he’s forced to remain here doing absolutely nothing. Your travels will take you to some places with fairly high crime rates. There’s no one I’d trust with your safety more than Creed. So I’m sorry. He’s staying on your detail.”

  “But—”

  “No, Esme. I understand why that would make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry if it does. It’s not like he’ll be sharing a room with you. He’s there to protect you. That’s it. And maybe you can both use this as an opportunity to clear the air.”

  “I’m still with Marius.”

  “I know. And I’m also aware you’ve talked about marriage.”

  Her eyes widen, obviously not expecting this, but I’m king now. As such, I have to approve her marriage, which I’ll do no matter who she wants to marry. I’d never come between my sister and the person she loves. Not like the royal household nearly came between Nora and me. But those days are over, all members of the “old guard”, as I put it, no longer part of the royal household.