by Aven Ellis
Roman’s brow furrows again.
“What?” I ask, curious as to what is causing that expression.
“You’re surprising.”
My heart flutters. “How so?”
“You just are,” he says, his deep voice quiet.
I hold my breath. Roman stands still. Our eyes remain locked on each other.
“I’ll be back,” he finally says, turning and heading out the door.
As I watch him leave, I know I’m not crazy.
There is something crackling between us.
I draw an excited breath as I pace the greenhouse floor again, eager for him to return. Within minutes, my wish is granted, and Roman, who has my bag slung over his shoulder and a yoga mat tucked under his arm, opens the door.
“The woman on the mat next to yours assured me I was correct,” he says, stepping inside the greenhouse. “She also asked if you were okay.”
“Thank you,” I say. Then I make a note to contact the instructor and see if she will forward a note to Jess on my behalf. I like Jess, but I don’t know her. I must be careful with any private information, like email addresses or phone numbers, until I’m sure of the person I’m talking to.
I should say the same about Roman, but my instincts tell me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I can trust him already.
He gently places my bag on a clean area of the workbench, and I reach inside for my T-shirt and tug it on, feeling it’s more appropriate for the situation. Then I almost laugh. Modern Liz, who I’m trying to be, has suddenly gotten all shy and prim in the presence of one Roman Lawler.
After I get the shirt on, I find him watching me.
“I’m sorry your class was ruined,” he says.
I blink. He has no idea that I’ve never been happier to have my life disturbed by the press. “It’s okay. The class wasn’t meant to be,” I say, staring into those gorgeous eyes with the flecks of honey.
But this moment is.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you when you were working,” I continue.
Roman begins to take off his coat. As I watch him shrug out of it, butterflies spring out of nowhere, attacking my stomach as a feeling of eagerness, of pure excitement, surges through me—a sensation I have never felt before.
He’s getting comfortable because the room is warm.
Because he’s going to stay.
“I’m not working in the true sense of the word today,” Roman explains, placing his coat next to my bag on the bench. “I came in because I got bored. I’d rather be outside. There’s a lot to do at this time of year, contrary to what people think about gardening when the weather turns cold.”
He is standing before me now in a dark green tartan shirt. His eyes take on more of that greenish hue because of it, but much to my delight, the golden flecks remain.
“I would think summer is your busy season,” I say, curious.
“No, it’s not. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear the intricacies of cutting back trees and planning for the winter kitchen garden,” Roman says.
“That’s a bit presumptuous.”
Roman’s brows knit together. “I’m sorry?”
“You presume I asked you a question that I didn’t want to know the answer to. In fact, if I had my normal cup of Earl Grey, I would ask you that question, and many more.”
His lips part in surprise.
My heart is roaring in my ears again. What is it about Roman that makes me want this so badly? Makes me so bold? I’ve never yearned for conversation like this with a man in all my life.
He falls silent. I still hear the blood pounding in my veins. To my shock, he picks up his jacket and walks towards the door. I’m so stunned I can’t speak. Was I too much? Too forward? While I might not think I’m crazy, maybe Roman does. As he walks away, my stomach drops out.
The moment is over.
As he reaches the door, he turns to face me. “Milk or sugar?” he asks.
I gasp. “W-What?”
His mouth curves up again, but this time, he rewards me with a smile. It is genuine and real and lights up his face.
“How do you take your Earl Grey? If I’m going to bore you with details of bulbs, the least I can do is bring you a cup of tea.”
Chapter 3
Darjeeling with a Drop of Lime
I watch as Roman strolls across the garden grounds, up towards the main house.
He wants to have a cup of tea with me.
The excitement that races through me is beyond compare. My pulse is still rapid, and if Roman’s fingertips were to graze across my wrist now, he’d know the response he elicits within me.
Joy is equal to my eagerness. I can’t stop the smile that is spreading across my face, because for the first time in my life, I have zero fears of being disappointed. In fact, I’m eager to sit down and learn all about him.
I gaze up at the poinsettias hanging overhead, filling the greenhouse with vibrant shades of deep crimson and rich cream. I feel like I’m dreaming. Is this real? I’m truly going to have tea with an intriguing man in a greenhouse filled with vibrant Christmas blooms? I trace my finger around the edges of a full-grown amaryllis plant, with velvety red petals with white stripes down the centre of each. This is no dream. I’m here. In this cosy, warm greenhouse.
Waiting for Roman.
I let my gaze wander, taking in this foreign environment. I’ve been blessed enough to grow up in palaces with breathtaking gardens—like the lush grounds of Buckingham Palace and my own home, Kensington Palace—but I’ve never thought much of the labour that goes into maintaining their beauty and keeping them pristine and healthy for the public to enjoy.
So many questions fill my head. When did Roman know he wanted to work in landscaping? Has he always loved the outdoors? Is he living his dream, like I am mine?
I trace my hand over the old bench, thinking of how, when I speak of my dream, I’m not thinking of the ballgowns and diamonds and palaces but the fact that, every day, I get to wake up and help children. For example, on Monday, I’m attending an event for Scout 4 Girls, a group promoting confidence and self-esteem in girls. The girls are going to show me their projects in robotics, graphic design, and financial independence, which I’m most keen to see. I can’t wait to ask them about what they are creating and learning. With the press following me, I’ll be able to give this non-profit organisation a spotlight to increase awareness of what they do and bring attention to their needs.
I stare down at the grooves on the wood, ones well-worn over time, feeling blessed that the monarchy has immense power to help these wonderful organisations and charities. There have been snarky articles in the press about how my father demanded this position for me so I didn’t have to get a “real job” upon graduating from university. They don’t understand how real this job is.
I stand straighter as I think of the criticism that has been laid at my feet all summer. I have never worked harder than I have these past few months. This is not me working through my diary and going through the motions with a fake smile on my face to justify my princess title. I’m not doing this work to keep myself in a palace. I’m not doing this work to be famous.
I believe in the work I’m undertaking. I believe it’s important, that I can make change in the world, and that the things I do will somehow, in some small way, make this world a better place for someone.
I’m called to do this.
I’m doing this work because it’s in my heart.
The doorknob rattles, and my nerves jump as I turn around. Roman is back, balancing two cups in his hands as he pops open the door. My breath catches in my throat again the second I see him, this gorgeous gardener who wants to share a cup of tea with me.
“I’ll close the door,” I say, moving towards him.
“Thank you,” Roman says.
I head over and slip behind him, pulling the door shut. He turns to face me, and I have to gaze up at him. He is tall, easily six foot four, and towers over my five-foot-four-inch frame.
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��One Earl Grey tea with a splash of milk for Elizabeth of York,” Roman says, handing me a paper cup with a cardboard holder around it. His fingertips briefly graze against mine as I take the cup from him, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Thank you.”
“And one Darjeeling tea with a drop of lime for me,” he says. He sets his tea down on the work bench and takes a moment to remove his jacket again.
“A drop of lime?” I ask.
“All it needs is a drop,” Roman explains.
“But lime, not lemon?”
“Has to be lime. I hate lemon.”
I’m about to ask him how on earth he can live without the joy of eating lemon curd out of a jar with a spoon, like I’m fond of doing, but I’m distracted by the fact that he’s now taking off his shirt.
Oh. My. God.
I hold my breath for fear of gasping out loud. Roman is standing before me in jeans and a simple white T-shirt. The shirt fits him snug across his massive chest and reveals beautiful arms, ones that have been tanned by time spent in the garden and are muscular from all the manual labour he does. My eyes start at his wrists and move up along his powerful forearms to biceps that are straining against the sleeves of his cotton shirt.
“I don’t know where we can sit except for the floor,” he says, rubbing his hand against his cheek. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I’m telling you to sit on the floor of a dirty greenhouse.”
“It doesn’t bother me to sit on the floor,” I say, lowering myself to the spot where I was standing.
Roman winces as he peers down at me. “Liz, no. Please stand up. I can go find something for us to sit on.”
“If I wanted to sit on something, I have a yoga mat. I don’t care.”
Roman’s hand stills on his face as his eyes meet mine.
“You honestly don’t care, do you?” he asks softly.
I can’t breathe. This is already becoming the most real conversation I’ve ever had with a man. I don’t want Roman to see me as Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth of York.
I want him to see me as Liz.
“I’m more bothered by your use of the word ‘hate’ to describe your feelings on lemons. I’m troubled by this, as lemon is one of the most delightful things in the world. It’s vibrant and tart, yet it can be wonderfully sweet, like a delicious lemon curd, or lemon bars dusted with icing sugar. It’s a bite of sunshine. I’m disturbed that you are missing out on such a luscious experience.”
Roman’s hand slowly moves down his jaw to his mouth, and his index finger draws back and forth over his full lower lip. He appears to be thinking.
This greenhouse is going from warm to stifling hot as I watch him touch his mouth. I stare at that full lower lip being brushed by that oh-so-wonderful rough and masculine hand, and now I’m about to break out in a sweat.
“Hmm,” Roman says, picking up his cup of tea and sitting down across from me on the floor. “Interesting.”
He pauses to take a sip of his tea, and I do the same, needing to forget the image of him touching that lip and stop wishing I was the one touching his hand.
Or his mouth.
I blink. I take a sip of my tea, although my hand is jittery as I put the cup to my lips. “What’s interesting?” I ask after I’ve taken a moment to recover.
Roman sets his cup beside him and stares at me. “You aren’t what I’d thought you’d be.”
I furrow my brow. “What did you think I’d be?”
He clears his throat. “This is embarrassing to admit. Please keep in mind I’m not exactly a royal family watcher, so I’m basing this only on media that happened to land in front of my face.”
I take another sip of tea. “I see. So, I take it you haven’t told Google you are interested in stories about Princess Elizabeth?” I tease.
I see the start of a small smile on his face. I realise Roman doesn’t give them easily.
“Um, no. I hope you aren’t offended, Your Royal Highness,” he counters, sexily lifting an eyebrow at me.
My heart does a zigzag.
“No, I’m not.”
“Good.”
“Please, don’t keep me in suspense,” I implore. “Tell me what you thought I’d be.”
“In the snippets of you I’ve seen on TV, you had a… a…” Roman stops.
I will him to go on with my gaze.
“Damn it,” he blurts out, shifting from a sexy, flirting man to one who is developing a flush up the sides of his neck and appearing incredibly uncertain. “What am I doing? I can’t tell you this. Geez, Darcy is right. I’m awful with women. It’s been too long. This is why I belong in a garden, where I spend all day amongst the plants and trees who don’t care what comes out of my mouth.”
Now I’m the one surprised. Roman, who says what he thinks and rides a motorcycle, who protected me from the paparazzi, who has been flirty and charming in our brief exchanges so far, is now showing me a vulnerable side. As I watch him, a new feeling comes to the surface, one I’ve never experienced before.
I like the fact that he’s showing me all of him, including his insecurities.
“I promise I won’t be offended,” I reassure him.
Roman sighs heavily. “I thought you had a ‘sameness’ about you. Your expression was always the same in pictures. You were always shown doing the same things: meeting people, taking flowers, posing. You always wear white. I assumed—wrongly—you were one-dimensional.”
I blink. While I was running from the sameness of the men in my social circle, Roman was perceiving the same thing about me.
Yet, I understand his assumption.
“That is my work,” I explain. “People expect me to show up dressed as Princess Elizabeth, in the image I started to curate last year for myself. Do you know why I wear white? Because when I see white, it feels optimistic. I read about colour, and when a person wears white, along with innocence, the colour projects optimism. That is how I want people to see me: as an optimistic woman championing for change.”
“I think you can be optimistic and let people see some more of you,” Roman says slowly. “I know I liked what I saw this summer. That unexpected passion from you to protect Clementine from press attacks stayed with me. You stayed with me, Liz.”
“You stayed with me, too,” I admit, barely hearing my own words over the sound of my heart racing in my ears. “You told me, upon meeting me, you liked the side of me I don’t allow people to see. I was angry and unwound, and you didn’t flinch. Instead, you encouraged me to live as I feel, something nobody in my entire life has ever encouraged me to do.”
Roman’s eyes grow more intense. I feel nothing but chemistry filling the space between us. This feeling makes me brave, so I go on.
“Roman,” I say—oh, how I love hearing his name fall from my lips— “did you ever think about asking Clementine about me?”
His mouth parts in shock.
“No, no, of course not. You’re a princess. I’m a gardener. Even taking that out of the equation, it felt impossible.”
“How does it feel now?” I ask.
“Surreal,” Roman whispers. “Crazy. I can’t believe you thought of me at all, let alone for months. But you don’t know me, Liz. Compared to everyone in your world, I’m different.”
“Exactly,” I say.
Roman’s mouth turns down in doubt. I know I’m going to have to convince him to take a chance.
On me.
“I want you to put aside Princess Elizabeth,” I ask. “See me as I am. Sitting on the dirty floor of a greenhouse, in yoga gear, wearing my hair in a knot and drinking a cup of tea, only wanting to know the man sitting across from me. Not the man known as a gardener, but the man known as Roman.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“All I need to know is that you want to do that,” I continue. “That you want to know me, as Liz, and all the things that make me more than the title I was born with. Just as I want to know you, as Roman Lawler. All you have to say is yes
, Roman, if you want to get to know me.”
My heart stops as I wait for his response.
As the seconds go by, I realise the answer, after the reality of a princess sitting in front of him hits him, might be no.
Roman exhales loudly. My heart sinks.
With a sickening sensation gripping me, I know his answer.
He’s changed his mind.
“Liz,” he says, his voice grave, “we’re so different. I don’t want to make a mistake. What’s the point of this? You like lemon. What will I find out next? That you have a black thumb?”
Oh so slowly, the corners of his mouth turn up. My heart roars back to life.
Roman flashes me a big smile, one so rare and radiant that I feel my soul light up the second I see it.
That smile tells me everything.
Roman is willing to take a chance on getting to know me.
And our time starts now.
Chapter 4
Limes or Lemons
I smile back at him. I’m elated that he wants to spend time getting to know me.
Not as Princess Elizabeth of York.
But as Liz.
“This could be dangerous, Roman,” I say, dropping my voice. “It’s going to take a lot for me to comprehend selecting lime when you can have the seductive tartness of a lemon instead.”
His eyes lower to my mouth for a moment. I grow hot from the intensity of his stare.
“Has to be lime. It has more zing, in my opinion,” he says, shifting his attention to my eyes.
“So, zing is important?”
The curved smile appears. “Yes.”
Zing, indeed.
“I think you are entirely dismissive of the lemon.”
“It should be dismissed,” Roman asserts, his smile broadening. “Key lime pie proves it. I love Key lime pie.”
“Oh, no, a classic lemon tart is by far superior to Key lime pie,” I insist. I pause and take another sip of my tea. “I have another question. Who is Darcy, and why does this person think you are rubbish with women?”
The flush creeps up Roman’s neck again. My heart zings upon seeing it.