Confessions of a Girl-Next-Door

by Jackie Braun

  “Nate.”

  Before she could protest further, he was at the door, his hand on the knob. This time, his gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “I’ll leave you to freshen up. We can discuss your accommodations later.”

  The door closed. Holly stared at the scratched wood for a long time afterward. What had just happened? In the span of the past half hour, he’d gone from being smug and a little indignant to being uncomfortable and, unless she missed her guess, embarrassed. That wasn’t the Nathaniel Matthews she remembered. He’d been fearless, formidable and a touch arrogant at times.

  He’d been determined to take on the world. He’d seen no limit to the possibilities life had to offer him. She’d admired his conviction that he could be anything, do anything, go anywhere and answer to no one but himself. For a while, Holly had even begun to think like he did. Then she’d returned to Morenci, after what turned out to be her last summer on the island, and her mother had set her straight.

  “You’re no longer a child, Hollyn. You’ll turn sixteen soon. It’s time for you to fully embrace your royal responsibilities. You’re a princess. You need to start acting like one at all times.”

  Her girlhood dreams had been dashed.

  What, she wondered now, had made Nate change his plans? Or was it simply a case of growing up? After all, he’d been a boy when she’d known him.

  Well, one thing was clear. The man who’d just closed the door was a stranger, even if so many things about him seemed familiar.

  Nate changed into dry clothes and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, he pulled a fresh bottle of beer from the fridge, uncapped it and took a liberal swig.

  God! What must she think of him? He probably came off as backward and irascible. He hadn’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat upon learning she was Hank’s passenger.

  Welcome mat. He grunted now and took another gulp of beer. She was used to red carpets, state dinners and probably parades held in her honor. He’d even botched his attempt to carry her to shore. Still, she’d laughed. And in that moment he’d glimpsed the girl she’d been. The girl who at first had been his fishing buddy and who, later, when he was teenager, had kept him awake and confused on hot summer nights.

  Now she was a woman. A beautiful woman. Staying under his roof. And, even though his parents were a couple thousand miles away enjoying their retirement and unable to act as chaperones, Holly was as off-limits as she’d been when his hormones had been raging as a teen. Hank sauntered into the kitchen then. They did have a chaperone after all. Nate couldn’t make up his mind whether to be grateful or not.

  “Where’s Holly?” The other man’s beer was empty. He helped himself to a fresh one from the fridge, shooting the cap in the direction of the trash can in the corner.

  “Upstairs, probably getting out of her wet clothes.” It was the wrong thing to say, Nate decided, when his imagination kicked into overdrive.

  “I didn’t realize you two knew one another. She didn’t mention it on the flight over.”

  “We don’t. Well, not really.” Nate shrugged. Since Hank was waiting for more of an explanation, he added, “We spent several summers together when we were kids. It’s been years since I last saw her.”

  That wasn’t quite true since all he’d had to do in the interim was pick up a magazine or turn on the television and more times than not there was a feature on Morenci’s future monarch. But then his Holly and Hollyn Saldani had always seemed like separate people to him. Until today. Today he was having a hard time keeping them straight.

  “She looks familiar,” Hank was saying.

  Nate chose not to reveal Holly’s secret. It was only because the pilot had the loosest lips in three counties, he told himself, and she’d already made it clear she’d come here to get away from the public eye. Besides, the last thing Nate wanted was for his peaceful little island to be overrun with journalists and paparazzi and royal gawkers. That would be bad for business.

  Liar, a voice whispered. He ignored it. On a shrug, he replied, “I know. She has one of those faces.”

  Hank seemed satisfied with the answer, but he was still curious. “Where’s she from? I know she’s not American. She has an accent of some sort even though she speaks really good English.”

  Again, rather than lie outright, Nate chose to be vague. “Abroad somewhere. But some of her family vacationed in these parts.”

  He frowned after saying so. Had it really been her grandmother that she’d come to the island with? Or had the older woman been some sort of governess? He still had so many questions about the woman who had been his first love … and a total stranger.

  The laid-back pilot appeared to accept the explanations Nate offered. Of course, Hank was easy to please. He had free, ice-cold beer, a place to sleep for the night and cable television, assuming the storm didn’t knock it out.

  Nate thought that was the end of their discussion of Holly, until the guy commented, “She sure is a pretty thing.”

  Nate swigged his beer and mumbled a response.

  “And generous.” Hank grinned. “You wouldn’t believe what she paid me to fly her here.”

  “You were risking your life,” Nate reminded him dryly.

  The other man laughed loudly. “Maybe so, but neither of my ex-wives thought my life was worth that much.”

  The other man’s attitude rubbed Nate the wrong way. “Well, it’s easy to be generous when you’ve done nothing to earn the money in your wallet.”

  “She’s loaded?”

  Nate shrugged. “Her family’s well-to-do. Old money.” Really old money and a pedigree that could be traced back through the generations.

  “Is she single?”

  His gut clenched. “Far as I know.” Though rumors were circulating in the media that an engagement was in her future. The first time Nate had heard them aired on a news program he’d not just been angry, he’d felt a little sick to his stomach. Neither reaction made sense. Nor did his reaction upon seeing her today.

  “Imagine that. Pretty, single and rich.” The other man pushed back his mop of unkempt salt-and-pepper hair. “Think I stand a chance?”

  “Sorry, pal.” Nate clinked the neck of his beer bottle against the one in Hank’s hand in seeming commiseration. “I think she’s out of your league.”

  Hank didn’t appear overly troubled by the assessment. “What about yours?”

  “Definitely.”

  Nate studied the bottle’s label after he said it. He’d done all right for himself in life. In fact, he was quite pleased by how far he’d come.

  After high school graduation, he’d gone on to college. Nothing Ivy League, but his grades had been good enough to get him into a Big Ten school. He’d made the dean’s list all four years at the University of Michigan. After earning a bachelor’s degree, he’d moved to Chicago and had taken a management position at one of the hotels on the Miracle Mile.

  His parents had been proud of him, though their unspoken disappointment that he hadn’t wanted to take over the family resort had been clear. But they’d given him space and offered him choices. And after four years in the Windy City, he realized how much he missed the slow pace of life on the island. He missed the quiet mornings and spectacular sunrises on Lake Huron. When he’d packed up his belongings and left the island, he’d been so sure he wanted big-city living—the decadent nightlife, the pricey condo overlooking Navy Pier, the designerlabel clothes and gourmet restaurants.

  Everything had been great for a while, even if he’d still felt more like a tourist than a resident. He’d enjoyed making a name for himself. He’d enjoyed hearing the praise from his boss, and the predictions from corporate that he would be another rung up the ladder soon, maybe even managing a hotel of his own.

  Then his parents had announced their retirement and their plans to sell Haven Resort & Marina. They wanted to move south to warmer climes. Nate had been poleaxed. Oh, he’d expected them to retire at some point. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t talked about it over the years.
And he’d long known they had their eye on a condo on Florida’s Gulf Coast. The winters on the island could be brutal and long, especially on achy, aging joints. But talking and doing were two different things.

  Confronted by reality, he’d come to a couple of conclusions. One, he didn’t want to live in Chicago. It was a great city, full of energy and excitement, but it wasn’t for him. Not long-term, anyway. And two, he didn’t want anyone but him to own the resort that his grandparents had started from nothing during the 1950s.

  So, he’d gone home, not with his tail tucked between his legs, but confident that he’d made the right decision. He’d never regretted coming back. In fact, he’d been damned pleased with the changes he’d made, and those he continued to implement to bring the property up-to-date so that it would appeal to the needs of a new generation of tourists. The marina and outbuildings were in good shape. And he was renovating the cottages as money permitted. He’d completed half of them already, doing much of the work himself in the off-season. Gone were the mismatched furnishings and bedding, the ancient appliances and worn vinyl flooring. What he’d replaced them with weren’t high-end, but they were durable, fresh, contemporary and comfortable. And the cottages now sported neutral color schemes and even some artwork from a local woman who specialized in nature views. They weren’t as good as the ones captured by Lengard, but they complemented the decor and had helped bring some commissions the young artist’s way.

  Last year he’d added Wi-Fi and cable television, and he’d partnered with a local couple to offer guided hikes through the huge swath of federally owned land on the northern tip of the island that was home to all sorts of wildlife, including a couple of endangered bird species. In the spring, when the morel mushroom hunters came, he’d joined forces with one of the island’s restaurants for cooking demonstrations. In addition to families and fishermen, his resort now appealed to naturalists and others embracing a greener lifestyle.

  Winters were still pretty quiet. Only the heartiest of tourists ventured north during that time of year. But already he was making plans to attract more snowshoers, cross-country skiers and snowmobilers, which was why he had purchased another dozen acres of land just beyond what he owned now with plans to add trails and maybe even a few more cabins down the road.

  His parents were impressed with the changes he’d made, even though he’d suggested most of them while they still owned the place. But the status quo had been good enough for them. He’d understood and accepted that. But within days of the transfer in ownership, he’d rolled up his sleeves and begun the transformation.

  Now, business was up. Not just for his resort, but for other establishments on the island, thanks to a joint marketing campaign that he’d spearheaded. The head of the local chamber of commerce hadn’t been pleased, since Nate basically had gone around Victor Montague’s back. But everyone else was happy with the results.

  Yes, he was proud of what he’d accomplished. Proud of what he’d made not only of the resort, but also of his life. Which was why it galled him to find himself glancing around his kitchen, another of his renovation projects, and wondering what Holly thought of his quaint home and simple life.

  “Nate?” Hank gazed at him quizzically.

  After another swig of beer, he muttered, “Definitely, she’s out of my league.”

  Holly stood at the base of the steps. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on Nate’s conversation with Hank, but it was hard not to hear the men. The house was small. Their voices carried.

  Out of his league?

  She supposed she could understand how Nate would think that. He wasn’t the first person, man or woman, who had acted as if she were made of priceless spun glass. A number of her childhood friends had become overly deferential and awkward around her once they had finally grasped her status as their future monarch. She recalled how isolated it had made her feel. How utterly lonely.

  “That’s just the way it is,” her mother had told her matter-of-factly when she complained. “They treat you differently because you are different. You’re special, Hollyn.”

  Holly hadn’t wanted to be “special.” She’d wanted friends. True friends who wouldn’t purposely lose at board games or let her pick the movie every time they got together. Friends who would confide their secrets. Friends in whom she could confide hers and not risk having her private thoughts written up in the tabloids. That had happened when she was fourteen. She’d complained about an argument with her mother, who’d felt Holly was too young to wear makeup. The headline in the Morenci Daily two days later read: “Queen and her teen nearly come to blows over mascara.”

  Her mother had been livid. Holly had been crushed, and, hence forward, very, very careful.

  After that, the closest she’d had to actual girlfriends were her cousins, Amelia and Emily. As the second and third in line for the throne behind Holly, they understood what it was like to be in the spotlight, photographed, quoted—or misquoted as the case may be—and constantly judged on their appearance and breeding as if they were entries in the Royal Kennel Club’s annual dog show.

  Yet, even with Amelia and Emily, the older they grew, the more she sensed a distance and a separation between them. And, yes, she could admit now, she’d noticed a certain amount of envy and bitterness that while Holly would have a prime place in Morenci’s history books, their lives would be mere footnotes and largely forgotten.

  Their emotional defection had hurt. But not as badly as overhearing Nate’s assessment of her. He made her sound shallow, spoiled.

  Spending money she hadn’t earned?

  As far as Holly was concerned, she was always “earning” her keep. Long ago, her life had ceased to be her own, if indeed it ever had been. She was public property. Her photograph was sold to the highest tabloid bidder, in addition to being plastered on everything from teacups, decorative plates and biscuit tins to T-shirts and tote bags that were then gobbled up by tourists.

  She told herself the disappointment she felt about Nate’s assessment of her was because she had so hoped to feel “normal” here. She had hoped to be treated as she had been treated as a girl coming to the island with her grandmother: Accepted for who she was rather than the crown she would someday wear.

  A small sigh escaped. She was being foolish.

  At least Nate hadn’t told Hank the truth about her identity. If it meant letting the other man and the rest of the folks on the island think she was some snobby socialite eager for a taste of the simple life, so be it. Anonymity in itself was a gift. One that she hadn’t enjoyed in more than a decade.

  The men came out of the kitchen, both of them stopping with almost comedic abruptness when they spied her. Nate looked guilty, his gaze cutting away a moment before returning to hers. No doubt, he was wondering how much she’d overheard.

  Hank, however, was grinning broadly.

  “Hey, there, miss. I see you’re none the worse for wear after your unexpected dip in the lake.” He elbowed Nate in the ribs.

  Nate flushed. So did she. Holly hardly looked her best. She’d changed into dry clothes, but they were wrinkled from their time spent in her bag. And while she’d combed the tangles out of her hair, it was still wet. She’d remembered a blow dryer in her hasty packing job, but she hadn’t thought to bring an adapter. And, of course, she smelled of lake water.

  She fiddled with the ends of her hair.

  “I wanted to take a shower, but I’m afraid I couldn’t figure out how to work the faucet so that the spray would come out.”

  “It’s finicky,” Nate said. “I should have thought to show you before coming downstairs.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I can show you now.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what to do with my wet things.” She’d hung them over the shower curtain in the bathroom.

  “I can toss them in the dryer.”

  She nibbled the inside of her cheek. The pants and jacket were both made of linen. The blouse was silk. “I don’
t suppose the island has a dry cleaners?”

  Nate shook his head.

  “The town on the mainland does,” Hank supplied. “It’s right next to the grocery store. I can take them with me when I fly back tomorrow and drop them off for you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t want to be a bother.” She added an appreciative smile.

  “It’s no trouble. None at all,” he insisted.

  This was exactly the sort of deferential treatment she was used to … and did not want. “I’ll think about it,” she answered diplomatically.

  “Come on. I’ll show you how to work the shower,” Nate said, as if sensing her unease.

  She followed him back up the stairs to the bathroom, hurriedly snatching a pair of white silk panties and a delicate lace-edged bra from the curtain rod and hiding them behind her back.

  Nate coughed. They both smiled uncomfortably.

  “Um, about the shower. You, uh, turn this knob.” He demonstrated as he instructed. “The farther right you turn it, the hotter it becomes.” She was thinking something on the cool side. “You’ll probably want it somewhere in the middle. Then you flip this little lever on the side.”

  Again, he demonstrated. The water sprayed out from the showerhead. Small beads of it ricocheted off the tiled surround and landed on his forearm. The hair there was bleached as light as some of the streaks on his head, alluding to his time spent in the sun. Indeed, he had a good tan going. In comparison, Holly was ridiculously pale. It had been that way when they were kids, too, although by the end of her visit, she’d always managed to look like a regular beachcomber—or a commoner, as her mother complained.

  No doubt Olivia had worked herself into a good fit by now, despite the note of explanation that Henry had delivered on Holly’s behalf. She felt a little guilty, a little queasy. And a lot rebellious, because she wasn’t going to return for at least a week. Maybe longer. And even though her mother considered her engagement to Phillip a done deal, Holly was far from convinced.