by Renna Peak
My eyes widen and I blink a few times as the memory of our last moments inside his plane come flooding back to me.
We crashed. I turn to look around me, but I don’t see him here. I don’t see anything—not even the remnants of his airplane. I’m sitting about twenty feet or so from the water—I’m next to a small lake. My clothes are wet—not sopping, so I know I’ve been out of the water for at least a little while. We had to have crashed into the lake itself—there’s no other explanation. I just have no memory of how I managed to get myself from the water to here, near the cover of the forest.
I stand up—I’m a little wobbly, but nothing seems to be broken. I can see a meadow on the other side of the lake. It’s pretty torn up and I’m almost certain Andrew must have tried to land there, but the plane somehow overshot the small clearing. Considering his airplane is nowhere to be seen now, I have a feeling it may be under the water.
Andrew. It takes me another moment to realize he isn’t here—in fact, I don’t see any trace of him. He might be—oh my God, he’s still in the plane. My heart speeds up in my chest and I race to the bank of the lake, wading out to my waist, desperately trying to see—
“What the hell are you doing?”
I turn and see Andrew glaring at me from where I had been lying. He drops whatever it is he has in his arms and puts his hands on his hips. “Come out of the water at once.”
Tears of relief fill my eyes and my breath catches in my chest for a second—I was so sure he was dead. It takes me a moment to realize this is really happening—that this isn’t some dream or hallucination—and I wade back out of the water.
His clothes are still wet, too, and I try to ignore how his shirt is clinging to his broad shoulders and chest in just the right places. I must stare a moment too long—he glares at me as I make my way back toward him. “I already told you that your precious suitcase is at the bottom of the priority list, Victoria.”
“I…” My precious suitcase? It takes me another moment to realize what he’s saying. I shake my head. “I… I thought that you…” I blink back the tears that fill my eyes again. I must have hit my head pretty hard—I have no memory of anything after asking him if we were going to crash while the plane was still in the air.
His gaze narrows and he searches my eyes for a moment. “You thought that I what?”
“I…” I look back out over the lake again before I turn to meet his gaze. “I thought you went down with the plane. I woke up and didn’t see you here, and I… I…”
He looks at me like I’ve grown another head, his brow wrinkling with confusion.
“Never mind. I just—”
“You hit your head on the dashboard when we went down.” He nods, searching my eyes again. “That makes sense now.”
“Makes…sense?”
“Why you were asking about your suitcase while I was trying to get the life vest on you and get you to the shore.” He shakes his head. “It makes no difference now. We’re safe. We’ve survived.” He nods, though it looks like he’s trying more to convince himself of his words than he is me. “It shouldn’t be more than a few hours before someone finds us.”
“Finds…us.” I know I’m parroting him, but the reality of our situation is only beginning to sink in for me. We’re alone. In the wilderness of…somewhere. And the plane we were in is at the bottom of the lake beside us.
“Yes, Victoria. Even if I weren’t a prince of Montovia, I imagine air traffic control over this stretch of land will have noticed that the plane’s signal disappeared. It shouldn’t be too long, though we are going to be losing daylight soon.” He motions at the wood he’s apparently gathered from the nearby forest. “I’ll do what I can to make us a fire in case our rescuers don’t arrive before nightfall.”
“Okay—”
“You may want to stay out of the water, though. I don’t need you giving yourself hypothermia—”
“I thought you were in there. I was only…” I press my lips together as my voice starts to crack.
Something about his expression softens the slightest bit and he stares at me for a long moment before he nods over at his fire making supplies. “It may take me a bit to get a fire going without matches, but I have every confidence that I will.” If I didn’t know better, I would swear his lips nearly curl into a smile. “I never thought I’d be grateful for the survival training I was forced to do as part of my military service…” He pauses. “But we didn’t pass until we were able to make fire with what we could find in the wilderness. We’ll see how much I remember.” This time, he definitely gives me something that might almost pass for a small smile before he walks over to the pile of wood and leaves he’s gathered.
He kneels down and I watch him work for a few minutes before I walk over next to him. I don’t say a word as he tries setting fire to the small pile of leaves and moss he’s assembled.
I finally sit down after several minutes—far enough away that he won’t think I’m trying to interfere. If there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that I shouldn’t challenge their masculinity, especially in these sorts of circumstances.
He grumbles under his breath each time he tries—and fails—to get any kind of spark or flame going. But it doesn’t seem like I should say anything to him—not when I know help is already on the way. I’m not sure why we even need a fire—the sun is barely starting to dip behind the trees on the other side of the meadow on the far side of the lake. And it’s a fairly warm day—it’s still late summer, after all. We probably have at least an hour of sunlight by my estimation, and if it’s only going to be a few hours until our rescue…
“Shit,” he curses as another of the twigs he’s trying to rub together snaps in half. He sits all the way down, cross-legged and closes his eyes for a moment. He’s working his jaw, probably trying to calm himself down.
“May I?” I scoot myself a little closer to where he’s working.
He opens his eyes and looks over at me, lifting a brow. He motions with his hand toward the fire-making items in front of him. “Be my guest.” His gaze narrows a bit and he almost growls the words.
I ignore him and move in front of the things he has laid out on a large, nearly flat rock that is just high enough off the ground to make it a decent working surface.
I take off one of my sandals—I’m sure he was pretty pissed off at me earlier for taking so long at my apartment, but I’d at least had the foresight to wear these particular shoes. I snap off one of the long leather straps that had been wound around my ankle and wrap it around one of the twigs. I haven’t done this in a while, but I set everything up the way I remember before I turn to Andrew.
“Come over here.” I motion to him with my hand.
He almost glares at me, but he moves himself beside me.
“Okay, you blow gently down here while I pull on the strap.” I point at the moss around the bottom of the twig.
His eyes widen a little before his lips turn up into a smile. “Allow me. No offense, but I probably have more arm strength—you blow and I’ll pull.”
I move over, allowing him to take the leather strap in his hands. It doesn’t even take thirty seconds—I blow a steady but gentle stream of air as soon as the sparks start to fly from the wood as he pulls the strap of my sandal back and forth across the branch. The moss catches fire a second later.
Andrew grabs the flaming moss and sets it on top of the pile of kindling he’s already arranged next to the rock and before another minute has passed, our fire has roared to life. He spends a few minutes making sure it’s fed with plenty of branches before he comes over and sits beside me.
“Where did you learn to do that?” He’s not glaring any longer, but his voice is still barely more than a growl. “I’ll admit you surprise me. I never would have expected that from a woman obsessed with her suitcase, cookies, and her boyfriend.”
“My…what?” I turn to him, lifting a brow. I try not to laugh. “I apologize if I really did ask about my suitcase. I honestly don’t reme
mber—”
“You did ask, though now I wish I had been able to save it for you, seeing as you’ve ruined your shoes.” Whatever smile he might have had falls as he looks off into the distance, toward the sunset and the field we crossed before landing in the lake.
“I’ll be fine—I can still wear it as a flip-flop.” I frown. “Are you okay? Were you injured? You’ve barely even spoken to me since I woke up.”
He nods. “Nothing but a few minor bruises. I was worried about your head injury, particularly with the way you were carrying on about the baked goods when we got to shore.”
I can’t help but smile. “Baked goods? Are you sure? I mean, I love a good piece of cake now and then, but I live in L.A. It’s not like I can just eat whatever I want—”
“Snickerdoodles seem to be your particular favorite.” He shrugs. “Well, those, your suitcase and some man named Landon, who I presume is your boyfriend by the way you spoke of him.”
My mouth falls open and I stare at him for a moment. “I said that? I said… That’s what I said to you—?”
“You said, ‘What about my suitcase? What about snickerdoodles and what about Landon?’ You at first seemed particularly upset about the cookies, which surprised me, at least until you began carrying on about when you would see the gentleman again.”
I turn away to stare into the fire, blinking a few times. That’s where my mind still goes when I’m injured or upset? For real? This many years later? I guess I should have stuck with therapy after all, just like all the starlets I spend so much time chasing do. Holy shit, I had no idea I was still hung up on that stuff—I mean, maybe I’m not. Maybe the trauma of a plane crash can dredge that kind of stuff up from the depths of wherever it hides in my brain.
“I’m somewhat surprised that you agreed to come to Montovia with me, given you didn’t clear it with this Landon fellow.”
I have to blink a few times, breaking myself out of my daze. I turn to him, frowning. “Landon is—was my brother. Snickerdoodles was my cat. And I don’t know what to say about the suitcase.” I plaster a phony smile on my face. “I apologize, Your Highness, but I think I may have been in shock. I’m pretty sure I was reliving an incident from my childhood.”
“I see.” Something in his expression changes—his eyes soften and he’s at least not glaring at me now.
There’s something very odd about how he’s looking at me and I turn my gaze back to the fire. We sit in silence for a moment before I turn to look at him again. “I’m sorry about your plane.”
Something flashes in his eyes—something almost sad as he nods. “I’m sorry, too. I should have checked—”
“You couldn’t have checked for whatever happened, Andrew. It wasn’t your fault. I should probably thank you for saving my life. I mean, I have no idea how to fly a plane. I can’t even imagine how many things you have to keep in your head at once to be able to do that. And then you somehow landed it and got us both out alive. That’s pretty impressive.”
The corners of his lips twitch, but I can tell there’s no smile there. How could there be? The man just lost his most prized possession—I could see how much he loved that plane. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about flying—the way he talked about his airplane as if it was a person.
We sit in silence for a long time, the light fading as the sun dips lower behind the trees in the distance. He’s watching the sky—looking for our rescuers, no doubt.
“What if…?” I break the silence that has become almost deafening between us, though I can’t quite finish my question.
“They’ll come. Maybe they’re having trouble locating the tracking beacon because it’s under water.” He doesn’t even hesitate, and something about the way he’s speaking tells me he’s been thinking the same thing I have for the past little while.
We sit in silence for another moment before he speaks again. “I’m going to gather some more wood. Just in case.”
I nod and he gets up, walking back into the wooded area beside where we’ve made our fire.
It’s getting cold—it may still be late summer, but wherever we are, autumn seems to have already begun, at least as night begins to fall. I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and edging myself a little closer to the fire. I’m almost sorry I took my jacket off in the plane now, though it had become almost impossibly hot sitting in that little cockpit with Andrew.
And I’m pretty sure he had been looking at me, which had been a bonus. I smile a little, remembering that—seeing the tiniest crack in the armor he’s built up around himself.
Why is that armor there at all? Andrew is so different from his brother—they might look an awful lot alike, but they are complete opposites, personality-wise. Where Leo is charming and generous—if not a little clueless—Andrew is guarded, almost offensive to everyone around him. And he doesn’t seem to care. It’s little wonder Leo was the first of the royal siblings to settle down, given what an asshole Andrew seems to be—
Oh. My. God. Is that why he asked me to come to Montovia? Is that why he needs some feature article written about him? To land a wife?
Something tells me I’ve been duped—Andrew made me think he had some big secret to tell, when in actuality, he just wants damage control done to repair the embarrassment he must be feeling at having his brother about to marry before he does. That has to be it—there’s no way Andrew could have ever allowed himself to do anything that would require damage control, anyway—he’s so damned uptight, I doubt he’s ever allowed himself to do anything that might get him into the slightest bit of trouble. This has to be an attempt to make him look good to the public—to somehow get him in line to take Leo’s place as the new sexy prince or something.
My jaw tightens as I watch him return with another armful of branches. I might have offered to help, but now… Knowing he almost got me killed to do some vanity piece makes me want to strangle him.
He places a few more branches on the fire and sits down beside me. “I think this should last us the night, not that we’ll need the fire that long.”
I nod, wrapping my arms a little tighter around my legs.
We sit in silence for a few moments before he speaks again. “So…”
I don’t even look over at him; I just stare into the fire. “So?”
“I’m curious where you learned to make a fire like that, Victoria.”
I turn my head, resting my cheek on my knees for a moment to look at him before I turn my gaze back to the orange flames. “I was a Girl Scout for seven years. They actually teach useful things to young girls, believe it or not.”
“You surprised me.” He pauses. “Not many people have done that. Not in a positive way, at least.”
“Glad to be of service, Your Highness. Keeping the Crown Prince of Montovia warm and all.”
“I suppose I wouldn’t have expected a woman from Los Angeles to—”
“I’m not from Los Angeles, Your Highness.” I turn to face him, glaring. “I’m from Oregon and I went to college in Illinois. Not that you care, but I’m definitely not from L.A.”
“I see.” He’s silent for a moment. “But you did choose to live there—to perform your…job.” The way he says the word job makes it sound like I do something vile for a living, like cleaning the guts out of fish or something.
“Try not to gag, Your Highness.” I roll my eyes. “You know, I didn’t choose to write about celebrities—I wanted to work for a newspaper. But the job at the tabloid was the only one I could get. You’ve heard of the Internet, right? You have to know that news jobs aren’t exactly plentiful these days. You have to take what you can get and try to always be moving toward something better. Not all of us are born with a crown on our heads, you know.”
“I…know.” He rubs his jaw for a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I sit upright, turning toward him. “Didn’t you? You’re all high and mighty, all I’m going to be king someday and I want my public to love me. That’s what
this is about, isn’t it?” I motion between us. “You brought me here—tried to take me to Montovia—to fix your image. Because you’ll never land a wife if people think you’re King Asshole, and you can’t have poor Leo thinking he actually has a chance at landing that title, right? King Asshole has to be all yours.”
“That is not why I needed you…” His jaw clenches and he turns away. “Never mind. This was all a mistake. I should have listened to my own instincts, hired a real journalist—”
“Fuck. You.” I stand up, brushing the dirt off my ass before I fold my arms over my chest. “I am a real journalist, asshole. I graduated at the top of my class. I’ve written several articles that have been nominated for awards—”
“Awards for celebrity reporting? Ha.” He almost snorts before he stands up, facing me. “You’ve spent more time in the last five years chasing my brother than you have actually writing. As though the reporting of my brother’s escapades with every female celebrity and royal, eligible or not, is somehow news. As if—”
“Go to hell. I did what I had to do to put food on my table. To pay my rent and my student loans and…” I shake my head. “You know what? Never mind. It isn’t as though you of all people could ever understand what it’s like to be desperate.”
“I understand precisely what it’s like to be desperate. Why do you think I hired you?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“You seem to have a very narrow vocabulary, Ms. Simpson. It’s a pity, really, considering this is one of the more stimulating conversations I’ve had with a woman in some time.”
“I…” Something about the tone of his voice makes me stop, reconsidering the anger—almost hatred—I’ve felt toward him since the first time we spoke at the state dinner a few weeks ago. There’s something almost sad about him, almost broken. I’m not sure what it is, but the bubbling rage that had been in my chest a second ago is replaced with a prickle of curiosity almost as quickly.
But he interrupts that curiosity before I can say another word. “You’re cold.”
“And you’re an…” I stop myself from saying the word asshole again when I realize my hands are rubbing the tops of my bare arms and I’m almost shivering—he means I’m literally cold. Not cold-hearted, though he may well think both for all I know.