by Miranda King
“Friends, like you and Michael?”
Clearly, friends was a wrong word choice.
“Or whatever you’d like to call it.”
Did that come off the way I intended it?
“Whatever I’d like to call it?” he repeated. Another muscle twitched in his cheek.
I thought not.
“That wasn’t some sort of veiled proposition.”
“Good to know, Ms. Wellborn, because”—he raked a hand through his hair—“don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not my type.”
“But I thought… maybe when you’d walked me to my classroom… and with what Ms. Modesto said—”
“She has an overactive imagination.”
Guess I did, too, because…
“Everyone knows I prefer tall brunettes,” he said, “and you’re—”
“Opposite in every way,” I finished.
“Goodnight, Ms. Wellborn.” And he was gone.
But not his words.
Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not my type.
My heart free-fell down that rabbit hole and, at the bottom, each word was a knife that cut straight through my heart.
Was today a mere daydream? Because right now, I’d woken up alone, watching even the warm sun abandon me.
“Prince Michael Parks His Car Every Night at Sass’ Apartment”
-Gossip Weekly
“Sass Drives Royal Car—Will She Wear the Royal Ring Next?”
-Royal Rumor Report
Every day was beautiful in Maravista. But even the sunshine couldn’t warm my lonely heart or cure my homesickness for Granny.
Mr. Princeton and I never talked about the car again. Hell, we barely talked at all. But my heart ached every time I saw him about what could’ve been, if only… and I cursed my overactive imagination.
My cousin and flatmate, Bella, corkscrewed across Europe to promote her doll business. I did have Divina, but home was like a discarded candy wrapper trashed on the roadside after someone else had taken out the candy.
There was no sweetness, no energy kick… no Granny.
I didn’t want to ask Michael for a special visa for Granny to come. I wanted to avoid any more obligations to him after I’d agreed to use his car. Did it have something to do with what Mr. Princeton had insinuated? Perhaps.
But, logically, my stay here in Maravista was only temporary, and if I asked him to bring Granny, he’d take it as a sign that I wanted to stay permanently. Of course, he’d assume for him, even though I’d sent back all his gifts, declined all his invitations, and rarely returned his calls.
But Michael had found a creative way to be near me—the mock trial team. He’d appointed himself as another assistant coach, unofficial as Fallon Madson, the head coach and Michael’s cousin, emphasized we didn’t need him.
Fallon was the type that liked to be the sole controller of things, and I instinctively followed his lead and didn’t try to contradict him.
If he were a Homme doll, the male version of Fashion Royalty dolls, he wasn’t in mint condition—I’d call him “loose jointed.” He was always twitching something, like straightening the collar around his neck or extending his arms to adjust his sleeves. He reminded me of a predator on the prowl for his next prey.
And he didn’t like Michael—that much was for sure, even though they were cousins. Anytime something went wrong, Fallon complained it was Michael’s fault, even when it wasn’t.
But Michael didn’t care. Every meeting he came bearing food—or, should I say the caterers did—and he rolled up his sleeves to help wherever needed.
I’d bet my favorite Fashion Royalty doll, True Royalty Vanessa, that he did this in large part to see me, despite his insistence that he was “only here for the kids.” Every so often I would sneak a peek at him. Sometimes he would catch me and toss me a wink, similar to the one he’d given those magazines, and I’d look away without acknowledging him. Sometimes I thought he’d take another slap just to have my attention.
Other times, he was so engulfed in helping the kids memorize lines or working with witnesses on how they should portray their parts that I knew—he was here for the kids, too.
He would be a hands-on father and a fairytale husband for some lucky woman.
She just wouldn’t be me.
Thanks to the Contessa, my DNA wasn’t encoded to handle happily ever after’s with a prince, remember?
I also couldn’t pretend to feel for Michael what he deserved.
The kids loved him. Fallon hated him. I fell somewhere in between—the friendship zone.
In the quiet nights, I’d squeeze my eyes tight and imagine what it would be like to have Michael lying next to me.
I couldn’t.
Only one man invaded my dreams, as much as I didn’t want him to, and I didn’t even know his first name.
Mr. Princeton and I spoke only when professionally necessary since he’d made it clear that I wasn’t his type. Even then, he’d utter only a few words, or sometimes a whole sentence, before he’d stalk off.
Since Michael had been coming around after school, Mr. Princeton hadn’t bothered to allot me even one word past “yes” or “no,” with the latter, at least when it came to me, established as his preset default.
Until today.
Something changed in our after-school routine with each other. The campus usually emptied out by four pm, and I’d wander into the staff room to check my mail, killing time before mock trial. He could see the staff room from his office. He’d know when I’d arrived.
But he’d never said anything when he walked in—always a minute or so after me. He’d come in for coffee and meander over to check his mail, right by my box. We’d stand there, sifting our own mail in silence.
Mine was mostly junk, but I’d stay there, riveted to each piece of nonsense because it kept me longer by his side. If our elbows or arms or shoulders happened to touch, my breath would hitch. He’d run a hand through his hair, let out a huff, and leave as fast as a pickpocket.
That’s what he was, my pickpocket. Each time, he’d stolen pieces of my heart.
Today, I expected the same routine. His coffee, our mail, my breath hitching, his huffing… and then him leaving without a word.
But today he said a word that rocked my world off its axis.
I wore that red silk wraparound dress that he’d bought me on my first day. The one with the thin fabric that hugged my curves. During our usual mail routine, I could feel his eyes on me, and I dared a sideways glance—he was reading his mail upside down.
Was that a clue I rattled his nerves the way he did mine?
His body was like an amplifier for mine. All my senses were in-tune to him. His subtle movements, his breathing rhythms, his pure male scent of musk and the essence of his virility that inebriated every cell in my body.
My hands dampened, and I shoved my mail back in the box. Then, out of instinct, I skimmed my sticky palms down my thighs, and I stretched my back in an arch to release some of the tension. I had to go before he could detect the full extent of how he affected me.
Perhaps he sensed I was about to leave because he shifted the weight of his feet towards me. His shoulder grazed mine, and he released an elongated breath. I closed my eyes and relished the lingering tingles, like soft blades of grass dancing up and down my arm.
I opened my eyes, expecting to find him halfway out the door to his office. Instead, he squeezed between me and the staff sofa, presumably towards the opposite exit door.
He brushed his chest against my hair and the delicate fabric covering my back. The soft material and my hair swished together along my back, moving to make way for his body, like a gentle caress.
I gasped. The sensation stirred to life again all those butterflies that had been dormant in my body.
He’d lingered behind me for a dozen heartbeats that massaged against me. His warm breath bathed the edge of my cheek and his voice whispered, “Beautiful.”
Bea
utiful?!
What about his whole spiel of Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not my type?
My short, blond self could never pass for a tall brunette.
My world spun. I clutched the edge of the mail slot in front of me. I had to grab hold of something, the same way I had my bike in that portico when his hands had been stroking my knee. I held tight to the metal edge of the mailbox. I couldn’t allow myself to succumb to this free fall of emotions—I feared the crash and burn.
The heat of his body abandoned me. I didn’t turn to see. I already knew—he was halfway out the door.
His movements paused. “Beautiful day, isn’t it.” That was a statement, not a question.
Those butterflies in my stomach swarmed after one unanswered question he’d stirred in my soul: When he’d whispered beautiful, did he mean the weather or me?
Our window view from the mailboxes did showcase one helluva vibrant display of summer outside.
My stomach wouldn’t settle until I knew the answer.
I turned to him, opening my mouth to say something, anything that might get him to clarify if what had happened between us was my imagination merely intensifying polite conversation about the weather, or if there was something between us that really could be beautiful.
But the door had snapped closed, and he was gone.
I stood there feeling so positively like a high school girl, and not a fully-grown woman, because I craved some “girl talk” to figure out—did he like me or not? Yep, that was a giggly-girl question.
But a serious one—his actions didn’t match his words about me not being his type.
I twirled a piece of hair around my finger. His scent spiraled around each strand that I twisted, and—I’d never admit to anyone—I breathed it in as if his scent were my last source of oxygen.
Oh, Heaven, help me… please.
Until then, maybe Divina could help me unravel my tangled heart. Not only was she my best friend, but she had this don’t-mess-with-me attitude and her favorite word was “whatever.”
In college, if some guy didn’t call me back, I’d ask, “What did I do wrong?”
She’d shrug her shoulders. “Whatever, his loss.”
Oh, how I wish I had her attitude. I wouldn’t care enough to decode Mr. Princeton’s every word.
She greeted me with her kiss-kiss on each cheek when I arrived, and I flopped onto her plush, damask rose sofa—no hard Granny plastic here—for a long session of girl talk. Every Wednesday we met at her “house,” a hilltop five-story villa overlooking the sea, to fine-tune details of her Diamond Doll Convention.
Divina envisioned it as an unofficial gathering for Fashion Royalty doll lovers to showcase their dolls and accessories. We’d planned hair re-rooting, face repainting, clothing, and body restoration workshops, but the highlights were a series of fashion designers’ contests, with the beginner level being where I’d entered all my students. The two-day event would end with the ultra-exclusive Diamond Gala Masquerade.
All this was only the baby steps of Divina’s plan to transform Maravista into one of the fashion capitals of the world.
And, the reality was, Divina had a staff of twenty people helping her organize the event. So, usually, after an hour, our meetings dissolved into another two hours of girl talk.
“Darling,” Divina said, not bothering to sit down, yet. “Don’t get too comfortable”—she clapped her hands together—“I have a surprise waiting for you.”
“Please, no more gifts,” I said. “I love you without them.”
“You’re going to want this one.” She handed me her cellphone. “Here, call Granny, so she can tell you all about it.”
I quizzed my brows, but did as she said.
I heard the dial on my end, and then the blare of Granny’s newest ringtone, “Sweet Home Alabama,” I swear so loud that I could hear it across the Atlantic.
But why was I hearing her ringtone from across the Atlantic… unless?
Divina opened gold-gilded double doors. My heart stopped.
It couldn’t be…
“Granny!”
We ran into each other’s arms. She smelled of lilacs, of a faint hint of chocolate, of home.
She was also cashmere soft. That was no yard sale sweater bargain. I stared down at her sophisticated bias-cut skirt, supple brown riding boots, and then back up to her hair. No longer brassy red, but a luminous auburn.
“Granny, your hair… how did it grow six inches since I’ve seen you?”
“Extensions, darling.” Divina combed her hands through Granny’s hair. “I’m transforming her into a new woman for the Saints and Sinners Masquerade.”
I couldn’t keep up with all of Maravista’s holidays and masquerades. Call them what they were, excuses to throw elaborate parties. This particular masquerade was an overnight affair on one of the royal luxury cruise ships, and Divina was having outfits made for us.
“After the masquerade, Granny, how long can I keep you?”
“For the love of dolls, would you believe, I’m here until you come home,” she said, and we both squealed in unison.
We relocated to Divina’s fifty shades of “pink” sitting room. Nathan’s continuous presence somehow made this girly-girl room a bit naughty. Her bodyguard never let Divina out of his sight.
Sometimes I wondered if that was out of duty, or if he just liked to look at her. She had these adorably pouty lips and when she pouted them to their full potential, she had Nathan wrapped around her long, slender finger.
After I’d arrived in Maravista, I’d insisted Michael reassign him back to her. Nathan belonged with Divina.
I knew it. Nathan knew it. Hell, but Divina didn’t, yet.
“Nathan,” I said. “I hope you won’t mind our girl talk.”
He shook his head and indulged me with a smile.
After thirty minutes of chatter, Nathan held up admirably well tucked in the corner playing on his cellphone. But I had yet to divulge any of my day’s dilemma. Finally under the conspiratorial hue cast by the ensconced lighting, I confessed I had a crush.
“But he’s not Michael.” I broke it to Divina as gently as when Granny had told me that there was no Santa Claus. “Lord knows I’ve tried, but he’ll always only be a friend to me.”
Divinia’s lips pouted. “But if you’d just said ‘yes,’ you could grow into love and…”
By now, I’d plucked one of Divina’s blush pink roses from a vase on her beveled glass coffee table. I pulled off petals one by one in cadence with each word she spoke.
She was never at a loss for words on the topic of Michael and me, so I pulled out several more roses and plucked them, too. I’d become well-practiced at this during our conversations over the past weeks.
I sorted the petals on her table and arranged them into a chubby-shaped heart. I tested the table’s smooth surface with my fingers in the open space between the petals.
I swirled an imaginary “SW” for my initials and “+” and then my finger wouldn’t curve into the “MD” for Michael’s initials. But then neither could my finger trace Mr. Princeton’s initials, and it went beyond the fact that I didn’t know his first name.
After a big sigh, I interrupted Divina and blurted out, “Do you think Mr. Princeton likes me?”
Silence from Divina—and that never happened.
Even Nathan paused his game to look up at me.
Granny, right beside me, said, “Princeton? I love his voice and his—”
“You’ve met him already, Granny?”
She nodded her head. “Oooh, he’s a total DDG!”
“Drop Dead Gorgeous,” I added for Nathan’s sake. I was about to ask Granny how she’d met him when Divina interrupted.
“But I thought you didn’t like Princeton?” Divina sat in the wingback chair to my left and poured everyone tea without bothering to ask us if we wanted any. “You’ve never talked about him, except a few times to say how much at work he irritated you.”
/> “I can’t explain it.” I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. “And at least he’s not a prince.”
Divina chewed on her plump bottom lip before she asked, “Do you only like Princeton because you think he’s not a prince?” She presented me with a delicate tea cup. “I mean, are you sure you’re not using him as an excuse not to like Michael?”
“No.” That was my one word translation of oh, if you only knew. If she only knew how I nearly lost my mind that first day when his hands fondled me, or rather my knee. If she only knew about my red panties. If she only knew about our beautiful mailroom encounter. If she only knew how, every night in my dreams, I transformed into his Margarita Girl…
I gulped my tea. It was warm and strong, and so like the man my body craved. “But Mr. Princeton rarely speaks one word to me, and he flat-out said I wasn’t his type.”
“Whatever!” Divina waved pish-posh with her hand. “You’re so his type.”
“But he said he preferred tall brunettes.”
“Whatever!” She flicked her hand again. “I should think he’d run in the opposite direction of a tall brunette because she’d remind him of his ex-wife.”
“Ex-wife?”
She could’ve knocked me over with one of those rose petals on the table.
“Darling, he’s been heartbroken and eventually divorced, and that’s all I’m going to say on that.” She folded one ankle over another and leaned her body towards me. “If you want him, you’ll have to make a move.”
“I don’t have any moves.”
“Whatever!” she said. “I can think of a certain slap.” She tossed in that wink the way her brother did, too. “And let’s face it, you have other assets. Use them,” she said. “Don’t you always say that you hate people who are All Talk, No Action?” She had me there—and she knew it. “Make a move.”
“So you’re telling me I have two choices—slap him or sleep with him,” I teased.
Granny piped up with her advice. “Oh, for the love of dolls, that man needs both at the same time.”