The Crown: A Modern-Day Fairytale Romance

by Samantha Whiskey

  A fine powder filled the car from the airbag, and I threw open the door, coughing as I stepped into the night. I felt a warm trickle and pulled my fingers from my forehead to find a light stream of blood. Great.

  Leaning back into the car, I grabbed my phone.

  The fucking thing was dead.

  “This is what impulsivity gets you,” I muttered.

  The car was buried in the bank past the first set of tires, and the back had no traction on the snow-covered ground. There was zero chance I was getting it out of there.

  “Couldn’t buy an SUV, could you?” I cursed my brother instead of my own stupidity. I was in nothing but a tux and dress shoes, about to walk a mile in sub-zero temperatures to the highway and pray that someone stopped.

  At least it would make for an interesting story.

  I put my hands in my pockets and started walking down the side of the road, ignoring the cold that seeped through my dress clothes and shoes. As I passed a smaller road, I looked up the hill and saw lights through the blowing snow. That was my best bet if I didn’t want to freeze to death.

  I trudged up the hill, thanking God that I didn’t fall on my ass.

  The house was white, with lights streaming out from the glassed-in wrap around porch. More than the appearance, I cared about the smoke billowing from the chimney. They had heat.

  Correction. She had heat.

  I paused, the snow up to my knees on what I assumed was her sidewalk. She was beautiful. Her wide, blue eyes narrowed as she looked out over the snow through her window. She was petite, but perfectly curved—from what I could see—her blonde hair falling just around her shoulders. As she brushed it back, I caught the color underneath. Pink. It was pink. No...purple. Holy shit, the underlayer of her hair was dyed like a unicorn. More than beautiful, she was exquisite. Maybe I was going into hypothermia because she had to be a hallucination.

  But I desperately needed her to be real.

  I stumbled up the steps, having lost the majority of feeling in my feet, and rang the bell.

  “Please be real.”

  Willa

  I threw another log into the fireplace, cinching my knitted sweater a bit tighter. It had ink stains splattered permanently across the right sleeve from a tragic fountain pen incident, but it was my favorite piece of cozy lounge clothing.

  A shudder raked across my skin, and I cringed as I walked to the heater, kicking up the thermostat.

  How the hell can it still be so cold?

  I had a heater and a fire rocking.

  You bought a cabin in upstate New York.

  Oh, that’s right.

  I’d purchased this piece of secluded property three years ago for its no-one-will-hear-you-scream appeal. Not because I was making people scream—or vice versa—not in months anyway.

  I picked it for its warm, rich wooden accents and the fact that it didn’t have another house around it for miles. It was the perfect place to write my novels—both the innocent and naughty. A place where I didn’t have to worry about salespeople, or the noisy sounds of the city distracting me from putting words on the page.

  Quiet. Quaint. All mine.

  I’d bought it outright with the royalties from my last Ally’s Alligator series book—this one covering the little girl’s need for adventures as opposed to dollhouses. It was a massive turning point in my life, buying my own house, and I was pretty damned pleased with myself.

  That, and my ability to pick out a place I would certainly not be bothered were two rewards I gave myself after selling my second series.

  My teeth chattered from another shiver, and I rubbed my arms to try and bring some life back into them. I turned on my slippered feet, sliding across the hardwood to my desk in an ice-skater fashion, ready to clock in.

  The nightly exhibitions of Shayla Scotch weren’t going to write themselves, after all.

  I pulled out my desk chair, the hot scenes already taking shape in my head. I needed a chapter with a dangerous spark, something in an elevator perhaps, or a penthouse balcony.

  Knock. Knock. Knock!

  The loud thwacks against my door startled me so hard I jerked against my chair and rolled five feet backward.

  Knock! Knock!

  My heart leaped into my throat as I sprinted out of the chair and flung open the top right drawer of the end table next to my mudroom. In seconds I had the small, handheld taser gun I’d picked up right after signing the papers on this place. Cant-hear-me-scream location and all that.

  The thing was pink, fit in my hand like a small gun, and was easily concealed behind my back as I timidly approached my front door. My heart pounded so hard against my chest I swore it would crack. This kind of thing was just like something my author friend Steve would write. I’d be kidnapped and held hostage in seconds if this were his book.

  “Hello?” A deep, raspy voice called from the other side of my door. “Please, it’s freezing.”

  Was that an accent?

  Who the hell is out at this time of night?

  Okay, so it was only a little after nine but honestly who would be out here this time of night?

  “I hit a snowbank round the bend, and my cell is dead.” The phantom voice kept talking like I’d asked him what had happened. Total serial killer move.

  I reached up on my tiptoes and peeked through the peephole.

  A mess of light brown hair and a set of dark brown eyes the exact shade of coffee stared back at me.

  My heart did another little thump, but not out of fear.

  I cleared my throat. “What do you want?”

  “Ah, so you weren’t a figment of my frozen imagination?”

  That accent. British? Scottish?

  It was something in between and utterly delicious.

  “Nope. Completely real, and completely wondering why you’re at my door in the middle of the night.”

  “Apologies,” the man said and raised his hands as if he knew I was watching him. He quickly tucked them under his armpits, the expensive fabric of the suit bunching up around his muscles that threatened to pop the seams. Wait...was this guy wearing a tux? “It’s freezing out here.”

  And he didn’t have a coat on. Who was this guy that he was so ill prepared for upstate New York’s weather in January? Was Laura playing a joke on me? My agent had repeatedly told me I needed to get out more, but there was no way she’d send a strip-o-gram or something, right?

  “Could I use your phone?”

  “That’s usually the line that gets the man into the house before he kills the unsuspecting woman.”

  A mega-watt smile stretched his lips, and I had to catch my breath.

  “I’m no killer,” he said, that slight accent sending ripples of unwanted heat over my chilled skin. The mudroom was a good ten degrees colder than the interior of the house, but it wasn’t as bad as the negative chill factor outside. “But you will be if you leave me out here to freeze to death.” He chuckled softly, his breath coming out in puffs of white air.

  A war raged inside my head. I didn’t want the man to freeze if he was decent, but what if he was a sociopath?

  He’s incredibly good looking with an accent.

  Those are sometimes the best disguises for serial killers.

  Why would he knock if he wanted to kill you?

  Maybe he wanted to toy with me first, get me to trust him and let him in before pouncing.

  Overactive writer’s imagination to the rescue.

  Maybe he got in a wreck, his cell is dead, and he needs to call his wife for a lift.

  Ugh. “Hold on.”

  I hurried back inside, grabbed my cell and laid it gently in the middle of the mudroom’s floor. Faster than a blink I unlocked the front door, ran back behind the mudroom’s door, and secured the chain, only allowing myself a sliver of an opening to talk to him.

  “It’s open!”

  The man came inside, quickly securing the door shut behind him as he stomped his snow covered dress shoes. They were soaked and no d
oubt he couldn’t feel his toes anymore.

  Not the smartest murderer is he?

  “Cell is on the floor. And just so you know, I have a taser if you try and come through this door.”

  Something bright flashed behind his eyes as he locked onto mine, but he raised his hands slowly. Inching his way to his tux jacket, he peeled it open and did a full body turn. “See, I’m unarmed.”

  “And under prepared,” I said. “Those shoes aren’t really built for snow, are they?”

  He chuckled again, and my lips betrayed a smile.

  “Quite right,” he said, kneeling to scoop the cell off the floor.

  It was in that instant I realized two things: one, I now had no way of calling the cops on him if the need came, and two, I had a terribly embarrassing photo of my agent and me doing shots of tequila after a signing in Vegas as my wallpaper. We’re talking duck-face-hell, here.

  I resisted the urge to facepalm myself as a slow smirk shaped his lips when he clicked on the cell. He cocked an eyebrow at me, and my entire body flushed, making my once safe-haven sweater feel downright suffocating.

  “Cute.” He swiped the cell and punched in some numbers before putting it to his ear.

  Cute? Red rimmed eyes and crazy hair in front of the Bellagio…cute?

  Who was this guy?

  “Right,” he said to whoever picked up on the other end. “Yes, I know. Look, I’ve borrowed someone’s cell.” He eyed me before flashing a smile. “Yes, a highly capable woman who lives just about a mile from where I…” he closed his eyes and for the briefest of moments it was like the entire weight of the world was on his shoulders. When he opened them again, that weight was gone. “The snow. I’m not used to navigating it. No. Morning? Really? No, of course, I understand—” he stopped himself short, his eyes on mine as I watched him through the crack in the door. “Very well then. Let’s hope I can beg some hospitality of my gracious host, or you’ll be picking up a popsicle tomorrow morning instead of a pri—” He brought the cell down, ending the call before finishing.

  “That was interesting,” I blurted out.

  “Yes,” he said, straightening to rest his hands behind his back. “Yes, it was.”

  The stance was so formal I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What?” He asked, tilting his head.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Military?”

  He moved his head from side to side. “I’ve been involved in military engagements from all sorts of angles.”

  I furrowed my brow. “That is a strange way to answer.”

  “It’s customary in my country to serve two years. Do you always ask every man who happens upon your door these questions?”

  “No men happen upon my door.” I shrugged. “Not lately.”

  He took one small step closer, and I gripped the taser behind me a little bit tighter. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Our eyes locked, and I felt something zip through me, one of those tangible connections I wrote about but had yet to experience. Shit. I was not attracted to this guy. Nope. Not at all.

  Liar.

  I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of my appearance—stained overstretched sweater, messy top-knot, black leggings shoved into my deerskin house-shoe boots. Well, if I was attracted to this tall, dark stranger—which I wasn’t because how cliché would that be—I would be properly mortified.

  “So,” he said, drawing my attention back to those too-gorgeous-for-words brown eyes. “It’s brutally cold, and I don’t have a ride until morning.”

  “I heard.”

  A faint smile ghosted his lips. Something told me this guy wasn’t used to asking for what he wanted. It was probably delivered to him automatically.

  “Would you consider allowing me inside? Somewhere I might not lose a foot?” His eyes blatantly flirted, but the rest of him was held rigid...proper, even.

  My eyes dropped to his soaked dress shoes, and I huffed.

  “Where did you come from dressed like that?”

  A muscle ticked in his strong jaw. “A party.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Fancy.”

  God, could I sound more like a loser?

  Another blush heated my cheeks, but I swallowed the embarrassment down and tipped my chin up. “You remember I have a taser, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, that wolfish smirk on his lips. “And I’m sure you’re quite capable of wielding it.”

  “Wielding it?” I chuckled. “Where are you from?”

  He glanced over his shoulder before returning his attention to me. “Right now I’m from the blistering cold down the road where my car is buried in a snow bank, and would very much owe you my life if you let me in.” He righted himself, holding up his hand in a pledge pose. “I swear to you that I never have, nor plan to kill any living soul on this planet. And I have no murderous or...other intentions, but to not die as a frozen block of ice.”

  “Whew,” I whistled, unable to cover the shock in my features. No one had ever spoken to me like that, and from the warm butterflies the words created in my stomach, I made a mental note to use the lines in a future manuscript. Historical, of course, because no one spoke like that anymore. “All right,” I said, shutting the door momentarily to unlock the chain. “I don’t want you to freeze to death, but I swear if you try anything, I will tase the shit out of you.”

  A corner of his mouth tilted upward, and his eyes danced. Was he laughing at me? I hoped he realized I meant every word about my taser. The man was a stranger—the most handsome, magnetic stranger I’d ever met, but still. I owed him nothing but a warm place to stay until his help arrived.

  Which I couldn’t help but wonder if it would be in the way of a wife or girlfriend.

  I eyed his hands as he warmed them over the fire, hating that a thrill rushed me when there was a lack of a ring on a certain finger. They looked, strong, capable.

  I kept a good, firm hold of my taser, and decided to sit perched on the edge of my desk just across from the fire and watch him.

  “Ahh,” he moaned as he turned himself in front of the flames. The sound was like liquid velvet over my skin, and I tried desperately not to show the deep breath I sucked in. “That is wonderful,” he continued. “Thank you.”

  I motioned to his shoes. “You should probably take those off and set them in front of the fire. I don’t have any socks that will fit you,” I said, walking to the linen closet in the hallway next to my desk, “but you can throw this over your feet if it helps.” I tossed him a thick afghan my grandmamma had made me when I was twelve. It was bright orange and brown and lime green—hideous in the most perfect way but also the warmest blanket I owned. A sharp pinch in my chest had me missing her like I hadn’t in years, but I cleared my throat and focused on the matter at hand. Mr. Dark Stranger slipping his incredibly large dress shoes off in my living room.

  “This is marvelous,” he said, grinning at the blanket as he held it up to examine it. “Did you make it?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “It was a gift.”

  He sank onto the thick rug in front of the fire and wrapped the blanket around his legs. “My sister Sophie is forever trying to make these, and would love to know how it was done. Again, I thank you.” He took off his tux jacket and laid it near the fire to dry out.

  I nodded because I’d lost my voice. The man was magnificent even sitting cross-legged in front of the crackling logs, half covered by my grandmama’s afghan. Who on earth could look that good? He totally had this disheveled playboy vibe going for him with that undone bowtie hanging around his neck, and not the clip-on variety either. The real deal.

  Everything about him screamed opulence and sex. Really good, toe-curling sex.

  Not that you remember what that’s like.

  “So,” I said, tucking my legs underneath me on the corner of my desk. “Where are you really from?”

  “Does the accent give it away?”

  “A little,” I admitted. �
�But I can’t place it.” It sounded British with a slight undertone of brogue, but I knew there were several countries whose accents were similar and I didn’t want to guess wrong and offend him.

  “It’s a small little place called Elleston.”

  “Oh,” I said. Elleston wasn’t exactly small—about the size of the United Kingdom. “And you’re visiting?”

  He cleared his throat, holding his hands before the fire once again. “Yes. Business trip. I needed to get out of the city. That is how I ended up here.” He let his hands drop and scooted back to lean against the coffee table.

  “Does Elleston have a King and Queen?” I asked. “Like the United Kingdom?”

  He nodded. “We do, indeed.” There was a sharpness to his tone that I didn’t understand and I instantly decided not to compare his country with the U.K. again. Maybe they were warring countries, or something similar. Politics wasn’t really my strong suit.

  After a few moments of silence, he trailed his gaze along my living room, eyeing my bookshelves that lined the walls. He pointed to one shelf in particular. “You have several copies of the same books up there.”

  I squinted before focusing back on him. That was my stock shelf. “Those are mine,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re an author?”

  I nodded.

  “Children’s books?” He sharpened his gaze on the left side of my stock shelf which contained all my children’s books, but he totally ignored the small paperbacks pressed to the right of the shelf. The ones with my pen name along the spines.

  “Yes,” I answered, wondering if he’d make the connection with the others.

  “How did you come to do that?” He asked, that same smile coming across his face like it was the most fascinating concept in the world.

  A slow smile shaped my lips, and I glanced down at the taser in my hands, fiddling with it while I spoke. “I grew up loving books. All of them. Any I could get my hands on. I knew I wanted to be an author by the time I was ten years old. Of course, it took much longer than that to actually get my stories out there…” I sucked in a sharp breath. “But it happened.”