The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

by Sunniva Dee

  There’s a hiss of amused air slipping over Victor’s lips. “Long story?”

  “A bit.”

  “I’ve got time to kill.”

  “What if I’d rather sleep?” My face has sunk into my hands on its own. I’m mumbling. It’d be nice if I never had to look up again.

  “Then I’d say you’re losing out. Because I’m an excellent listener, and you looked damn frazzled running around in that dress earlier.”

  I peer at him between two fingers. I’m obsessed with his arms. They’re freaking crazy muscular. “Are you a fighter or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He puffs air in another quick laugh. “No, just kidding. Yes, I’m a fighter. MMA—mixed martial arts with concentration on Muay Thai boxing. But I see what you’re doing: deflecting.”

  “Am not. Your buddies too?”

  “Yes. We’re on our way home from a camp in Munich. Now. Back to the runaway bride.”

  The man has two effects on me. No, three, but the third one I don’t want to think about. One, he makes me bark. Two, he makes me smile. Not that I’m hard of smiling. I used to smile a lot. Until reality set in around the time I turned twenty-one, and I realized we couldn’t keep our estate with the way Papa was handling it.

  “My grandmother is eighty-three,” I start.

  “Okay.”

  “She should never have to leave the place where she was born, where she gave birth to my father and my aunt. She held Mama’s hand when I was born there. Our home is special, you see. Many would like to take it off our hands, and we could get an amazing price for it if we wanted to. Just…”

  I peer between my fingers. It’s dark outside, and everyone around us has their little beige blinds lowered. Suddenly, I wish he had a drink in his hands.

  “Yes?” The single syllable is a gentle prod showing that he’s listening.

  “Well, we don’t want that to happen,” I sigh out.

  “Why not?”

  I meet his stare at the crazy question.

  “I mean, is it because it’s everything that you are? Is it your identity to live in your childhood home—can you not be you outside of it?”

  Wow.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I start, shaking my head. “Would you like for your grandmother to die somewhere she wasn’t born?” As I ask it, I realize that I sound gullible. “No, I’m aware that most people move away from their childhood homes. Ours is a bit extraordinary is all, and we were privileged to grow up there.”

  I expect him to laugh or come with a half-veiled brush-off. He doesn’t. “Hmm. If that was my mother, I guess I’d do anything to help her too.”

  It’s a relief that he tries to understand.

  “My grandmother has her view. Her mind is gone now, for the most part, but her view shouldn’t be gone. She still occupies the same master suites she did with my grandfather, and the swan pond is what keeps her happy.”

  “Oh right, that view.” His wry tone makes me glance up. Crap, I shouldn’t have mentioned the swan pond. I fear we’re back in princess territory again when he winks at me, continuing, “I mean, I’d never give up my swan pond view either. I’d be, like, ‘Dude, get off my swan pond,’ if someone even mentioned taking it from me. ‘Over my drowned body!’”

  My grandmother, the sweetest, frailest little woman. She’s disappeared into herself since her mind began wavering.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says when I can’t stop the tears from filling my eyes. “I’m a total jerk with a horrifying sense of humor. So sorry.”

  “Ah no, it’s okay.” I shake my head quickly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m just being silly.”

  I still recall her embraces—frequent, adoring, and generous. She doesn’t seek me out anymore, but whenever I steal a hug, her familiar scent of lilacs brings me back to a bright and easy childhood.

  Victor reaches for me, a knuckle drying moisture from my temple. “Yeah? What are you being silly about then?”

  “Just thinking about my grandmother. Muti rarely recognizes people anymore, but when she’s on her chair in front of the window, she looks bewildered when strangers walk by.”

  “You let strangers on your property? Do you live in a national park or something?”

  “Ha.” I let out an almost-laugh. “National treasure, maybe?”

  Victor scrunches those perfectly perfect eyebrows together. I find myself zooming in on them. “Do you care to elaborate on that?” he asks.

  Being the heiress of a castle isn’t something I flaunt; it makes you different. Most think you’re incredibly lucky, born with that proverbial silver spoon in your mouth and too much money on your hands to understand the struggles of real people.

  Yes, I’m incredibly lucky, and I do feel different—but not in a distinguished, VIP-type way. It’s why I don’t mention my origin unless strictly necessary.

  But here I am, spending time with Victor in this fleeting moment. We’re on a plane, heading toward what is a completely new adventure for me. In a few hours, our pocket of shared time will be over. He’ll head back to his fighter world, and I’ll take off to… wherever it is I’m going.

  “For the last six generations, my family has owned Kyria Castle on the banks of the Moselle River. That’s where we live.” I clip it out and cross my arms, waiting for some reaction.

  “You live in a castle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Big one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Doesn’t it? If you considered marrying someone for money, it must have been for a reason. The bigger the castle, the more expensive to maintain is my guess.”

  I might need wine for this. I press the button for my flight attendant, and she arrives so fast I feel bad I didn’t just catch her on her next time past. She’s got a few high quality whites to recommend—the bar is still open, she assures.

  Thanks to Papa, I’m a wine connoisseur, but I need to stay off his path of status before reality. Now I order something cheap I might not enjoy. It’s what I did in college. It’s fine. Yes, all I have to do is slip into student mode.

  Victor orders a seltzer.

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Sometimes. Not often. It’s a shock to my system whenever I do.”

  From the corner of an eye, I suddenly register the unbuttoned opening at his neck. Even there, muscles contract and relax when he shifts to get more comfortable. I can’t even imagine how he must look naked—

  And with that little free association, I’ve lit up important parts of myself for Christmas.

  “Body’s your temple?” I joke, a verbal attempt at concealing my embarrassment.

  “Yes,” he says, not the slightest glint of humor in his answer. “So, Kyria Castle is…?”

  “Big. Yeah.”

  “How many rooms?”

  I swing to scrutinize him. When I don’t find dollar signs sparkling in his eyes, I exhale and thump my head against the backrest. “Too big. Twenty-one bedrooms. Enough to host a good portion of my wedding party.” A snort escapes me at the last part.

  Victor meets my snort with one of his own, and our gazes mix, humor in his too. “Well, good for you to know for in, like, ten years?” he suggests, which really gets me going.

  I like to laugh, and Victor just struck a chord I can’t seem to stop. I mean, how the hell did I think I was ready for marriage? I’m freaking twenty-three years old. It would have been ludicrous! He’s right: at thirty-three, maybe.

  I shake my head, still laughing when the flight attendant returns with our drinks. I take a long pull of my glass while watching Victor accept his seltzer.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself now,” I admit.

  “You just took off, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’m… I don’t know. Obviously, I have to let my parents know where I am, and probably send an apologetic message to Gunther Wilhelm.”

  “The fiancé?”
r />   “Ex-fiancé.”

  “Do you ever just call him Will?” Victor interjects.

  “What?” I’m still trying to spell out what happened in my head before I deliver it to him. His question confuses me. “No. Why would I?”

  Victor bites his lip, holding back a super-cute smile. “I guess it’s an American thing.”

  “Mostly, I call him by his full first name, Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth.”

  “Geez, is he the arch duke of Bavaria?”

  “Ha, anyway.” I smile. “Once we land in Florida, I’m getting a phone. I’ll call everyone and let them know I’m fine.”

  It sounds so easy. It will be so painful.

  VICTOR

  I’d rather not mull over what’s going on right now.

  The guys and I’ve been on a seven-day trip—five days in Munich working with a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu guru—and now I was just going to mosey on back home. Until this girl appeared out of nowhere, a wild dream in a flurry of white fluff and lace, breezing through security.

  Disheveled and beautiful. Fairytale features and yellow hair flowing thick down her back. But what got me were the shoes in her hand. Until I bent and realized her feet were black with crap from the airport floor. She was mad and anxious and flustered. Oh hell, I couldn’t walk away.

  Now we’re at another airport, and I still can’t walk away. On the flight here, I prodded more about her life than I’ve done with any girl before. It’s a risk to prod—the more you know, the more interesting they can get.

  I guess I am mulling over what’s going on after all. Am I taking these chances because Maiko didn’t come along? Since her angina episode, she’s been avoiding abrupt ambience changes, which in my mother’s mind equals risks.

  “The flight has been delayed overnight.” Keyon’s face is dark with annoyance.

  “All right, I’m getting a hotel,” I mutter.

  “The plane leaves at six in the morning.”

  “Well, transit hotel then. I can’t stay in a pub for eight hours.”

  Helena trails after me with her giant purse full of jewelry. She’s a freaking vision. “So there’s a hotel in the airport?”

  “Yep. With the delays though, chances are everyone else will want a room. Better hurry.” I squint at her. “Are you doing it too?”

  She huffs. “What, you think I want to loiter in the transit hall all night? Get drunk with the guys? Oh wait, Zeke will take good care of me. That’s right.”

  I chuckle at that.

  I was right. The lobby of the only hotel in the transit hall is packed with travelers. I’m sure I’m out of luck once it’s my turn, but the receptionist copies my documents and hands me a keycard. “Here you go, Mister. Enjoy your stay.”

  I thank her and exchange a relieved look with Helena. “I’m in three-oh-seven if you want to grab a bite to eat.”

  She’s got a pretty mouth. It widens now, in a smile. I grab my backpack, hike it up on a shoulder, and lumber toward the elevator.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. We have full occupancy tonight,” the same receptionist I spoke with tells Helena.

  “No way?” Helena says. “Please, I’ll take anything. I’m not picky.”

  The receptionist shakes her head, repeating that she’s sorry.

  “Okay,” I break in. “We’re changing this up. She’ll have my room.”

  Helena’s grip on the countertop loosens as she turns to me. “Oh no, you don’t.” She returns to the receptionist again, shaking her head. “I don’t want his room.” She tucks her hair behind an ear and bends to her oversized purse on the floor.

  I eliminate the distance between us. “Helena. Wait.”

  She does, eyes round.

  “How many beds are there in three-oh-seven?” I ask the receptionist.

  The girl tells me there’s only one but that it’s big. Clearly, she’s onto my idea.

  “Can we have some extra sheets and pillows sent up, maybe a few extra towels?” I ask.

  “Victor, no…” From Helena’s tone she’s more surprised than against my idea.

  “Why not? We’ll watch films. Maybe we’ll find Cinderella,” I say, which makes her laugh.

  Helena enters the room like she expects someone to jump out from a dark corner. Neck stretched, she takes in a high quality yet typical hotel room with a king-sized bed and two nightstands. The TV is big and flat, resting on top of a dresser, and then there’s a mirror over a small office desk with a phone and some restaurant flyers on it.

  “It’s nice,” she says. “I like that it doesn’t smell like smoke.”

  “That would be terrible. Is that what you’re used to? Smoking rooms?”

  “We have a cigar room,” she replies, confused, until she breaks in an apologetic laugh. “Oh, as in smoking versus nonsmoking hotel rooms. I get it.”

  “You have a cigar room? Would that be right next to the swan pond?” I tease. It’s cute to see embarrassment flush her cheeks. “Hey,” I continue, mock-petting her cheek, “don’t feel self-conscious about living in a castle. Even though it’s, let’s just say, a hair’s breadth over the top for us commoners.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she says. “So which side of the bed is mine?”

  I consider, rubbing the light scruff on my chin. “Well, since you just touched the left corner, it now has cooties. You’ll have to sleep on the cooty-side.”

  This girl, she’s been so immediate in her responses. I guess I expected a laugh or some expressed annoyance at my silly comment. Instead, she sinks down against the pillows on her side of the bed and breathes, “Okay,” with the smallest smile raising the corners of her lips.

  She uses the arc of one foot to slide off a shoe before she skips off the other. I watch as she wiggles her toes graciously, green nail polish gleaming in the dim shine from the lamp.

  Helena is tired. I guess it’s been a long day, the flight being just a small part of her exhaustion. I’m drawn to her eyes, not for the first time. The color of them is almost watery.

  No, they are watery.

  “Who gave you that color?” I blurt out.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes. It’s like they’re made of water.”

  I’m not the impulsive kind, and yet I’ve already committed strange acts around this girl. Where I come from, women expect smart, premeditated interactions, never initiated by questions like the one I just shot Helena’s way. This they’d ignore. They’d change the subject into something not insane, or they’d titter and squirm, not knowing how to respond.

  She floats her gaze to me before it stills. “My father. I’ve got his eyes.” She laughs softly, hands around the remote for the TV. “Grandma used to say they’re the color of the swan pond because we were both born in rooms with windows overlooking it.”

  I smile, feeling the wood of the headboard press against the back of my head as I settle in. “So she or her husband had nothing to do with your eye colors?”

  “No, they didn’t. Grandma has brown eyes, and my grandfather’s were a mix between green and brown.”

  “Hazel.”

  “I have relatives with blue eyes, for sure, but they’re darker, or going toward a grey or whatever. I don’t know, just prettier.”

  “Yours are beautiful,” I say, leaning my temple against the wall so I can see her better. She turns too. There’s a small shrug in her shoulders, like she’s preparing to disagree.

  “They’re just watery.”

  “Like an ocean. I like oceans.”

  “Or like a little pond,” she interjects.

  “Full of swans.”

  I hear her smile. It’s the cutest little sound that creases from her mouth. She looks me over, and there’s softness in those water eyes.

  “Lily pond,” I add, earning an eye roll. “Kiddie pool,” I correct, and that’s how I make her laugh again.

  We spend some time switching between channels. Zeke calls me thirty minutes after we’ve checked in. I reject his call, because we’ve barely
started on the movie she chose for us, something long and epic, a foreign movie with subtitles in Dutch or English. We agreed on English.

  I suggested lingering on some soft porn channel just to see if I could make her blush. As it turns out, references to royalty work better than nudity on this girl, and with each of her revealed quirks, she becomes more fascinating.

  There are long dark skirts involved in the movie we’re watching and a lot of ominous-looking skies. I can’t for the life of me see much happening, but about twenty minutes in, Helena’s got tears in her eyes. Something about the expression on someone’s face when they… stepped outside? I’m not sure.

  I get up and swipe two small bottles of fake champagne from the fridge.

  “That stuff’s expensive,” she says, one eye still on the riveting long walk through what might be a snowstorm on the screen. Unless they live in a desert? Desert storm, maybe. Absently, she pulls on an engagement ring on her finger. She did it on the plane too.

  “Is the ring stuck?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” She wiggles it between two fingers. “It’s impossible to get off.”

  “You want it off?”

  She lifts her gaze from the riveting walk through snow-slash-rain on the screen. “Of course I do. I’ll probably need some serious tools though.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “Betcha I can get rid of your fiancé once and for all.” She must like the thought of that, because she hits the freeze key on the film and gives me her full attention.

  “With or without a bone saw?” She’s smiling. I wonder if her smile is something you can forget.

  “With no saw whatsoever! Hold on.” I wink at her before I call the concierge and ask for olive oil. I even request water pills to get rid of any excess water she might have in her system in case that isn’t enough. I don’t expect them to get us the pills, but when they don’t reject my request, I’m pleased to find them at our door ten minutes later with both items.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, sitting down on the bed in front of her. Those ocean irises glisten, making me wonder if she’s scared. “Just sit straight. Shut your eyes.”

  “No, heck no. I’ll be watching you.”

  I shrug. “Okay, let me feel you.” I drape a hand towel over her lap and bathe her ring finger in olive oil. It shines, the ring swinging beneath her knuckle at my ministrations.