Finding Holly

by B. E. Baker

  Jim smiles. “I would hate to tear you away from the time with your family. After all, that’s why you came.”

  “But I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask.

  Jim grabs his briefcase and stuffs the papers from today back inside. “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” I say.

  “Your mother is going to be upset not to have met him,” Dad says.

  “Tomorrow is soon enough.” I steer Jim out the door by his elbow. “Trust me,” I whisper. “Escape while you still can.”

  Cooper and Anastasia’s voices carry from around the corner in the entry way. I expect him to join them, but instead he pauses just outside the door to the parlor. He pushes the door handle until it clicks closed. “Get some sleep now while you can, because I think tomorrow is going to be a long day.” His dark eyes meet mine.

  When he smiles at me and both dimples appear, my exhaustion evaporates like water hitting a hot skillet. “Maybe you should stay for dinner.”

  He leans forward, his lips nearing mine, but he stops about an inch too short. “Haven’t you learned the key to any good relationship?”

  I swallow. “I guess not.”

  “It’s anticipation.” He straightens with another double-dimpled smile and walks out.

  For someone who has never had a girlfriend, he knows a lot. I haven’t looked forward to seeing anyone as much as I’m looking forward to showing him around tomorrow in a long time. Maybe ever.

  Cole called it—Mom’s upset that he left. She barely pauses in her ranting to eat. “How could you not have known your boyfriend bought our company?”

  I sigh, my fork an inch away from my mouth. “He didn’t know about my family, Mom.”

  Her mouth clicks shut, and it’s almost worse than the tirade.

  “He’s a wonderful young man,” Dad says. “I think you’ll be proud of Holly when you meet him.”

  “I’m proud of Holly already,” Mom insists.

  I doubt anyone really believes her, though. I know I don’t. I take a few more bites of the stew and stand up. “I wasn’t kidding earlier. I’m exhausted. I think it’s time for me to sleep.”

  Mom catches my hand. “You’ll go over party details with me tomorrow?”

  “Sure, if you want my help, but then Cole and I are taking Jim to see both plants and the inspections warehouse.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Mom says. “But don’t wear yourselves out. If you do it over two days instead of all in one, you’ll have time to show him a little of Vaduz.”

  Not a bad idea, actually. When I reach my room, I check my phone. I have a text from a number I don’t recognize with a 212 area code. New York City. My hands shake, but I swipe to unlock my phone and read the message.

  I’M SORRY I NEVER CALLED.

  It’s from Jim. AT LEAST NOW I HAVE MY BOYFRIEND’S PHONE NUMBER, I text back. JUST DON’T EXPECT ANY INAPPROPRIATE PHOTOS. I SLEEP IN FOOTED SLEEPERS.

  I LIKE SLEEPERS, he texts back.

  I smile and send him a gif of a granny hula hooping in a bikini. MAYBE THAT WILL HOLD YOU OVER.

  MY EYES.

  YOU SHOULD BE SLEEPING, I text.

  YOU SHOULD, TOO.

  I’M ABOUT TO, IF SOMEONE HANDSOME WOULD STOP TEXTING ME.

  WAIT, he texts. YOU’RE TEXTING SOMEONE ELSE RIGHT NOW TOO? HOW MANY FAKE BOYFRIENDS DO YOU HAVE?

  I laugh out loud. JUST THE ONE.

  I SHOULD HAVE CALLED YOU MONTHS AGO.

  DID YOU AVOID TRIG’S WEDDING SO YOU WOULDN’T SEE ME?

  Nothing. No dots, no response. I brush my teeth with my phone sitting by the sink like a pathetic loser. He still doesn’t text back. Gah, why am I such a blunt person? I suck at this flirting game stuff.

  I’M AN IDIOT, he finally texts.

  He is honest though. He didn’t make that part up. I’M SORRY YOU MISSED IT. IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL WEDDING.

  TRIG DIDN’T REALLY CARE THAT I WASN’T THERE. DON’T FEEL BAD. I WAS BEING A COWARD. I WANTED TO SEE YOU, AND THAT’S WHAT WORRIED ME.

  WELL, NOW YOU’RE STUCK SPENDING TOMORROW WITH ME. MY MOM THINKS WE SHOULD SEE ONE FACTORY A DAY, AND SPEND THE AFTERNOON CHECKING OUT LOCAL SIGHTS, LIKE WILDSCHLOSS.

  I LIKE RUINS, he texts. I’M IN.

  YOU’VE HEARD OF WILDSCHLOSS? I’m impressed.

  ONE OF MY FRIENDS HAD HEARD OF IT.

  Huh?

  MY FRIEND GOOGLE TOLD ME ALL ABOUT IT.

  I laugh. FOR SOMEONE WITH ONLY ONE FRIEND, AND NO GIRLFRIEND EXPERIENCE, YOU’RE PRETTY GOOD AT THE WITTY BANTER.

  I’VE BEEN PRACTICING WITH BOTS.

  I hope he’s kidding.

  RELAX. IT’S A JOKE. (ONE THAT SLAYED WITH MY AI GIRLFRIEND, BUT IT DOESN’T SEEM TO TRANSLATE TO HUMANS. I’LL MAKE NOTE OF IT.)

  I BETTER SLEEP NOW OR MY DARK CIRCLES WILL SCARE YOU OFF.

  I VERY MUCH DOUBT THAT. BESIDES, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DOES ALL THE DUMPING.

  I DON’T THINK YOU HAVE TO DUMP FAKE BOYFRIENDS. THEY KIND OF DISAPPEAR ON THEIR OWN. LIKE INSPECTOR GADGET’S COMMUNICATIONS. THEY SELF-DESTRUCT.

  I DON’T PLAN TO SELF-DESTRUCT.

  I gulp. What does that mean? Is he saying this isn’t as fake as it seems? Could my stupid white lie to my parents actually—

  I stop myself. That’s crazy. He’s being funny, or surprising, or doing me a solid. He’s not really my boyfriend. No matter how hot I think he is, or how smart, or how funny. He doesn’t have girlfriends, and this isn’t real. I shut my phone off and go to sleep.

  When I wake up the next morning, like an addict, the first thing I do is check my phone.

  I’M KIDDING. KABOOM, he texts.

  YOU EITHER WENT TO SLEEP, he texts again, OR I TERRIFIED YOU AND YOU BLOCKED ME. AM I GOING TO BE HANDCUFFED TOMORROW BY SOME KIND OF EUROPEAN POLICE OFFICER? BECAUSE DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY, BUT I THINK I COULD SURVIVE A BEATING FROM A EUROPEAN WITH A BILLY CLUB. IN FACT, I MIGHT KNOCK HIM OUT AND BEAT HIM WITH HIS OWN STICK.

  And then an American flag emoji. REAL COPS CARRY GUNS.

  I’M JUST SAYING.

  And then a white flag emoji. OKAY, FINE, I SURRENDER. I’M FINALLY GOING TO SLEEP. I DOUBT I CAN DO ANY MORE DAMAGE HERE.

  I smile while I brush my teeth.

  I beam my way through breakfast, even when Mom shoves Muesli at me. Oats aren’t ever very appetizing, but cold soggy oats? Blech. Even that can’t ruin my morning, because Jim, never-have-a-girlfriend-Jim, blew up my phone last night.

  He was stressing that he messed things up.

  Someone who doesn’t care, who doesn’t stress.

  “You’re happy this morning,” Cole observes.

  “Being home suits her.” Mom is so clueless, but she means well.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s nice to be home.” I actually have missed it.

  My phone buzzes and I glance at it under the table.

  HAVING FUN ON THE BEACH? Mary texts. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WENT WITHOUT ME.

  I suffer a twinge of guilt after reading that instead of the heart pounding ‘good morning’ jolt I was hoping for. Although, I can’t really fault Jim for not texting me again. He’s probably not sure why I never texted him.

  WEATHER IS PERFECT. I text Mary back.

  Then it occurs to me. What if Jim texts Luke? What if he mentions where he is, or the bizarre coincidence of running into me here?

  SORRY, PASSED OUT, I text to Jim. DIDN’T GET YOUR TEXTS UNTIL THIS MORNING.

  I WAS WORRIED YOU DIED. He immediately replies.

  I’M ALIVE! CAN YOU DO ME A FAVOR? I ask. DON’T MENTION SEEING ME TO LUKE OR TRIG OR ANYONE.

  “Are you texting under the table?” Mom asks.

  My head snaps up. “Uh, well. Yes.”

  She sniffs. “I had hoped in almost nine years, your manners might have improved.”

  “She was in America, Mom. Be glad she’s not wiping her mouth on the tablecloth,” Cole says.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh please. I hope you won’t be this snobby in front of Jim. Even i
f you can’t stand him, he owns the controlling interest in Berg Telecom.”

  “Does he text through meals?” Dad asks.

  “I don’t know whether he’s eating right now,” I say. “But I can ask.”

  “Oh, is that who you’re texting?” Mom’s face relaxes. “Do tell him I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Sure, I’ll pass that along. . . never. But I will use the excuse to see whether he replied.

  LUKE AND I DON’T TEXT DAILY. BUT NOW I FEEL STRANGELY COMPELLED TO TELL HIM.

  DON’T YOU DARE.

  CAN’T ALWAYS CONTROL WHAT I SAY OR DO. OCCASIONALLY, THAT EVEN GETS ME INTO TROUBLE—LIKE FAKE GIRLFRIENDS.

  I WILL COME OVER THERE AND TAKE YOUR PHONE.

  IS THAT A THREAT OR A PROMISE?

  His flirting makes me smile.

  “What did he say?” Mom asks.

  “Uh, he’s looking forward to it too,” I say.

  I’M ALMOST TO YOUR HOUSE. I FIGURED I COULD PICK YOU UP.

  I jump out of my chair. I’m still in my pajamas, and my hair’s not even combed. “I better get ready.”

  “What’s going on?” Dad asks.

  “Jim’s almost here,” I say. “Make sure they let him in at the gate, but then stall him until I’m presentable.”

  Cole’s laughter follows me upstairs. He’s still a jerk; it’s nice to know some things never change. The thought of my family making small talk with a man I like but barely know terrifies me. I’ve never gotten dressed or done my eye makeup so quickly in my life.

  I’m racing down the stairs in jeans and an ivory t-shirt I particularly like when I hear Jim’s laugh rising through the entry hall. Ohmyword, he’s here.

  “You’re early,” I say.

  “Did we agree on a time?” he asks. “I just hopped in my car when you texted.”

  I grit my teeth. His inexperience with girlfriends is showing.

  “I’m sorry if that was a blunder. I was just so excited to see you.” He cocks one eyebrow, his mouth full of suppressed laughter.

  Only, I wish he wasn’t kidding, so I duck my head to hide my frown. “Right.”

  “Are we ready to go?” Cole asks. “Or do you need to race up the stairs at light speed again?”

  Jim can’t quite suppress his laughter this time. Older brothers are evil. The absolute worst.

  “You’re lucky you’re an only child,” I say.

  Jim slings his arm around my shoulder. “I think it’s cute that you’re still motivated to look nice for me, even after all this time.”

  “How long has it been?” Cole asks. “Because I was there in March and I don’t recall hearing your name.”

  Now I want to kick them both.

  “I met her at my friend Luke’s wedding,” Jim says. “At Easter. Do you celebrate Easter here?”

  Cole laughs. “We do. But that’s longer than I thought. She sprinted up those stairs like you might dump her if you saw her without makeup. It was more like first date terror than a boyfriend-for-months kind of stroll.”

  I’m going to kill him.

  “She certainly has no reason to try so hard,” Jim says. “It’s obvious she was already about three and a half levels higher than me, a nine point five to my solid six, and that’s before I knew she was a princess.”

  I fling his arm off. “Why am I only a nine point five?”

  Cole laughs. “Rookie mistake, my friend.”

  “Hello!” My mother got ready almost as quickly as I did.

  Jim gulps.

  “Hey Mom,” I say.

  Jim sticks out his hand. “James Fulton, your serene highness,” he says.

  She shakes her head, but his reaction broadens her smile. “None of that, young man. You’re dating my daughter, so you’re family. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, and it’s easy to see who Paisley resembles. She has your eyes and your nose.”

  “But she has always smiled exactly like her father,” Mom says, turning to me. “He has a good eye, this man of yours.”

  “Alright,” I say. “Well, we better go.”

  “So soon?” Mom asks.

  “We have a long day of touring factories ahead,” I say.

  “We need to convince this captain of industry not to sell our parts off like a chop shop,” Cole says.

  It’s almost imperceptible, but Jim flinches.

  “What kind of rental did you get?” I ask. “Because if it’s too small for all of us, Cole can drive.”

  “Uh, so I have a date later,” Cole says. “I thought I might drive separately. I’ll meet you around front.” He heads for the garage.

  I forgive my bone-headed brother for telling Jim I raced upstairs. In fact, I could hug him until his eyes bulge right this very second.

  “That’s probably for the best,” Jim says. “The back seat of my car isn’t very big, and he’s a tall guy.”

  When I walk out the front of the palace, down the broad steps and into the car park, I look around to try and figure out which car is his. A Citroen, a Skoda Octavia, a Ford Fiesta, and a Fiat 500. They’re all pretty small, but I totally expected Jim to be a sports car rental kind of guy. None of these fit my expectation.

  “Which one is yours?” I ask.

  “Can you guess?”

  I look at the cars, scanning for information. I could smack my forehead. Only one has an Avis sticker in the rear view. “Really?” I ask. “I didn’t take you for a Fiat man.”

  Jim pulls keys from his pocket and mumbles. “I was supposed to leave today, so I didn’t have a rental at all.”

  “This was the best they could do last minute?” I guess.

  He shrugs. “I figured for our very first date, I should drive, even if the car isn’t too impressive. Riding in the back seat of your brother’s car seemed. . . silly. But now, looking at this.”

  Our first date. My heart soars. “Our first date is driving to tour my family’s factories?”

  “Speaking of,” he asks. “Can I ask something a little intrusive?”

  “Since you’re my boyfriend,” I joke, “I think most everything is fair game.”

  “Why do you care about this company at all? As the royal family, can’t you just raise taxes if you need more money?”

  “Small correction,” I say. “Americans won’t be familiar with the difference, but we’re technically the Princely House, not the Royal Family.”

  Jim shrugs. “Okay.” He opens my door for me and I try not to swoon.

  “But to answer your question.” I settle into the seat and wait for him to walk around to his side.

  Watching him fold himself into the tiny little car he’s rented is hilarious. And it draws even more attention to his broad shoulders and height. Luckily I’m sitting down so I don’t swoon.

  “You’re too tall for this car,” I say.

  He scowls. “I’m too tall for most cars. I usually buy sedans for the extra leg room.”

  “I can see why.”

  “You were about to answer my question though. Don’t let mocking me sidetrack that.”

  “Right. Now that I’m done laughing, I can get back to it.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “We do have revenue from the government, although we put all of that back into governance. We support ourselves through our family investments, other business interests and estates, not from taxes. But this is something else entirely. We use the income from Berg Telecom for . . . other pursuits.”

  “That’s an impressively vague answer,” he says. “I’m seeing the European in you for the first time, but I’ll let it go at that—for now.”

  I smile. “Fair.”

  “Now tell me where to go, and while we drive there, tell me why you don’t want me to tell Luke I’m here with you. At your castle. Where you’re a princess who goes by the name of Holly, instead of the secretary he knows as Paisley.”

  “That’s a tall order.” I point at the road. “Turn here. About three-quarters of the sixt
y-two square miles of our country is either agricultural or forest. Our first factory is here, just outside of town. About a quarter of the people in town work there.”

  “Okay. But I’m going to circle back around to this. I want to know why I’m supposed to lie to my only friend before I do it.”

  I sigh. “It’s complicated, Jim.”

  “Call me James.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My employees call me Jim. My family and one friend call me James. I figure that should include my girlfriend.”

  I turn to look out the window so he won’t see my smile. “Okay, James.”

  “Fine. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll tell you my guesses.”

  This should be good. “Okay, let’s hear them.”

  “You killed someone and instead of going to prison, your family sent you to America. On a boat. With only a thousand dollars.”

  I snort.

  “Fine. You don’t look guilty enough for that. Unless you’re a sociopath. . .”

  I shake my head.

  “You fell in love with a married man, then,” he says. “Oh, tell me it was Prince Charles.”

  I laugh out loud this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You’re allergic to sheep?” He points out the window. “Because that would make living here miserable.”

  “There aren’t that many sheep,” I say.

  “There are a lot of sheep.”

  We drive for a few minutes in silence, which is much more effective in making me talk than any other strategy. “Fine,” I say. “Fine.”

  “Fine what?” he asks. “You’re admitting to a severe sheep allergy?”

  I bite my lip. “Something really horrible happened, but I didn’t kill anyone, okay?”

  James catches and holds my eyes long enough that I point at the road. “Drive.”

  “I’m sorry something hurt you badly,” he says.

  “We’re here,” I say.

  James follows the signs for the carpark and pulls into a spot. “I won’t press any more.”

  “Someone really close to me died,” I say. “Everywhere I looked, there were memories. Good ones, bad ones. I couldn’t stay here, and it felt like I couldn’t be myself anymore.”

  “But you moved to the United States. . . and became a secretary.”

  “I wasn’t an anything here. I moved when I was barely eighteen. And don’t think I don’t hear that patronizing tone, James Fulton. I recognize judgment when I hear it, but I refuse to be bothered by it. Secretaries help people. They do good work, things that need to be done.”