Icing on the Cake

by Ann Marie Walker

  “Like I wished I could just disappear?”

  She nodded.

  “All the time, luv. All the time.” The fantasy of blending into another life, hell even another world, was one Hank had entertained quite often when he was younger. In his mind he would imagine he was anyone else besides a future king. Someone able to take chances, to even make mistakes, far from a nation’s watchful eye.

  “Did you ever do anything about it?” she asked.

  “Aside from a few benders with serious lapses in judgment?” He flashed her a teasing grin. “All of which I will unapologetically blame on your brother. No, not really.” But even as he said the words, it occurred to him that in a way, disappearing was exactly what he’d done this weekend. While it was true that his elaborate ruse was designed in part to spare the bride and groom unwanted publicity while offering him a wild weekend of anonymity, to a certain extent it was also wish fulfillment of the lifelong kind. This weekend, this night, hell, Hank’s very existence, was what Henry had longed for since he was a young boy.

  “Me neither,” she said. “Unless you count going to college ninety miles from home.”

  “You wild woman,” he teased.

  “Yeah, I know. Hardly a radical move.”

  “It’s amazing you didn’t completely rebel.”

  “True.” She gave a small laugh. “Just think, if I hadn’t thrown myself into my studies you could be taking a walk with someone with pink hair, tattoos and body piercings.”

  “You just described how I looked in high school,” he said with a straight face.

  She eyed him skeptically. “You’re playing with me aren’t you?”

  Of course he was joking. Tattoos and hair coloring were strictly forbidden by the palace, although it would have been worth incurring his grandmother’s wrath just to see the look on her face when he showed up to an event with a streak of neon green hair.

  “Yes, I am.” He thought about it for a moment then added, “Although I did manage to have my ear pierced one night at a pub.” He rubbed his lobe but felt no sign of the opening. “It’s closed up now but for a few alcohol fueled hours I sported a rather wicked silver cross.”

  “Channeling a little Billy Idol were you?”

  “Suffice to say it was an eighties theme night gone horribly wrong.”

  Their quiet laughter subsided and Cassie grew distant. She was still in the past, reliving a time that had clearly marked her forever. He wanted to keep her engaged. She’d opened the door, which in his experience meant someone needed to talk. The last thing he wanted was for her to shut it before she’d said all she needed to say.

  “Was your father the same way?” Hank asked. “Overprotective, I mean.”

  A frown knit her delicate brow. “No, he had sort of the opposite reaction.” Her words trailed off to nothing more than a whisper. Clearly there was a lot more to the story, and judging by the expression on her face, it wasn’t all happy. An unfamiliar instinct to protect surged through him and he found himself wanting to wrap his arms around her and kiss the bad thoughts away. But despite the crown he sometimes wore, Hank knew all too well that life didn’t dole out fairy tale endings. While there might be crown jewels and royal balls and crystal-encrusted Louboutins that could put any glass slipper to shame, there certainly weren’t any fairy godmothers or magic wands to make everything okay. Clicking your heels together didn’t do a fucking thing when fate had other plans, a fact he’d learned the hard way when he was even younger than Cassie had been when she lost her sister.

  Hank took a deep breath. “My mother died when I was a baby,” he said. “Same horrible disease that claimed your sister.” His voice sounded strange even to his own ears. Then again, these weren’t words he spoke. Ever. The topic of his mother was considered off-limits among the household staff, more than likely on order of his father in some misguided attempt to ease his pain. But out of sight, or in this case, out of earshot, wasn’t out of mind, and no amount of silence could change that. His mother’s memory was everywhere in that palace, and he wasn’t merely referring to the oil paintings that hung in the Grand Hall. On the contrary, that woman, dressed in beaded satin and wearing a diamond tiara, seemed more like a mythical creature than his mum. Then again, to many that’s exactly what she was. Princess Sophia was more than just a mother and a wife, she was also a beloved ruler, fashion icon, and staunch advocate of dozens of royal charities. When she died, the loss was felt by far more than just her family.

  From the very beginning, the young princess had captured the hearts of the kingdom. They’d cheered at her wedding, waving flags as the glass carriage passed by the crowd-filled streets, but even that was nothing compared to the unprecedented outpouring at her untimely death. Candlelight vigils were held for days, flowers carpeted both the north and south lawn, and nearly every step of the mourning process was documented by film crews from across the globe. Such was the price of fame. Even in death you’re not afforded privacy. His mother’s illness, death, and subsequent funeral were marked not only by Hank and his family, but by most of the world. Millions had watched her white casket as it sat atop the altar of the Abbey and the image of a small boy in a dark suit had graced nearly every publication. But while the country had lost their princess, four-year-old Henry had lost his mum. There were times when he appreciated the tributes, but in other moments he wanted to shout that she was his to grieve, not theirs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cassie whispered.

  “It was a long time ago.” He shrugged, his knee-jerk reaction when the topic of his mother was raised, but then Cassie reached up and gently turned his face to hers and the walls he constructed on autopilot began to crumble. A sadness filled her eyes, but it was more than just sympathy, it was understanding. She’d sustained a loss at a young age, and while different it was no less devastating. The depth of her emotion touched him somewhere deep inside and all at once Hank knew he’d made the right choice in telling her about his mother.

  “It doesn’t matter how much time has passed,” she said. “There are some wounds that never fully heal.” She grasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “But our love for them remains. And so do they, in the memories of those of us who loved them.”

  His memories of his mother were dim but there were moments, in the early break of dawn before he was even fully awake, when the sense of her was so clear, it was as if she were there with him. Sometimes he wondered if these images were real or if he’d just seen so much press footage of his early childhood that he’d somehow interjected that into his reality. But there were aspects no amount of video archive could conjure—her soothing touch stroking his hair as he drifted to sleep; her soft voice singing to him as he protested his porridge; the scent of her soap, jasmine and vanilla, that enveloped him as she snuggled him close. These memories were his alone and when they flooded his senses it was as if she’d never been taken from him. Those were the times when he wanted to speak of her with someone who really knew her, who really knew him, but that list was short and unrealistic.

  His grandmother, although devoted to Henry and his father, was far from the warm and fuzzy type. And while the queen had respected her daughter-in-law and grieved her loss, she was the product of a different generation and had been raised in a time when royal obligations required an iron will. She liked to say the Brits weren’t the only ones with a stiff upper lip but still, his grandmum took stoicism to a new level.

  His father was a different story, and a heartbreaking one at that. His devotion to his wife had been steadfast, as was his grief. Even after all these years, his father could barely manage to utter her name at official events and dedications. A full conversation reminiscing the small window of time their family had together was no doubt more than the man could bear. Which left Henry alone in his grief. His feelings had been his own. Until now. Because for some reason he found himself wanting to share them with the young woman standing beside him in the moonlight.

  “She had breast cancer, whic
h they tell me is quite rare for a woman her age.” He let out a sound that was half sigh and half sad laugh. “Like that’s supposed to make it better. ‘Sorry son, we know you lost your mum, but sleep better knowing that statistically it should have never happened.’”

  “I can’t imagine losing my mother at all, let alone at such a young age. I mean, she drives me crazy, but still.”

  “Was that her I saw you speaking with tonight?” he asked in an effort to change the subject. As happy as he was with his decision to tell Cassie about his mother, it wasn’t a path he wanted to continue, at least not at the moment.

  Cassie nodded. “She was wondering who the handsome stranger was dancing with my Great Aunt Maeve. Nice move by the way, winning over the matriarch.”

  In a way, placating matriarchs was part of his job description, whether it be his grandmother or the rulers of any number of foreign countries. Hank had learned from an early age that having the older members of a royal family on your side was undoubtedly a plus. Asking the oldest female in the barn to dance was almost second nature. “What can I say, I’m not above sucking up to Great Aunt Maeve if it earns me favor with her fair niece.”

  Cassie cut her eyes at him and smiled. “I’d say you were doing just fine without it.” She walked up a small berm and ran her fingers through a curtain of weeping willow branches. “More than fine actually.” She turned to look at him over her shoulder. The innocent, while at the same time decidedly come-hither, expression on her face had his cock twitching in his pants. Christ, what was he, fourteen?

  He joined her on the grassy hill. “Still, can’t hurt to have a bit of credit stored up in case I put my foot in my mouth.”

  “Well you’ve got credit with my mom now too.” She took a seat on the soft grass and winced.

  Hank frowned. “All right, luv?”

  “Just a bit sore. Overdid it on a run this morning.”

  “And here I thought perhaps I was to blame for your aches and pains.” He flashed her a knowing grin. “Must not have been trying hard enough.”

  “Oh, you were hard enough.”

  It was difficult to tell in the moonlight, but if Hank had to wager he’d bet good money the rosy blush had returned to her cheeks. His little vixen was unguarded and open with him, but a part of her was still shy and somewhat demure when it came to expressing it. The combination was devastating.

  “I just had the genius idea to start running today and did about double the distance I probably should have.”

  “Not your usual routine then?”

  Cassie laughed. “My usually routine involves moving very slowly until my coffee has had time to kick in.”

  “So why the genius idea?” he asked, quoting her. “Most people wait until after their holiday to punish themselves.”

  “Let’s just say it has something to do with my honky tonk badonkadonk.”

  Hank’s laugh vibrated deep within his chest.

  “You know that reference?” Judging by the look on her face she’d been banking on a lack of knowledge when it came to country music.

  “Indeed. You can thank the local radio station for that one. Although fair play to Trace Adkins, it’s quite a catchy tune.”

  The impish grin that had lit her face faded and all at once Cassie looked to be nervous and uncomfortable. She pulled her knees to her chest and rearranged the billowing skirt of her dress. The fabric was covering everything but her ankles by the time she was done.

  Hank reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I think you have the perfect amount of honky tonk in your badonkadonk,” he said in his best attempt at a Southern drawl. He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Or as we Europeans like to say, that’s a right fit arse.”

  Cassie laughed out loud. It was a genuine, happy sound—nothing forced or contrived—and in that moment Hank realized he’d do just about anything to keep that smile on her face.

  “Well, it’s been a struggle all my life,” she said. “Probably because I love to taste when I bake. Clare and I used to make these little cakes with our Easy Bake Oven and she was always getting after me about tasting the batter. ‘There won’t be any left to cook,’ she used to tease.” The tension in Cassie’s frame had eased and a wistful smile curved her lips. “But then we’d scrape every last drop into those tiny aluminum pans and sit in front of the little window, watching until they were done. Which, by the way, took forever. ” She rolled her eyes. “Whose bright idea was it to have kids cook a cake with a light bulb anyway?”

  Hank smiled. “Probably a mum who wanted to have ten minutes of peace and quiet.”

  “You might be right. All I know is I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to use the real oven.”

  “So have you always wanted to be a pastry chef then?”

  “Not really, although baking was something I always enjoyed. It was more of a stress release than anything, I never really considered it a career option.”

  Hank picked up Cassie’s hand and fit it into the palm of his. “Then what did young Cassandra grow up to be?”

  A sheepish grin formed on her lips. “An accountant.”

  He groaned. “You’re killing me.”

  “How so?”

  “Little Vixen, you’re a walking talking wet dream.”

  “Well, you’re a walking talking stereotype.” Cassie shoved him hard against his shoulder and he laughed as he fell back onto the soft grass.

  “Sorry, luv, but the only thing hotter than you in nothing but heels and an apron is you in a pencil skirt and stockings.” He licked his lips. “And if you tell me you worked your way through uni as a librarian . . .”

  She smiled. “No, but I do have the glasses.”

  He placed his palm on his chest and sighed. “Be still my mortal heart.”

  Another laugh, this one quieter but no less devastating. “Does every career choice come with a slutty scenario?”

  “Mmm, you have no idea.” Hank sat up and ran his hand through his hair. “Although to be honest, I never got the chambermaid one. In all my life I’ve never seen a woman dust in a mini can-can dress, not even in Paris.”

  A crease formed between Cassie’s brows. “You have servants?”

  “Um, no, I mean on the telly,” he said, attempting a quick recovery. “Those women always look like my father’s cousin Sue.” That part at least wasn’t a lie. While “cousin Sue” was actually Dame Susan of Wentworth, she was still the most homely, not to mention portly, woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

  “You never know, maybe cousin Sue would look great in a short ruffled skirt.”

  “Sod off,” he said with a laugh. “I might be impotent for weeks after you put that image in my head. Trust me, the sight of that old bird in anything other than turn-of-the-century would be enough to kill any man’s buzz, not to mention his hard-on.”

  “Is this where you tell me you’re a closet fan of Downton Abbey?”

  “Hardly.” But it could be where he told her that he had a country estate that made Highclere Castle look like a cottage. Didn’t matter what country he was in, birds creamed themselves over castles and carriages and anything that made them feel like a cross between a Jane Austen novel and Princess Kate. But for some reason he didn’t feel the need try to impress Cassie. In fact, he didn’t even want to. But more than that, he didn’t need to. She seemed to quite fancy Hank the working class European, which meant Prince Henry and all his pick-up lines could take a much needed break.

  “So why the change from calculators to rolling pins?” he asked, keeping the conversation and his attention focused on her.

  Cassie stared out across the lake. “I guess what it really boils down to is I didn’t feel like I was living my life.”

  “Then why go into accounting in the first place? I mean this in the nicest way possible, but your personality seems far from that of a number cruncher.”

  She shrugged. “I was good at math so everyone said ‘you should be an accountant’ and I guess I just went along. B
ut it wasn’t my life, not really, just some cookie-cutter path that seemed to make sense to everyone else. It’s like from the moment we’re born our whole life is planned out. Go to preschool to learn not to eat the paste, then kindergarten to learn how to play nice, then grade school to study hard so you get placed in all the top classes in high school so you can get into the right college so you can get a job at a high-profile firm.” She sighed. “There’s so many external factors. It’s like no one ever stops to ask themselves what it is they actually want. We just ride along on the conveyor belt.”

  Hank was quiet for several long beats. In her own chatterbox way, Cassie had just described his life in a nutshell. The circumstances might have been different, but the result was the same: a pre-determined destiny.

  She turned to look at him. “You must think that sounds sort of crazy, huh? I mean, I should be grateful for the opportunities I had, not complaining that they weren’t the ones I wanted.”

  “On the contrary, I think what you’ve said is very insightful. And I find it quite remarkable that you found the fortitude to change your path. Most would simply stay the course. Far easier that way.”

  “Well fortitude doesn’t pay the bills,” she said with a laugh. “I’d be seriously having to consider moving back to Wisconsin if my best friend hadn’t offered to back me in a cupcake shop.”

  “Sounds like quite a friend.”

  “Olivia’s one in a million. I’m not sure Cole ever saw himself adding a bakery to his portfolio,” she added with a knowing grin. “But my guess is he didn’t stand a chance in the negotiations.”

  “Cole?”

  “Olivia’s husband, Coleman Grant.”

  “Of Grant Industries?”

  Cassie nodded. “Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “Dr. Douchebag,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Hank chuckled. “Now that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “It was the name Olivia gave him on the flight to Vegas. Of course that was before fate, or alcohol, turned their hate into lust.”