Chapter 2
Ashton
“Ican’t believe you’ve never let me drive your car,” I say to my sister Fenella with disbelief and offended brother vibes.
Fenella has had the car for almost a year, and I’ve never once gotten behind the wheel. Which wouldn’t be an issue for most, but I race cars for a living. Off-road, rally, stock cars—I’ve driven them all. I’ve even tried kart racing.
And yet my sister keeps the keys to her banana-yellow Dodge Charger away from me like a good bartender on New Year’s Eve.
“You have so driven my car,” Fenella argues.
“Nope.”
Fen got the car last fall, but I’ve only been here for short spurts until the summer.
After I finished filming The Suitorette reality show in nearby Saint Pierre—the outcome I still refuse to discuss privately or publicly—I stopped in Battle Harbour but the car was having body work done.
Next time I was here, Fenella and Silas were on a driving tour of the Maritime provinces.
Late September, Laandia got hit with the tail end of a tropical storm, and a few of the roads had washed out and were undrivable, and when I was here in October, the car was getting snow tires.
I’ve been back and forth to Laandia a lot lately.
Part of the reason is that my twin, Fenella, recently relocated to the tiny country of Laandia after she fell in love with the town barista, of all people.
Silas is great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that we’re the kids of Carrington Toys, heirs to a billion-dollar-company.
Trust-fund babies, used to the finer things in life.
Even without the family name, Fenella makes a living as a model and sponsorships from her influencer gigs.
Even the driving tour she went on was some sort of deal arranged by Dodge, the tourist boards of the provinces, and organized by famous travel vlogger, Shae, who had to back out at the last minute.
Being twins and all, Fen and I are pretty tight, so she needs to see me a lot. And since she is busy rearranging the entire town of Battle Harbour when she’s not filming TikToks, she makes me come to her.
And then there’s Basher.
Ever since we filmed The Suitorette together, Basher’s become something of a sidekick. Neither of us got the girl, but we ended up friends.
And while most may see it as me being the sidekick of the more famous Basher—he’s the appropriately named drummer of the band Water Rhinos—I don’t see it that way.
Basher followed me to Battle Harbour after we finished filming, where he promptly fell in love with Mabel Crow.
There aren’t many women who scare me, but Mabel does. She’s lived in Battle Harbour her whole life, manages The King’s Hat, and has more family drama than a soap opera. She also doesn’t reciprocate Basher’s almost pathetic feelings for her.
Yet.
His word, not mine.
Basher is the reason we’re here so often. But this time, Fenella invited both of us to Silas’s birthday party. Basher is between gigs and I’m between… not much since I haven’t got much going on.
Not since the incident last spring.
I’ve driven since then, and I’ve even been in a couple of races. Nothing big, just fund raisers—one was a late night drag race in Bueno Aires we don’t need to mention—but my own father recently dropped me as a driver, so I haven’t got much in the pipeline.
I don’t like not being busy.
Which is another reason we’re here. Because I’m bored.
I don’t like being bored.
“I’m not letting you drive my car because you’re bored,” Fenella says.
It’s annoying how well she knows me. She’s the only one, too—if I let women get as close to my secrets as I let my sister, I’d have more tabloids about me than Prince Harry, Princess Lyra, and Gunnar’s love life combined.
I guess I come here to visit Gunner too. We’ve been friends forever, even before he dated Fen, and he’s unofficially one of the Billionaire Brats, the lovely nickname some website gave us.
“I’m not bored, I’m at a party.” I lift my glass of club soda with extra lime.
“You’re drinking,” she accuses. “There’s no way I’m letting you drive my car.”
I push it closer so she can smell the limey goodness. “I’m not. It’s my New Year’s resolution.”
Fenella looks impressed. “You’ve made it three days.”
The non-drinking isn’t a resolution but because the CEO of FluxFuel, maker of the newest energy drink, is pushing into extreme sports.
I may not have anything in the pipeline yet, but I want on the team for the inaugural FluxFuel Overdrive Rally.
It’s a thirty-six-hour relay race from Barcelona to Prague, and some of the top long-distance drivers are already signed up.
It’s perfect for me, but the issue is that the company only wants drivers who can keep their noses clean. No scandals, no social media flubs and fubars, and definitely no accidents.
When I met with them, I managed to convince them that the incident last spring was a onetime thing, that I can keep my temper and control of any vehicle at any time.
I’m in if I can convince FluxFuel’s people that the skeletons in my closet are locked up tight and not about to make a repeat appearance.
And I need to be in. I need something going on.
Fenella and I both glance at the countdown clock Kalle fixed on the wall. “That’s really what he uses to count down until the wedding?” I wonder.
Fenella nods. Six months and counting until the royal wedding, when Prince Kalle marries Edie England. When the engagement was made public, Kalle set up a digital clock in his bar to keep track.
Seeing the numbers slowly countdown to my wedding would be horrible.
Maybe that’s because a wedding would be horrible. For me, not Fenella’s. She’s planning her happily ever after with Silas, but it’s not happening until after the royal wedding.
The king requested that Fenella’s wedding be put on hold until after Kalle’s. Since King Magnus is Fenella’s new best friend, she agreed.
Silas, of course, went along with anything because he is completely and absolutely in love with my sister.
Seeing Silas—who is a seriously good guy, as the guest list for his birthday party can attest to—so obviously ga-ga for my sister makes me lose a little respect for him. It’s like, c’mon, man, Fen’s great, but you can still live a little. Especially since Fenella’s notoriety has rubbed off him.
People’s Magazine actually named him Sexiest Barista, and that’s only because Fen keeps posting reels about him making her coffee.
“C’mon, Fen, just toss me the keys for a sec and I’ll take Basher for a quick spin. No one will know I’m gone.”
“I’ve never been taken for a spin by a real race car driver,” Basher pipes up with a grin. “Not that Ash here is a real race car driver…”
I force a smile and elbow Basher. Fenella frowns because she knows the jibe stung. Not that Basher meant anything, since he has no idea the mess my career is in.
Fenella holds my gaze as she reaches into her purse. “Have you spoken to Lyra tonight?” she asks.
“I have not.”
“Abigail?”
A quick shake of my head. My season of The Suitorette had a part one—which starred Princess Lyra—and a part two, headed by Abigail Locke.
I got sent home by both of them.
I went on the show to get a win, to try to flip my rep after the accident into that of a good guy.
Reality shows are great for that. I even managed to avoid being cast as the villain, which is what the producers had me in mind for.
I probably have my friendship with Basher to thank for that, since everyone loved him.
Not enough to keep him around.
Lyra and Abigail didn’t care enough to keep me around either.
Yes, Lyra and I were just friends, and it was obvious she had feelings for Spencer. But I thought I had a chance with Abigail, and her letting me go stung more than I want to admit.
So I don’t talk about it. With anyone. I also don’t talk to either Lyra or Abigail because if people see us together, there will be pictures and questions and stories about how I’m so heartbroken.
I’m not heartbroken, but I’m not happy about it, either.
Not that I fell I love with Abigail or anything. I don’t fall in love. There’s no point because it’s not real, it doesn’t last, and a list of other reasons.
I don’t talk about that, either.
“I don’t like when my brother doesn’t talk to my friends,” Fenella announces.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. You need to try to make an effort with them. For Silas’s sake.” She pats his arm, and Silas turns with a smile, without a clue what is being discussed.
“No.”
“Yes. For me.” My blue eyes hold her purple gaze as we struggle in yet another battle of wills to determine who has the most power over the other in our twinship.
Fenella holds up her keys. “I’ll let you drive my car.”
I curse under my breath. “C’mon, dude,” Basher cajoles. “It’s not that big of deal. I talk to both of them all the time. I even invited Abigail into the group chat. She sends the best memes.”
“I’m not in the group chat.”
“Yes, I know, because you don’t do group chats.” He says it mockingly, but I don’t crack a smile.
I do group chats, but not with former contestants of a reality show, most of them who want to ride their fifteen minutes as long as they can.
I glance across the bar where Lyra is perched on a high stool, talking animatedly to Kate McKibbon.
And Sophie Laz.
There’s no way I’m going over to talk to Lyra now because then I’d have to make conversation with Sophie, and that is… different. Difficult.
I have no idea why I have trouble talking to Sophie. There’s no reason—Sophie is nice. She’s… nice.
She’s a lot of things, but nice comes to the forefront of my mind. She’s nicer than Abigail and I didn’t have a problem talking to her.
Sophie is also cute, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and smells like citrus and flowers. I liked the way my hand fit on her hip when we danced.
She lives in Battle Harbour and will undoubtedly continue to do so for her whole life.
There’s no way I’m going to talk to Lyra.
I turn to look down the table where Tanner’s wide hockey shoulders almost blocks Abigail from view. Tanner was the last man standing on The Suitorette and won the heart of Abigail, over both me and Basher.
Not only has Fenella moved to this snow-covered place that’s colder than my mother’s heart, she’s making friends here. With everyone she meets.
People love her here.
And I know all Fenella wants is for people to love me just as much. But it’s not as easy because I’m not as easy, or kind or nice.
The keys jingle.
“Hey, Abigail,” I call down the table.
Her curly head pops out from around Tanner’s bulk. Oh, goody, she’s even wearing one of the dresses I picked out for her during our shopping date on the show.
“How’s it going?”
Abigail breaks into the biggest smile, like I’ve stopped her on the street and offered her an all-expense trip somewhere warm. “Really, good, thanks. How are you?”
Instead of answering, I turn to Fenella. “There. Happy?”
My sister drops the keys into my outstretched hand. “Be back before he blows out the candles,” Fenella instructs.
“Maybe. But I’m not talking to anyone else.”