6. Jakob
CHAPTER 6
JAKOB
I edge closer to the marble statue that dominates the room, pretending to admire its contours, but my focus is on Courtney. She’s peering intently at an oil painting, her brow furrowed in concentration. The museum buzzes with the soft murmur of visitors, but I only have eyes and ears for one of them.
She’s even more beautiful in person than in her pictures, if that’s possible. Softly waved hair falls against her shoulders, and her chin has a subtle upturn to it, her lips rosy pink and pursed in focused study.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, nodding toward the canvas she’s eyeing. My voice is casual, the timbre designed to soothe and engage.
Courtney looks over, and her eyes, a vivid shade of green, meet mine. There’s still no flicker of recognition, just a polite curiosity. Either my disguise is working well, or she has no clue who I am.
“It really is,” she agrees, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “The play of light and shadow is incredible.”
“Jakob,” I introduce myself, extending a hand. It’s a common name here in Bergovia, unremarkable enough to blend into the background. Giving her my actual name will do nothing to suggest that I’m a prince — or that I work for the security department.
“Courtney,” she replies with a smile, her handshake firm yet gentle.
We talk about the painting, how the artist has captured the essence of Bergovian landscapes, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the conversation. Her insights are thoughtful and she speaks with a passion that’s infectious.
We drift through the gallery, pausing before each piece that catches our interest. The more we discuss — from the impressionistic brushstrokes of one painting to the bold colors of another — the more I sense a connection forming between us. It’s effortless, this dance of dialogue and shared admiration for the art around us.
As we stand before a sculpture depicting an ancient Bergovian legend, I find myself wanting to tell her everything: my royal lineage, my role as head of national security, the weight of my responsibilities. But duty silences those confessions, and instead, I ask her about her favorite exhibition piece.
She points to a small, intricate landscape painting tucked away in a corner. “That one,” Courtney says. “There’s something about it that feels like home, even though I’ve never been to this part of the world before.”
“Ah, it’s an underrated piece,” I reply, admiring her taste. “The artist spent his life capturing the essence of our countryside. You have a good eye.”
“Thank you,” she beams, her cheeks flushing with pleasure.
As we continue our tour, I still wonder if she’s as genuine as she appears. Could she be playing me? Does she know exactly who I am and why I’m here? If so, what are her plans? Why did she enter Bergovia? Does it have anything to do with the political discord between our families decades ago?
The questions linger, but the warmth in her laughter and the sparkle in her gaze make it hard to believe she’s anything but sincere.
Courtney may not know who I am, but in this moment, surrounded by art and history, I realize that I’m relishing the anonymity. It’s rare that I take time for myself away from my career or royal duties, and even though I feel silly hiding behind sunglasses, I’m enjoying what feels like a mini vacation.
In too little time, we’re finished with the whole museum. It’s too soon to let Courtney out of my sight, though; I need to be absolutely sure she isn’t a threat to Bergovia.
“There’s a lovely little café near here,” I say. “Would you like to join me there?”
“Sure.” Her smile lights up the room. “I would love to.”
I guide Courtney out of the museum, across the street, and down a narrow cobblestone alley, where the chatter of tourists fades into a quiet hush. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans grows stronger as we approach a nondescript door, half-hidden by ivy.
“This place,” I murmur, “is a local secret.”
“Looks cozy,” she says, the smile alive in her eyes.
As we step inside, the dim lighting and intimate space envelop us. I slip off my hat and sunglasses, relishing the freedom anonymity affords me here. It’s the moment of truth. Will she recognize me?
And — if she does — will she give that recognition away or try to hide it?
The tension in my shoulders eases as I catch Courtney’s gaze, but she offers no sign of recognition. “You like to cover up, huh?”
I shrug, my story already prepared. “I work in private security. I cover celebrities sometimes, so I can be recognized because of that. As a result, I prefer to keep a low profile. Do you like espresso?”
“I just had one… but I could have another.” She laughs.
“Private security?” she asks, after we’ve ordered and picked out two overstuffed armchairs to sit in.
“Yes,” I reply, settling into the conversation as easily as into the chair. “My job can be… demanding.” That much, at least, is the truth.
“Sounds exciting,” she says, stirring her espresso delicately. “I’m a data analyst, back in Houston. Texas. Numbers are my forte, not danger.”
“Numbers have their own kind of thrill, I imagine,” I say, keen to know more about her world — so distant from mine.
“Sometimes,” she admits with a laugh. Then her smile turns wistful. “But when I can, I escape through photography.” She gestures towards her bag, where the corner of a camera peeks out.
“And you’re here for what? To take pictures?”
“Just to visit.” She looks into her espresso. “I’d never been.”
There’s something there she doesn’t want to share, and it heightens my suspicion. Now, I know for sure, I can’t let her go.
“May I?” I ask, gesturing toward the camera.
“Of course,” she responds, passing it to me with a trust that tugs at something deep within my chest.
The device feels solid in my hands, a tangible piece of her passion. I thumb through the captured images on the screen — vivid splashes of color, candid snapshots of life, all seen through her lens. Each photo is a window into how she perceives the world: vibrant, nuanced, beautiful.
“Your work is remarkable,” I say, handing back the camera. “You have a real talent.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her cheeks coloring with pleasure.
“And how do you like Bergovia?”
“I love it.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks off toward the window as if tracing her thoughts. “My grandmother was from here. She never really talked about growing up here, though. She died last week and… I guess I wanted to see it through my own eyes, you know?”
Her innocence is palpable, her gaze clear and devoid of any hidden agenda. She knows nothing of the royal family or the old feuds — of that, I’m certain. Her connection to this place is personal, untainted by politics or intrigue.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I set my espresso cup on the table, momentarily shocked.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
The tone is shifted, and I worry that it’s my fault for bringing it down. I’ve only just met this woman, and yet I can’t bear seeing her unhappy. It’s a primal urge to do something — anything — to cheer her up.
“Would you like to make a wish at the fountain?” I suggest, nodding towards the one through the window, which sits in a small courtyard. It’s an impromptu invitation, but one I hope she’ll accept.
“Really? Like throwing in a coin and making a wish?” she asks with raised eyebrows, amusement lighting up her features.
“Exactly like that,” I confirm, standing up and offering my hand to help her from her seat.
“Sounds like something out of a fairy tale,” she comments as she places her hand in mine, warm and soft.
“Perhaps,” I concede with a chuckle, opening the door for her. “But sometimes life could use a touch of whimsy.”
At the fountain, I pull two coins from my pocket and hand one to her. The metal is cool in my palm, spray from the fountain striking my face. Standing side by side, we look into the shimmering water. I can feel the warmth of her arm against mine, a gentle reminder of the unexpected turn my day has taken.
Just like that, I find that I’m perfectly happy. I don’t want this moment to end. I could stay here forever, standing next to Courtney, our coins never making it into the water, the upcoming evening a promise that never arrives.
But time does move on, and she’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to take the lead.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” she confirms with a nod.
Together, we throw our coins, watching as they arc gracefully before plunging into the fountain with a soft plop, ripples spreading outward.
“May I ask what you wished for?” I inquire, though knowing better than to expect an answer.
She turns to me, a secretive gleam in her eye. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
“Fair enough,” I say, contented.
I didn’t even make a wish. Did not even think to.
And why? Because I’m perfectly happy as I am, right here, right now, with her. If anything changed, then the perfection we are experiencing would dissipate faster than the fountain’s mist.
In truth, I could have left by now, assured of her harmless intentions. But there’s something about her — something guilelessly enchanting — that compels me to linger.
“Let’s just say…” She trails off. “It involves seeing more of Bergovia than I had planned.”
“Then I hope your wish is granted,” I reply, unable to resist the pull of her optimism.
And for reasons I can’t fully explain, even to myself, I silently add a wish of my own: that this unforeseen encounter might unfold into something more than what it already is.
I brush a stray leaf from the edge of the fountain, suddenly unsure of what to do with myself. There’s an electric current between us, a spark that has nothing to do with the cool spring air. Courtney laughs — a soft, melodic sound that tugs at something deep within me.
“Your turn,” she says. “What did you wish for?”
“Can’t say or it won’t come true, remember?” I tease back, but the intensity in her eyes suggests she’s not buying the evasion.
“All right, then.” I draw a deep breath. “I wished for this day to… continue getting better.”
“Smooth,” she counters, her cheeks flushing a beautiful shade of rose.
“Guilty as charged,” I admit.
“However, I made the wish after I tossed the coin. I suppose that means it cannot come true now.”
Courtney lets out a small laugh, airy and playful. “Wishes are funny things,” she murmurs, green eyes sparkling in the spill of sunlight. “They don’t work on schedules or follow coin tosses. They bloom within hearts and souls, untouched by our human conventions.”
I glance at her, captivated by her eloquence and the wisdom lacing her words. “You put it beautifully,” I say. The air between us thickens with unspoken promises, and I can feel my careful walls of professionalism crumble in the warmth of her gaze.
“Jakob…” Her voice is a whisper, questioning, expectant.
“Sorry, I—” I begin, but the words falter on my lips as she leans in, her breath mingling with mine.
This is wrong , every protocol and rule screams within me. But then her lips are on mine, soft and tentative, searching. And suddenly, all those rules seem insignificant compared to the rightness of this moment.
The kiss deepens, and with it, the fluttering in my chest transforms into a steady drum, urging me on. Courtney’s hand finds its way to my cheek, and I respond instinctively, pulling her closer. Every alarm bell in my head is silenced by the warmth of her touch, the sweetness of her mouth.
It’s unprofessional. It’s reckless. Yet as I kiss her back, I find myself thinking that if she is some unforeseen threat, then I need to keep her this close, to understand her motivations, to anticipate her moves.
But as we part, breathless and flushed, I know the truth is far simpler: I don’t want to let her go. Not yet. Not when there’s still so much left to learn about the enigma that is Courtney, the woman who’s managed to capture the attention of a man who should know better.
“Wow,” she murmurs, her eyes reflecting the same stormy mix of emotion I feel swirling inside me.
“Indeed,” I reply, my voice barely above a husky whisper.
I offer a half-smile that carries a promise I never intended to make — one of more laughter, more touches, more moments like this, where duty and desire collide in the most unexpected ways.