Chapter 10
I decide to finally join the WhatsApp group chat, if only because I figure my presence will curb any rumors Caro might start
about my feelings for Finn. My sense is she wouldn’t do that, but I need to make sure. I’ve learned the hard way that people
aren’t always what they seem.
“Ethel’s in the group?” I ask, scrolling through.
“Oh aye. She always has loads to say.” Caro points out some of the other group-chat members I haven’t met yet.
“Tina’s not in here, right?” I ask.
“Are you mad?” Caro gives me a look. “When did you meet Tina? More importantly, how did you survive?”
“Finn was giving me a riding lesson the other night,” I say without thinking. “I promise you, there’s nothing going on between
Finn and me. For either of us.”
I don’t allow myself to think of the time he held my hands in the pub and told me I’m a writer. I try to deny how sweet he was with me when I was riding Rosie. But all the thoughts I’m attempting to ignore come crashing in when, five minutes until closing, we get one last customer.
Finn’s dressed in navy-blue slacks and a white button-up shirt. He’s rolled up his sleeves. His copper hair is mussed in a
flattering way, and his eyes flicker with mischief the second they lock with mine.
So much for convincing Caro there’s nothing going on between us. Even though there really isn’t, his appearance at the shop
is damning evidence.
“Sorry, sir,” I say. “We’re closing. You’d best find somewhere else to purchase your narcissistic treasures.”
“She doesn’t mean that, of course you’re welcome here anytime. Obviously, Your Majesty,” Caro stammers. Quietly and out of
the side of her mouth, she hisses, “Oh my god, Hannah, I know you’re American, but what are you doing?”
However, Finn seems amused by my insolence and is now wandering the store as though he’s shopping: picking up biographies
about his parents and flipping through them while tsking and saying things like “patently untrue.”
Caro looks like she’s about to wet herself from nerves, so I tell her I’ll lock up tonight if she wants to head out.
“Aye, please, get me out of here,” she says, before adding, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I roll my eyes and push her out the door. When I turn back to my so-called customer, he’s holding up a mug with his own face
on it.
“He’s certainly a handsome bastard. You must sell loads of these.”
“Sadly, no. Our customers would all rather drink out of the corgi mug. It’s much easier on the eyes.”
“Come on, then,” he says, smirking at me. “What’s the most popular item in here?”
I pick up the bobblehead-doll version of him. “This little guy. I think people like to smack his head more than they like
to watch it wobble, though.”
To prove my point, I flick it with my thumb and index finger. “Ah. So satisfying.”
“You’re such a pain the arse, I don’t know why I put up with you,” he says with a long-suffering sigh.
“I don’t recall ever asking you to.”
“Alas, I’m a glutton for punishment. And so here I am to save you from boredom and take you out.”
“You mean save yourself from boredom.” Warning bells at the prospect of spending time alone with him ring loud and clear.
I’m not in enough denial to pretend we don’t have chemistry, and I’m still convinced if I hooked up with him in a moment of
weakness, he would replace me with another toy. Now that I’m settled into castle life, I don’t want to leave.
I lean against the counter and level him with a look. “I thought I made myself abundantly clear that I have no interest in
you romantically.”
My rebuff doesn’t even faze him.
“I don’t want to take you out on a date, you goose.
” He picks up a pamphlet touting all the amazing things you can see at the castle and bops me on the top of the head with it.
“I need to get out of this place before I go mad and I’m using you as an excuse.
I told the warden that American Hannah hasn’t even been to Musselburgh yet.
” He pauses. “You haven’t yet, right? I’m not looking to outright lie, just bend the truth. ”
I shake my head. “I haven’t, no. Hey, who’s the warden?”
“You met her after you bravely rode a horse.” He gives me a winning smile. “Remember that sweet little crumpet named Tina?”
I shudder. “She’s terrifying.”
“She’s all bark and no bite. Now, are you coming with me or do I need to find another foreigner to use as a cover story?”
I mentally weigh the pros and cons. It would be nice to see more of the country.
“Hannah . . . ?” His eyes are daring me, and that’s what clinches it.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I’m paying my own way, and you’re not allowed to find a single excuse to touch me.” I pull myself as tall
as I can so he knows I’m serious.
“I’ll pay,” he counters, “and I’ll only touch you if you beg me to.”
“In your dreams.”
“Now, how did you know about that? Have you been peeking at my dream journal?”
I ignore him under the guise of locking up.
Upon exiting the shop, I note that the beautiful blue sky I enjoyed during my lunch hour has since clouded over, threatening rain.
Back home, when the clouds looked like this, Gigi would say, Look, the sky’s constipated.
I nearly smile at the memory as we walk.
“What just happened in that head of yours?” Finn asks, leading me into the carriage house that’s been converted to a garage
for stupidly expensive cars.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Now. Which one are we taking and can I drive?”
“We’ll take the least ostentatious,” he says, unlocking a Rolls-Royce Cullinan.
“Yes, so subtle.” I head toward the driver’s side door before remembering they drive on the opposite side, and I’ve just gotten
in the passenger seat. Finn is clearly amused by my miscalculation.
“It’s not my fault you all are backwards,” I say with a scowl. I can’t sulk for long, because the supple leather is cradling
me in a way that makes me want to propose to this car.
“Ah, yes. We’re the backwards ones, you metric-resisting fool.” The engine roars to life and he shushes it. Slowly, he pulls
out and heads down the road. To my surprise, he spends the first few miles crawling along well under the speed limit.
“Finn,” I say eventually. “Have you ever been behind a wheel before? I really am happy to drive if you need me—”
But in that moment, we pull away from the castle property line and onto the highway, and Finn opens the car with such power, I’m thrust back against my seat. Oh, I’m definitely proposing to this car.
“We’re out of range of the castle surveillance cameras now,” he says with a grin, shifting into a higher gear. The way he
drives isn’t actually scary, though, even while zooming along a road that hugs a cliff overlooking the sea. It’s powerful,
it’s controlled. I do not let myself wonder if this is any indication of what it would be like to sleep with him. Instead, I sit back and enjoy the
feeling of being inside the snug car, watching cold-looking gray waves crash against the rocky shore below.
Finn points out a harbor in the distance and tells me about his love of sailing: how his favorite sound in the world occurs
the moment you turn off the engine and you hear those first waves lap against the hull of the boat. I tell him about the time
I went kayaking with my senior class and flipped the boat the second I stepped in.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of kayaks too,” he teases.
“Flip me once, shame on you,” I say defensively. “Flip me twice . . .”
“I’d flip you as many times as you asked,” he says suggestively. I ignore him.
He slows the car as we pass a sign that says: Musselburgh, The Honest Town. I point to it. “What’s with the motto?”
“Ah, yes. Sweet, isn’t it? In the early fourteenth century, after the Earl of Moray died, his successor, the Earl of Mar, tried to bribe the townspeople here in exchange for their loyalty,” Finn explains as I nearly press my face to the window, drinking in the charm of the tiny stone houses, some of which look unchanged from the fourteenth century.
“The townspeople refused, saying it was their duty to be loyal. The Earl of Mar was impressed by this and called them ‘honest men.’ ”
“I would’ve taken the money.”
“Which is why I told you I’m paying tonight. If I can’t win over your friendship with my charm, I’m going to bribe you for
it.” He deftly parks the car on a narrow side street and says, “I hope you’re hungry.”
I get out of the car, and we walk toward an area lined with shops and cafés. I look around. “Aren’t you worried about getting
photographed?” I keep the second part of my question to myself: Should I worry about getting photographed?
“Not here. There are a few places that have an understanding with the crown.”
Finn leads me into a cozy tavern charmingly committed to a nautical theme. One wall is all windows, offering views of the
beach. Despite the cloudy evening, there are toddlers running in and out of the surf while nervous parents grab their little
hands.
“Can’t stay away, can ye?” a mustachioed older man asks as we approach.
“Never, Captain,” confirms Finn. “How was Isla’s first year of uni? Did she do okay?”
“Better than okay,” the man says proudly. He stage-whispers, “She takes after her mum, thank the lord.”
Finn chuckles, then gestures at me. “This is my friend, Hannah. Poor thing is from America and needs a meal she won’t forget.”
“Hello, Hannah,” the man says, shaking my hand. He grabs two menus and leads us to a table near a big bay window.
The more time I spend with Finn, the less I can match the sweet guy who asks about a restaurant worker’s daughter and who
helped me conquer my fear of horses with the playboy from the tabloids. But isn’t that what players do? a small voice in the back of my mind points out. They get away with bad behavior because they’re charming.
I shake off the cognitive dissonance this devil of a prince is causing me and look over the menu. “What’s your go-to meal
here?”
“I start with the lobster roll and chips. The lobster? She’s succulent. She’s fresh. She’s—”