Chapter 8
chapter
eight
Evelyn
I fell asleep nearly immediately last night after my shower and embarrassing towel incident. After a quick breakfast in the hotel lobby–where I made my own waffle!–we got back on the road.
We’ve just made our first stop of the day.
The gas station is nothing special. There are a handful of fast-food establishments nearby.
We’ve gone inside the travel station that advertises “clean bathrooms.” It seems rather peculiar to me that one would need to advertise that. Would that not just be the standard?
In any case, I’ve done my business and gathered some snacks that, according to a quick internet search, are “perfect road trip snacks.”
Mitchell pays despite my assuring him that I have plenty of money with me.
We’re walking out of the station when something catches my eye.
They’re hanging on a spinning rack near the door—rows of bright, ridiculous flip-flops in colors I’m fairly certain would never have been approved by a royal stylist.
Pink. Neon green. Glittery gold. Cherries. Watermelon. Flamingos. Pretty much anything you can think of, and there’s a pair of whimsical flip-flops to match.
My feet ache in the sensible shoes I’ve been wearing since dawn.
I don’t say anything. I just… look. Okay, maybe I reach out and touch the pair with the cherries.
“Something wrong?” Mitchell asks quietly, already scanning the space around us.
I shake my head too fast. “No. I was just—” I stop myself. Swallow. “Never mind.”
He follows my gaze. I expect a raised brow. For him to clear his throat or remind me of our tight schedule. He does neither, just waits for me to be done.
I nod, and we walk back to his truck. Again, like all of the times before, he helps me up into the vehicle. His firm grip is warm on my hips, a reminder that I’m wearing leggings today and the fabric is thin.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Wait here.”
Before I can ask any questions, he’s already jogged back over and re-entered the gas station.
A few minutes later, he comes back out, a small white bag swinging from his hand.
He holds it out to me. “Here.”
Inside are two pairs of flip-flops. I pull out the cherry ones first. They’re completely ridiculous. The dual cherries hang from stems and decorate the entire insole of the foam. Then there’s a pair of plastic cherries stuck to the top of the strap that crosses over the foot.
They’re so cute, and just looking at them makes me smile.
“Thank you. I love them!” My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he says. “But you wanted them.” He starts the truck and pulls back onto the interstate.
I stare at him. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.” There’s no judgment in his face. “Every girl needs a pair of flip-flops.”
I pull out the second pair. The flamingos.
He shrugs. “Or two. What can I say, I like flamingos.”
My eyes sting. “Thank you, Mitchell. Truly. That was incredibly thoughtful.”
“Evie, they’re six-dollar flip-flops,” he says.
“Still thoughtful.” I sniff. Wait, did he call me Evie?
I slip off my shoes before I can overthink it and slip on the flamingo flip-flops. The bright pink looks even brighter against the pale skin of my feet.
“I should buy some nail polish so my toes look cute enough for these shoes.”
He nods. “We can get that at the next stop. We can also get some hair dye if you want. I’m not a professional by any stretch of the imagination, but I can read instructions.”
Giddiness bubbles inside me. “Yes! I definitely want to do that!”
I look down at my feet, wiggle my toes. “I would definitely not be allowed to wear these.”
His mouth tilts. “Good thing no one’s here to stop you.”
For a second, the world feels very small. Just the two of us.
The road hums beneath the tires, the Texas sky stretching endlessly ahead. I tuck my feet beneath me, admiring the absurd flamingos as they peek out from my leggings.
“You know,” I say after a moment, “I don’t actually know much about you.”
He glances over, one brow lifting slightly. “That so?”
“Yes,” I say. “Beyond the obvious.”
“The obvious being?”
“That you’re very large, very capable, and apparently very good at reading the minds of princesses with questionable footwear taste.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “High praise.”
I hesitate, then press on. “What do you do when you’re not rescuing royals and impulsively buying flip-flops?”
His fingers tighten just slightly on the steering wheel. Not enough to be alarming. Just enough that I notice.
“I work security,” he says. “Private sector now. It’s why Mike asked me to escort you. This is the type of assignment I get for my job.”
Something in his words stings a little. It’s the reminder I need, though. This isn’t a romantic road trip across the country. He’s a bodyguard. I’m a runaway princess. And soon I’ll be his brother’s wife.
“Before that, I was in the military,” he says.
“What branch?”
“Marines,” he says. “Special forces.”
I blink. “Ohhhh.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I’ve never really understood that reaction.”
“Well, it’s impressive. Serving in the military itself is amazing. But special forces go above and beyond. The most dangerous assignments, front lines, and all of that.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I just always figured it was mostly adrenaline junkies.”
I study him for a moment, the way his gaze stays on the road, steady and focused. “How long did you serve?”
“Just over a decade.”
“And then you decided to leave?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“No, I didn’t decide,” he says. “I was injured. Bad enough that they medically discharged me.”
My heart squeezes with empathy. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. More accepting. “It is what it is. Blew out my knee and did some nerve damage in my lower back. I can walk fine. Run most days. But not the way they needed me to.”
“That must have been hard,” I say softly. “Losing something you planned your whole life around.”
He nods once. “Harder than the injury, honestly.”
I think about all the things I’ve never been allowed to plan for myself and feel something twist low in my chest. “What did you do after?”
“Went through rehab. Took some time figuring out who I was without a uniform telling me.” He glances at me briefly. “Turns out I’m still good at protecting people. Just with fewer rules and better coffee.”
I smile. “I’m glad you didn’t stop being you.”
His jaw tightens in a way that makes me think that means more to him than he’ll ever say.
“Thank you,” he replies quietly.
We drive in companionable silence for a few miles after that. Not awkward. Comfortable. Like the road has smoothed out just for us.
“I think,” I say finally, “that if anyone ever needed a protector, it’s probably someone learning how to live a normal life. Especially when they don’t know how to use a basic shower.”
He lets out a low huff of a laugh.
I look down at my ridiculous shoes again and smile.
Maybe this bucket list thing is already working.