10. “The Great War” - Taylor Swift #2
I shuffle through the documents on the table and pull one out. “The royal household can’t keep the lights on with what we’re getting from the Civil List, let alone pay someone to change the light bulbs.” I hand the paper to him. “I need to know how you did it.”
He glances over the budget before handing it back. “We’ve always lived primarily off private income.”
“I know that, doofus. What I don’t know is what you did to earn it.”
His eyes meet mine for a few seconds, then he reaches for the candy bowl. “I’m not sure. I think my father has quite a few investments and businesses.”
“You think? How do you not already know this?”
Shrugging, he pops several M&Ms into his mouth. “I never cared. Probably one of the reasons he hates me so much.”
He offers me the bowl, but I shake my head. My stomach feels queasy enough without carb-loading before bed. “I have no idea what I’m going to do,” I say.
“I’m assuming you’ve already trimmed everything you can?”
“We’ve reduced by 17 percent, but that’s nowhere close to where we need to be.”
Henry frowns and pulls a stapled sheaf from the table. “What about investments?”
“The Royal Estate has very little, and what my father left isn’t even worth mentioning.” Not when we’re talking about a multimillion-dollar annual budget.
He studies the pages for a few minutes. I take that time to run my fingers through Tundra’s fur. Maisie must have had him groomed before bringing him over, because his coat is glossy and fluffy.
“I have an idea.”
I look over at Henry, whose brow is now the one furrowed. “Waiting with bated breath,” I say.
He lowers the papers and meets my eyes. “Why not turn the royal collection into assets?”
“What are you talking about?”
“All of the art, antiques, gardens—display them to the public and charge admission.”
“We can’t commercialize the royal collection.”
“Why not? The British Crown did it years ago. Plenty of other monarchies have done the same thing.”
I press my lips together tightly. How he doesn’t understand this is beyond me. “Wesbourne is different from other countries. We have a poise the Brits lack.”
He huffs out a laugh and tosses the documents back onto the table. “I’m not sure anyone who’s been following Wesbourne in the news this past year would use the word ‘poise’ to describe us.”
“Okay, fine. We’ve had a rough year. But to turn the palace into a museum? That’s insanity.”
“You wouldn’t have to allow tours of everything, just the state rooms, galleries, and a few drawing rooms. No one’s going to go through your underwear drawer. Except maybe me.” He grins wolfishly and pops another M&M into his mouth.
“You’re disgusting.” I return my attention to the pages in front of me so I don’t dwell on what that grin does to my insides. “Besides, I already submitted the request for a higher Civil List payment.”
“And what, raise taxes?”
I let out a long sigh and grab a pretzel from the bag. “I’m out of options. Your father seemed to think it was a good idea.”
His head snaps up. “You talked to my father about this?”
“It’s not like I requested a meeting. He was there anyway, and it just came up.”
“You need to stay away from him,” Henry says.
I spread my hands in front of me. “Um, hello. Kind of locked up here away from everybody at the moment.”
“I’m serious, C. He’s bad news.”
“Believe it or not, I’m actually not as helpless as you seem to think. Now, if you will leave me alone, I can keep working on this.”
He gives me a tired look. “You should go to bed. It’s nearly one o’clock.”
I’m well aware of the time. I’m also aware of what I’ll see if I close my eyes. It’s imperative that I keep them open. “I’m wide awake,” I say.
“Your left eye has been twitching for the past five minutes.”
“That’s due to the sterile environment in this place. Seriously, would it kill you to hang some tinsel?”
“You want to argue over holiday decorations right now?”
“Christmas is less than a month away, and you don’t even have a tree.”
“You’re getting delirious,” he says. “I’m putting you to bed.”
“Fine, jailer. Lead me to my cell.” One can stay awake in a bedroom as well as on a sofa.
I hold my wrists out to him, and he gives me an unamused look. “You’re staying in my room.”
“I’m sorry,” I say around a laugh, “but just because I accidentally had sex with you under duress does not mean we are sharing a room.”
“I meant alone. And for the record, you can’t accidentally have sex with someone.”
“Yes, you can, and I’m not taking your room.” I stand up. “This place must have a million guest rooms.”
His brows rise. “So close,” he says. “It has four.”
“Great. I’ll take one of those, then.” One that isn’t tainted with memories of rolling in the sheets with him.
“Mine has the best view.”
“Hardly necessary while sleeping.”
“All the same, I’ve had it readied for you.” He beckons with his hand.
I notice my luggage is gone from the foyer, presumably already ensconced in Henry’s massive closet. “That was hardly necessary. I would have been just fine in a guest room.”
“And what kind of guy would I be if I did that?”
“Um, normal?” I take a step in his direction.
“You’re the queen, C.”
Good thing he cleared that up. Fantasy-loving Celia was going to run with it, right into he-cares-about-me territory. “You’re right. I momentarily forgot, since all of my other rights have been stripped from me.” I smile sweetly.
“You know I’m doing it for your own good.”
I brush past him toward the bedroom. “Spoken like a true dictator.”
The shots wake me.
I sit up in bed and scream. I know I shouldn’t, because it will only lead them to me, but what else am I supposed to do? The room is dark as sin, but all I can think about is that they’ve found me.
I don’t hear any more gunfire, but my screams don’t stop. I don’t think my throat is capable of closing.
The bedroom door bursts open, and somehow my screams increase in intensity. The man rushes toward me. I know that this is it. This is how I die.
It isn’t until he’s beside me that I realize it’s Henry, not a gunman. He grabs me and slides into bed next to me, pulling me into his lap. My screams stop as I melt into him, his arms wrapped around me and my face pressed against his chest.
“Where is he?” I whisper.
“Who?”
“I heard shots. They found me.”
His hand strokes my hair away from my face. “It was just a dream, baby. There’s no gunman.”
“But I heard them.”
He whispers “shhhhh” in my ear. “Trust me, no one can get in here, okay? There are a dozen guys outside the door. They’ve all sworn to protect you with their lives.”
My fingers curl into Henry’s T-shirt as he gently rocks us back and forth. Twice in one day, this man has had to comfort me. This needs to stop. I need to be stronger, more resilient, and far less emotional. But every time I decide to pull away, the fear yanks me back into his embrace.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, but it’s long enough for my heart rate to slow and for my brain to convince me of just how pathetic I am. “Sorry,” I mutter, and shift upright.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, one hand still stroking my back. “You just had a major shock.”
“I’ll be fine now, but thank you for coming.”
“You sure? I don’t mind staying.”
“I’m sure.” The nightmares might keep me from going back to sleep, but I know I definitely won’t be able to if Henry is beside me.
He crawls off the bed and turns back to face me. “You’ll let me know if you need something?”
I nod. “Of course.” We’ll see.
He props his hands on either side of me. “I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I wish I could believe him.