22 | Melina
Melina
For some reason, I don’t seem to know how I got into this bed.
My last memory involves climbing into the back of a car at a tiny municipal airport.
It was late when we landed, and I must’ve fallen asleep at some point.
I do remember Taylor’s private jet, however.
I could get used to traveling like royalty.
I felt very important being driven right up on the runway of a military base.
When we landed, an officer came on board and checked our passports for about two seconds as a formality of international travel.
So you’re like a prince or something? he asked, looking through Taylor’s documents.
Or something, Taylor replied before quickly adding, uh, yes, I am, when realizing we’re not in his kingdom anymore and being sassy to American cops isn’t advisable.
I guess when you’re rich, you don’t have to shuffle through TSA.
Maybe that’s why Taylor’s so cocky. He’s never had to go through the dehumanizing experience of putting your shoes in a bin, and sometime later, putting them back on as fast as possible to not hold up a line of disgruntled passengers just trying to get home before New Year’s.
I sit up in the mystery bed and swipe its mystery quilt off my sweaty body.
There’s a small pool just outside the bay window beside me.
Cape Cod . That’s where I am. As I scan the light blue bedroom, I’m sprinkled with flashbacks from last night.
God, did Taylor tuck me in? Like a baby?
I think he might’ve been in here, or did I just dream that?
It’s been an interesting past couple of days.
I’ve done a lot of explaining to my friends and family about how ‘Yeah, that is me in the picture’, and ‘No, we’re not together’.
and ‘Stop calling me Princesa Melina, Mom!’ Everyone online is posting whatever mundane detail they can find about me, from my age being twenty-nine, to me being the president of my high school’s robotics club, to where and when I went to university.
They stopped short of probing into the lives of my family members.
I’m hoping these ‘journalists’ assume they’re too boring to look into.
Thankfully, I haven’t been recognized in person.
Or if I have, no one has said anything. Though I haven’t been outside much.
I’ve been holed up in my apartment getting work done, so I could take a few days off.
To be honest, I don’t think most real people care about royal gossip.
Social media tends to inflate situations, so it seems the whole world is talking about it.
So far, the only thing that’s made my nostrils flare is when a client (Mark, sends emails with no exclamation points) asked if this will ‘affect my work’.
Mark needs to mind his own damn business is what he needs to do.
As per this vacation, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it’s a terrible idea.
I might be lying to myself if I say that was a drunk kiss at the party.
I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. The fact that a small, tiny, minuscule part of me might be falling for him, is a fact I shouldn’t be exploring.
I can’t seriously date the future king of St. Claire, Prince Taylor, so I shouldn’t let myself get worked up over Taylor.
I need to remember how rude he can be and not focus on the moments when he’s not, like when he made that little girl happy, or gave me his jacket, or made me dinner multiple times.
Yep. None of that stuff I’m going to focus on. None of it at all.
I climb out of bed and stand in front of a vanity.
I’m still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
I don’t remember bringing my duffle bag in here either, but there it sits by the door.
I walk over to the bookshelf full of vinyl records and nautical knick-knacks.
A small wooden box engraved with Princess Cassandra in tiny gold letters is being used to prop up a dried starfish.
When my curiosity gets the best of me, I open the latch.
Amongst the velvet sits a small diamond tiara ornamented with tiny pearls at the top.
The jewels are laid out in a style that reminds me of Art deco.
“Do you want it?”
I shut the box and pivot to the woman standing in the doorway. “Oh my God. No. Uh, I’m, uh—” Who am I?
“Breakfast?”
“What?”
She smiles. “I’m making avocado toast. Would you like some? I’m Cassie, by the way.”
Cassie looks different from the pictures I saw when I looked her up.
Instead of the pristine updo, her brown wavy hair is kept back by a Boston Red Sox hat.
The jewel-toned dresses have been replaced by holey jeans, a tank top, and a sleeve of tattoos on one bicep.
I read ‘Friends not Food’ in between some abstract designs of flowers and leaves.
Her face reminds me of Taylor’s, except less harsh and prettier.
She also might be pregnant, but you want to be sure of facts like that before asking.
“Sure. I’m Melina.”
“Yes, Taylor’s told me all about you.”
I raise a brow. “He has?”
Cassie’s laugh is airy and bright. “No,” she says, then leaves.
After changing my clothes and brushing my teeth, I explore the living room of the New England colonial. The walls are made with white vertical shiplap and the furniture of oak. “Your place is gorgeous,” I say to Cassie in the other room.
“Thank you. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but we made it work.” I walk in on her putting groceries away in the kitchen that’s just as adorable as the rest of the house.
All the cabinets are pale green, and the wood ceiling beams have plants hanging from them.
“We’re vegans,” she adds. “I hope that’s okay. ”
“Fine by me. What can I help with?”
She gestures to the table. “Nothing, have a seat.”
“No, come on. My mom raised me right.”
“I guess you can cut up these strawberries.” She hands me a carton from the bag on the counter. “But only if you insist.”
I grab a knife from the block next to the sink and take the strawberries. “So, uh, where’s Taylor?”
“Somewhere in Nantucket Sound, probably. He went with Neil to the marina this morning.” Neil must be her husband. “Can I ask what you guys are doing? He’s never brought someone here before.”
He hasn’t?
“We aren’t doing anything.”
Although I’ll admit the state of our relationship has been getting murky with all the kissing and the whole being-invited-on-a-vacation-to-his-cousin’s-house thing.
Cassie nods, then hands me a cutting board and a bowl. “It’s the royal thing, isn’t it?”
I lean away from her. “What is?”
“The thing that’s getting in the way. I totally get it. Thankfully, I’m low-ranking enough that Neil or my children don’t get titles.” She puts a hand on her stomach. “I’d have no idea how to start that awkward conversation.”
“Are you expecting?” I ask because I want the topic to be changed.
Yeah, if Taylor wasn’t royal, I could maybe see him as being eligible. Instead, I brave America to torture myself. Perhaps things can be prevented from spiraling out of control if we keep our hands to ourselves.
“Yep,” she answers. “Enough now that I’m nauseous all the time. A couple of days ago, I got a bit queasy on the boat. I’ve never been seasick in my life! Don’t tell Taylor this, by the way. It’s embarrassing.”
“How often do you see each other?”
“Twice a year, maybe. He’ll tease me for going ‘total yank’, but I think he just misses me.”
The screen door slams behind us.
Shorts. Taylor’s wearing shorts.
“I do not miss you,” he says. He says while wearing shorts. They’re linen and khaki. “I only come here because you give me better weed than Alex does. Seriously, I don’t know where he finds the stuff.”
I’m too flustered by his legs (slightly hairy, toned to perfection) to ask about the aforementioned pot-smoking.
Wait, he smokes?
Cassie crosses her arms. “How legal is it to take marijuana across international borders?”
“Rules don’t apply to me, dear cousin. I am the elite.”
“You know what? I think after all these years, it has finally gone to your head.”
“Of course it’s gone to my head. I’m not the one eating birdseed and living in this sad little country no one’s ever heard of.”
She stares at him, annoyed, but I have to believe annoying people is just how Taylor shows his fondness.
He uses a hand to brush back the hair that’s fallen out of place during his seafaring, then steals a strawberry half I cut. “There’s a raccoon in your garbage by the way,” he adds before popping the fruit in his mouth. “Are they always that beefy?”
“Gus is back?” Cassie asks with wide eyes. “Why didn’t you shoo him away?”
After she scurries out the door, Taylor’s arm extends next to mine to fill up a glass of water. I watch his throat work as he drinks through his five o’clock shadow. I don’t think he’s shaved in a while.
Stay strong, Melina.
“I actually like raccoons,” I say to acknowledge his presence. “They’re so American. Like buffalo wings, and prescription drug commercials, and garbage disposals.” I flip the switch next to Cassie’s sink. It gurgles accordingly. What am I doing?
Amongst her groceries, I grab a can of coconut milk whipped cream. “And look at that, vegan whipped cream. This country has everything.” Just stop talking already.
He eats another strawberry, takes the can from me, then sprays the whipped cream into his mouth.
“You know, for a prince, you really don’t have any manners.” I put a hand on my hip. “You haven’t even said good morn—
SCHHHRRRK
Taylor cocks his head at the generous dollop of cream and sugar that rests upon my beak as if to admire his work. The gesture seems so natural to him, as if spraying whipped cream on my face is comparable to saying hello.
“I think you’re breaking rule number one,” I say, trying to ignore my white clown nose.
He hums.
“Are you not saying any words to me today? Just caveman noises?” I raise a hand to wipe my nose.
But Taylor snatches my wrists and pins them onto the counter.
Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he inhales the whipped cream, his tongue caressing the side of my nose for only a second.
Vivid memories of a few days ago emerge from repressed areas of my mind, from when his mouth was just a bit lower.
I hate that I enjoy an action so perverted and disgusting.
He swallows and releases my wrists. “Now, that—” he says, swiping the last bit of cream with his finger. “Would be breaking rule number one.”
I steal the can from him. “You’ve lost your nitrous oxide privileges.
” He tries to take another strawberry, but I move in front of the cutting board.
“You have to respect the jurisprudence of the pinky promise. Last I checked, this is a civilized society. Are we all just supposed to descend into anarchy?”
He looks around. “Is there a jar somewhere I can put some coins in?”
“With your wealth, that’s not a fair punishment.”
Taylor smiles with full teeth. They practically sparkle. “Well, I have a way to make it up to you,” he sings.
He seems to be in a goofy mood this morning.
“How?”
“I got you something.”
“I thought I told you no more gifts. Last time you got me something, it was the most expensive necklace I’ve ever laid my working-class eyes on.”
“Well, you’re in luck because this time I got you worthless crap. Close your working-class eyes and hold out your hand.”
I do what he tells me, but as soon as something touches my palm, I pull away.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I feel like you’re going to give me a spider you found outside.”
When he laughs, I open my eyes, but there’s nothing in his hands.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just remember doing that to Tom as a child, but it backfired because he just befriended the spider.”
I snicker too, because it’s classic brother shenanigans. Mateo did that to me once with a frog.
Taylor pulls out a small object from his pocket. It’s a magnet. The top reads Cape Cod, and the image below it is of a boat saying ‘You light up my life’ to a lighthouse. “I thought it was cute because like, I’m the lighthouse and you’re the boat.”
Taylor points to the lighthouse and boat, respectively. I’d like to roll my eyes or say something snarky, but I can’t even feign annoyance. All I can give is my stupid grin. Usually, kids grow out of their fascination with magnets, but not me. I’ve always appreciated how they attract and repel.
I clutch the plastic to my chest. “How did you know I hoard tacky fridge magnets?”
“Because I’ve seen your fridge.”
Ah yes. I didn’t think he’d pay attention to my decor.
“You also just seem like the person who would enjoy a tacky fridge magnet.”
I don’t know if that’s a criticism or a compliment. I’ll take the latter.
Helplessly, I watch as Taylor grabs another strawberry off my cutting board and the beating heart out of my chest.
So much for keeping our hands to ourselves.