Chapter 10
I spread the Windsor Gazette on my desk.
Lizzy told me to read an article on page two. I scan the page, distracted. I am taking a five-minute break, all for myself.
If I don’t, I’ll crack.
I’ll dissolve into tears and throw the phone and tablet into the waste bin like Mandy did yesterday morning.
I silenced both devices for my own mental health. Starting right now, I am going to breathe. Sip tea. Let my mind rest.
I won’t think about Brock.
I’ll read the article Lizzy suggested, whatever it is. She said something about the castle.
Ah ha.
Here it is
It’s about the Mini Windsor Castle. The one on the edge of town.
As I start to read, I lift my mug of herbal tea to my lips and breathe in the citrus-scented steam. I draw in a sip of tangerine flavors and try desperately to think about the words before me.
But it’s not working. I can’t focus. All I can think about is how it felt to stand in that doorway with Brock twenty minutes ago.
Note to self: don’t stand that close to him.
Ever again.
It felt like all the air was sucked up out of the building, standing there next to him.
Probably because he made me witness his session on the chin-up bar just before we had that moment in his doorway. It should be against the rules for a man that good-looking to do chin-ups during a meeting.
Then again, it’s not like I’ve been following office rules lately.
I’m pretty sure I’ve broken a few.
If Lizzy weren’t my best friend, I’d worry about an intervention from Human Resources, given the shenanigans going on between me and Brock. I mean, we’ve been flirting. At work. This is supposed to be a professional place, not a building where singles can meet and mingle.
Sheesh.
I take another sip of my tea, and try for a second time to start reading.
But it’s impossible.
When I spot Clay as he steps through the shipping department doors, I realize that I’ve barely read two sentences in the article.
He walks my way, hands shoved in his pockets.
He looks moody, a mix of discouragement and frustration, which has pretty much been his norm since he graduated college as a music major six years ago.
“Hey,” he mumbles when he reaches my desk. “You got a minute?”
I glance warily at my watch. “I have two and a half, actually. More if I feel like paying for an extended break later. What’s up?”
“Roofer stopped by.”
“The house?”
He nods. He knows I’m referring to the house we’re flipping, not Mom’s. “Yeah. I was there, chilling.”
“Why weren’t you at Mom’s?”
“She’s home from work today. She was giving me a hard time for gaming.”
I purse my lips but fight back any snippy responses. Sounds like he’s already heard it from Mom.
“It is really nice out,” I say instead as I paste a smile on my lips and wave toward the door. “So sunny. She just wants you to enjoy it.”
Not lie around with a headset on, playing video games. Wasting your potential, day after day.
He scuffs his shoe against the floor.
“Whatever,” I say, still trying to sound cheerful. “You can hang at the house as much as you want.” And if you could do some work around the place, that would be great.
“Thanks,” he grumbles. “Anyway, like I said, the roofer swung by to pick up those tools he left behind, and he asked about some check we owe him.”
“Yeah.” I reach for my hair and spin a strand nervously between two fingers. “Shoot. What’d you tell him?”
“Said you were at work, but I’d talk to you about it. He’ll be back later this afternoon to grab the scrap shingles.”
“Thanks. I guess when he stops over again, tell him I’ll have it for him next Friday at the latest. That’s payday, and I’m getting a big bonus.”
“Cool. Will do…” He frowns down at the floor. “So, like, you don’t have it now?”
“No.”
“Not even in savings?”
“Not even in savings.”
“And all Grandma’s money’s gone?”
“That’s been gone for a long time, Clay.”
“What about those credit cards you talked about?” he asks. “Or the loan or whatever?”
I have been very careful to keep the worrisome financial details of my life away from my sensitive brother. Today will be no exception. “I’ll figure it out,” I say rather than answer him.
“I didn’t realize the budget was so tight.”
“It’s cool. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay…”
Now is the time when I should suggest he chip in more. If he helped out with the house, we wouldn’t have to pay contractors. The kitchen floor is the next project on the tick-list.
But when I look at him, I see how childlike he looks despite his actual age of twenty-eight. He seems so discouraged, too. I can’t bear putting financial worries onto his already-stooped shoulders.
I want to encourage him. Support him. Build him up, not tear him down by stressing him out about our real estate purchase.
So, instead of bringing up the kitchen floor project, I smooth my palms over the Windsor Gazette. “Hey, did you see this article about the castle?”
He drops down so he’s crouched by my side, balanced on the balls of his feet. Now he’s at eye-level with my desk. “Nah, haven’t seen it. What’s up?” He sounds relieved to be off the topic of finances.
As relieved as I am.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “I tried to read it, but I’ve been super distracted.”
Clay’s eyes scan the text. “Looks like they’re closing down the Queen’s Room.”
“Oh no! Really? Grandma loved that room.” I stoop over the page and now begin to read in earnest.
And as I read, I think about my grandmother, Regina Temple.
The Isabella Heins Frederick Castle was my Grandma Regina’s favorite part of this town. When I was a girl, she loved to take Clay and me up there on Local’s Day, where Windsor folks could get in for free.
I remember how she would let us run around on the paths and play hide and seek in the mazes of sculpted shrubbery.
“Didn’t Grandma say something to you about that room when she was in the hospital?” Clay asks.
I nod. “She said I should stay overnight in it.”
As I read, more memories surface.
Dappled sunlight on green grass paths. Tall rose bushes in full bloom, sculpted into rows. Sweet, sugary, and milky tea, sipped in the Ceremonial Room, with the high, ornate ceilings gilded in gold.
My grandmother’s laugh.
Clay’s hand in mine.
The castle used to be a private residence for the wealthy Isabella. She had it built as a small-scale replica of the actual Windsor Castle. Though it’s known as the Mini Windsor Castle by many, it’s hardly ‘mini.’ The building is big enough to get lost in for days, the grounds and gardens expansive and park-like.
I read the history of the Queen’s Room as a vivid memory washes over me.
My mother is in one of her long and flowy skirts. She kneels in the lush grass of the castle gardens, holding her hands out to me. I run into her arms, and she bundles me into a hug and kisses the top of my head.
My grandmother, nearby, holds Clay, who is only three or four.
He looks up at my grandmother and places both his pudgy hands against her cheeks. “Is this heaven, Nana?” he asks.
My grandmother laughs. “Sure feels like it.”
My mom holds me tighter and rocks me back and forth. “It really does feel like heaven, doesn’t it, baby girl?” she whispers in my ear.
It was the first time I heard the word heaven.
And after that, whenever I heard that word, I thought about the castle gardens.
I thought about my mother’s arms.
My grandmother’s laugh.
Clay’s smile.
Sunshine. Pink roses. The pale, heather-gray stone castle rising up over rows and rows of manicured greenery.
When I pull myself out of the memories and look at my brother, I see a peaceful look has replaced his gloom.
“Are you thinking about Grandma?” I ask him.
He nods. “It always felt magical, going up to the castle with her, didn’t it?” That subtle smile won’t quit. He strokes his chin, which is covered in reddish stubble. “Man, she was the best.”
“She really was.” I bite my lip and look down at the tiny print that covers the page.
The article is crowned with a black-and-white photograph of the Queen’s Room. The huge, four-poster canopy bed is draped in silk, satin, and even fur. The room’s walls are covered with embroidered fabric in a rose pattern. A chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and oil paintings in ornate frames decorate the walls.
On the edge of the photograph, tall French doors are visible, along with a hint of the view beyond: the gardens, treetops, and downtown Windsor, far in the distance.
“It was one of the last things she said to me,” I tell Clay in a whisper.
Around us, the buzz of the office goes on. Phones ring. People talk. But now Clay and I are walking down our own private, peaceful memory lane, and the hubbub of the office feels very far away.
“What did she want, exactly?”
“She wanted me to stay the night in this room.” I tap the photo of the Queen’s Room.
The news says that the room will soon be closed to overnight stays. That’s going to make following through on my grandmother’s dying wish very difficult.
“Like she did, right?” Clay asks.
I nod. “When she was a young woman. Mid-twenties, I think. It was just before she married Grandpa.”
And then, just like that, I’m lost again.
Memory lane takes a turn. In my mind, I wander into my grandmother’s hospital room, where she stayed for two weeks before she passed away.
A quilt my mother sewed by hand covers the bed. Bouquets of flowers line the window sill and crowd onto the rolling bedside table, leaving just enough room for the Styrofoam cup of tea that she always had on hand.
It’s the night that she fell asleep for the final time. I’m alone in the room with her while Mom and Clay are off in the cafeteria for dinner. I know Gran’s time is running short. I sit by her bed and hold her hand.
“Gwen, honey, you know I don’t like to impose.”
“Of course, Gran.”
“But if I could… just this once… I want to ask something of you.”
“Anything, Grandma.”
“Do something for me. I know it will be difficult because it doesn’t come cheap. But find a way. Stay in the Queen’s Room, up at the castle. I did when I was young like you. I spent every last penny on the reservation, too.”
Her voice sounds croaky. “Back then, it was a fraction as much. You know how money is; a soda used to cost nothing but a couple quarters.”
“I know.” I squeeze her hand, then offer her some tea.
She waves the cup away. “Thank you, love, but not right now. I better get this out before I forget. Memories come and go, and this one’s a good one.”
She winks at me. “A fun one.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Well, there I was, a young woman. I had barely anything in the bank. My Pop told me to spend it on good winter boots, a winter coat, and repairs on the old car I was tootin’ around in. Well, all that sure would have been practical, but it wasn’t what I needed. And when you’re like us, Gwen… when you tend to think with your heart instead of your head, you can’t do what’s practical all the time.”
I laugh because she’s so right.
She smiles at me, happy that I understand. “So, ‘course, I took all the money out and rang up the front desk at the castle and booked that room, all for me. Just me. No one understood it, least of all my father. But in my heart, I was getting a tug to do that for myself. I didn’t know why.”
“And… what happened?”
“It changed my life.”
“How, Gran?”
“That room—it works magic in your soul. That’s how. Let me see… Let me try to explain it to you. Well, I woke up in that bed, Gwen, and I felt like a real queen. Like I was worthy. Worthy to be alive, worthy to get all the love in the world, and give love, too. Worthy of the sunlight and seeing flowers and to have sugar dance on my tongue. I’d never felt all that before. I always played small. Much smaller than I should’ve. I didn’t feel any of the joys of life, the sweetness, because I couldn’t let myself. But that morning…”
She turns her hand in mine and squeezes my palm tightly, her grip firmer than I expect.
It’s not the grip of a frail elderly woman lying in a hospital bed.
It is a lively, strong grip that lets me know she really, really wants me to heed her words.
She keeps squeezing my hand as she goes on. “I see so much of myself in you. You’re so very humble, Gwen. It would be good for you to let yourself feel like a real queen for once. Get yourself that room, no matter what it takes. Wake up in that canopy bed and order a cup of tea and a nice breakfast, and then sit by those beautiful doors and look out at the view. You won’t want to put yourself last—to hide away, like you do—once you realize what you’re really worth. That’s what I want for you. I want you to know that you deserve all the love in the world.”
“I’ll do it,” I promise her.
She squeezes my hand one last time. “Good girl. I know you will.”
I remember how Clay and my mom returned soon after I made that promise. Clay played his guitar, and Mom and I sang a few songs with Grandma. That night, she passed away in her sleep.
I promised her that I would spend the night in the Queen’s Room, I think, as I tug at a frayed bit of yarn on the cuff of my sweater.
“If I’m going to do as she asked,” I tell Clay, “I don’t have much time.”
“Only ‘til the end of the month.”
“How much does an overnight cost?” I wonder aloud. Since Clay doesn’t carry a phone, checking the price is up to me. I busy myself with that as Clay gets to his feet.
Soon, I know the exact cost of one night in the Queen’s Room: Way too much.
But—I promised my grandmother.
I have to make it happen.
I have to get a room.
How?
“My guess is they’ll be all booked up soon,” Clay says as he looks at the computer screen. “Now that the news is out that this is the last month for overnight stays.”
Shoot.
He’s right.
Everyone who has ever dreamed of staying overnight in the castle will be thinking along the same lines that I am at this moment.
I have to act soon.
The castle staff has probably been swamped with reservations since they announced the upcoming closure.
Well, now I have one more thing to worry about: failing to fulfill my grandmother’s dying wish.
If I don’t make a reservation soon, there’s no way I’ll ever wake up in that four-poster canopy bed.
I’ll never have the chance to feel worthy like Gran wanted.
I close the paper.
Once it’s folded up, I get a glimpse of the evil executive assistant phone. My stomach clenches with anxiety. How is it possible that nine new voicemails came in during my little break?
I knew I’d pay if I took too much time for myself.
No wonder Mandy lost it,I think as I scoop up the phone.
My heart hammers when I tap the text message icon. Will there be any new texts from Brock? We had that moment in his office’s doorway not so long ago.
Has he been thinking about me since then?
Has he sent anything new?
It’s ridiculous how much I want to see a text from him.
Not just a text. A flirty text, with undertones…
I feel my body heat ratchet up. Butterflies stir as I search for his name in the latest round of incoming texts.
No.
Nothing new from him.
My tea’s gone cold. I barely had time to collect my thoughts, and now I have to dive back into managing Brock’s hectic world.
Everyone seems to want his attention and his time, but to get to him, they have to go through me first.
And the even more challenging part—the part that is hard to own up to—is that I am right there with everyone else. I want Brock’s attention. I want it all to myself.
Even while I’m swearing up and down to myself that I won’t stand that close to him ever again, that is what I secretly want: to stand that close to him again. No—to be closer.
I want to be very close to my hot boss.
So close there is not one inch of space between us.
That is incredibly wrong to think about, so I try not to. But trying to force thoughts about Brock out of my head only makes the fantasies flare up.
What would it be like to feel his lips against mine? To feel his arms around my waist, pulling me in…
I bet he is a fantastic kisser.
I bet he’s intense and passionate, and I bet one kiss from him would turn my whole world upside down—in the best way. I bet his lips are soft, warm, and delicious.
This is crazy.I tug at that loose strand of hair, close the messaging app, and push the phone away.
Clay’s watching me.
“You sure you’re doing okay, with your new butler duties?”
I scoff as though I’ve got it all under control. “I’ll manage.”
“Don’t let him jerk you around.”
I nod. “Right. I won’t.” I stand to give Clay a quick hug.
When he goes, I bury my head in my hands.
I am letting Brock jerk me around.
No—worse. I’m letting my own emotions toward Brock jerk me around.
My own heart.
Clay was right last night when he hinted that I was like a puppet getting yanked around by the strings.
My crush is messing with my ability to think straight. I’m at the mercy of my beating heart, which now goes wild every time I even look at the sparkly pink phone—because some part of me wonders if there will be a new text there from him.
The phone beeps.
My head snaps up out of my hands. On autopilot—propelled by these pesky fangirl emotions—I snatch it up.
Is it Brock?
I smile when I see his name.
Brock: Hey, I need you to come by the podcasting studio for a sec.
He needs me.
It’s so crazy how that simple sentence floods me with giddiness.
As I sit there, reading the text a second time and feeling flooded with happy jitters, I know without a doubt that I’m falling—head over clogs—for my boss.