When You Renovate a Grump (When in Rotheberg #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ANDI FELTZ

Lifestyles of the rich and famous are much more attractive from the outside.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m painfully aware that having money is much better than being poor. But that amazing life we see from afar isn’t quite as fantastic from the inside.

Glossy hipsters and slick marketers fill the George and Dragon in London’s Southbank. The bar, all deep green walls, dark paneling, and high-topped tables, looks like it was purpose-built to scream “Authentic British Pub.” Located a few blocks from the river in a centuries-old building, something about the mismatched chairs, comfortably shabby tables, and dense bouquet of unrelated art on the walls feels contrived.

Maybe it’s because I’m relatively certain there are zero local patrons in this establishment. The clientele funnels in from the broad riverside boardwalk—made entirely of cement, not boards—in front of the convention center, theaters, and high-priced hotels.

How do I know? I’ve stayed at those hotels, graced galas at the convention center, and occupied box seats in the theaters. Then wandered over to the George and Dragon—heavily escorted by security personnel—to grab a drink after.

But that was in my past life, when I was a princess of Freiberg, a city-state big enough to have its own seat at the UN but small enough to not have an international airport. I used to be number seven in line to the throne, but I’ve been stripped of my official title and responsibilities.

Don’t feel bad for me—it was entirely my choice. Or at least, I knew I was cruising for a dismissal and did nothing to stop it. But after twenty plus years of toeing the line, I lost it when our aunt, the Grand Duchess of Freiberg, tried to engage my brother Teo to some German noblewoman without his knowledge or consent. And when I stood up for him, the duchess gave me the heave-ho.

I’ve been expecting it—encouraging it even—since high school, to be honest. Our parents raised us as normal kids—as normal as you can be if you spend half the year in your ancestral city and half the year in a small American town where no one knows you’re royalty. But that American independence runs deep in my veins and being told who to be and what to do just because I happened to be born into the “right” family has chafed.

Now that I’m my own person, I can’t afford glitzy Southbank hotels anymore. So why am I here, smooshed in between a businessman with more product in his hair than I own and a third-tier, blindingly-white-toothed television presenter? Because my brother convinced me to drop in. Herr Walther, a clockmaker from our adopted American hometown of Rotheberg is the guest of honor at a private reception in the back. I stopped by to congratulate him on the award he won for his restoration of some important time piece, collected my free drink, then slunk away to avoid the stuffy old people.

Now I’m in the front of the pub with the stuffy younger people. And I’m not sure any of them look like anyone I’d like to know. I consider climbing on my chair for one last look, like I would at the pub back home, but I’m trying to maintain a low profile here.

Nodding politely to the two people talking across me, I grab my beer and ease away from the table. Celeste subtly clears a path for me as we make our way through the throngs to the outdoor seating. We loiter by the door while I finish my drink, then I deposit the glass on a nearby ledge, and we head off down the street.

Celeste matches my pace but stays a half step behind me at all times. “Are you ready to call it a night?”

“Not really, but you can go back to the apartment.” I shove my hands into my deep dress pockets to make sure my phone is still there. Here in London, you can do everything with your phone—make purchases, ride the Tube, even unlock your front door. I should probably have my passport on me, but I have photos of it on the phone. As long as my battery lasts, I’m golden.

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

I stop at the street corner and turn to face her. “Celeste, I know you’re paid to watch me, but I feel like a kindergartener on a school trip. I’m twenty-two years old. Can’t I have a little time by myself?”

“Green.” She nods at the “walk” sign and gives my back a little nudge. “We should keep moving until we’re in better lighting.”

I sigh and cross the street. The sidewalks here are not well lit, but we’re near one of the prime tourist locations in London. The London Eye arches above the buildings on our left. There are CCTV cameras everywhere, but Celeste’s job is to watch over me anytime I leave Freiberg, even though I’m no longer officially royal. Kidnappers could use me as a hostage, so the crown protects me. Although at this point, my aunt Karolina would probably pay them to keep me.

But understanding Celeste’s job doesn’t make me love her presence. I want to be free—to be a normal twenty-something on a solo trip to London. To see the sights, meet a boy, maybe even fall in love. I can’t do any of that with my thirty-something handler watching every move.

When I turn down the street between two tall buildings, Celeste redirects me to a higher-traffic area. We climb yellow-railed steps to a courtyard between the two halves of the convention center. Music thrums out of the open doors. Dozens of people wearing bright yellow lanyards and holding plastic glasses of cheap wine clog the area, scattered over the concrete deck, across a raised blue plastic dais that spouts water during the day, and down the stairs.

At least I assume it’s cheap wine. But maybe they simply aren’t allowed to take glass outside the building.

The bright yellow name badges are impossible to read, so the partiers could be insurance salespeople, toy merchants, or indie authors. Clearly not artists—they would have chosen better fonts. They mostly ignore us as we weave between them, headed for the stairs down.

I pause at the top of the steps. “Do you think they’d let me use the loo?” That beer at the George is catching up to me already, and it’ll take us at least a half hour to get home.

Celeste frowns and glances at the two suit-wearing men standing beside the open doors to Queen Elizabeth Hall. “I’ll see if I can make it happen.” She gestures for me to precede her as she digs in her military-grade fanny pack, her gaze flicking between the contents of the bag and the crowd so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t get dizzy.

When we reach the doors, I wait a discreet two steps away where Celeste can easily watch my surroundings while carrying on a conversation. Most of the discussion is drowned out by the chatter of the partiers nearby, then she hands over some documents.

“Is that my passport?” I move closer and lean over the convention center employee’s shoulder. “I thought I left that in the apartment.”

Celeste frowns. “You did.” Her dismissive tone sounds both disappointed and resigned.

The guy guarding the door looks helplessly at his companion as he hands over my document. “It looks legit to me, but I’ve never seen a Freiberg passport before. Is that even a real country?”

“This ’ere says you’re a princess.” The other guy waves the little folder at me.

I give an embarrassed smile. “Technically, yeah.” I didn’t have my passport updated, so it still lists my royal title. I may have severed ties with the royal family, but I’m smart enough to know that little notation could keep me out of trouble. Of course, it’s not meant to be shown to random hired security who have zero training in identification. “Do you think I could just use your loo? I promise not to take any free drinks.”

The two guys confer in low voices, then the boss hands my passport back to me. “One-time good deal! Can we get a selfie?”

I bounce a little to indicate a sense of urgency. “How about on the way out?”

“Deal.”

Celeste follows me across the crowded lobby where a mediocre band starts another loud song and into the ladies, giving the three women checking their hair a hard enough stare that they scurry out. She checks the three stalls near the sinks, then indicates the middle one. “I’ll wait outside.” She holds out a hand for my passport.

I tuck it into my pocket and open a stall door. “I can be responsible for my own things. But you might not want to scare the customers—they’ll call security.”

“Those two don’t worry me.” She scans the room again and exits.

As I enter the stall, I consider my options. I thought leaving the royal family would give me more independence, but Celeste watches me like a nanny with a sickly toddler. But now that I have my passport, I could go anywhere. I just have to escape my minder.

“Was that your girlfriend?” a voice calls over the top of the stall. “She’s intense.”

I flush and come out, playing innocent. “Who are you talking about?”

“The blonde with the severe French braid. She gave me a death glare when I came in.” The pretty brunette’s speech is slow and slurred, and she sways as she peers at me in the mirror.

I turn on the water. “She was trying to stop you from coming in without saying anything.” After washing and drying my hands, I pat down my pockets and find my Passion Pucker lipstick.

Her eyes widen comically. “That’s some professional-level jealousy. I can’t believe she didn’t come in here with me.” She tugs at the neckline of her low-cut red silk blouse, then pushes her breasts up so they almost pop out.

I kind of can’t believe it, either, but for different reasons, obviously. “She’s not—never mind.”

“Look, I just got out of an abusive relationship. I can spot ’em a mile away. You want me to help you sneak off?” Satisfied with her décolletage, she pulls out some mascara and slathers another thick layer on her crazy long lashes.

“That’s really not?—”

“I insist. I’d feel bad forever if I didn’t help you.” Dropping the tube back into her tiny clutch, she turns and points past the stalls. “There’s another door back there. You go that way, and I’ll distract her.” She grabs my shoulder and physically turns me around, then shoves. “Go. I got this for you! Be free, sister!”

Bemused, I watch her head for the entrance. She stops, gives me a hard glare, and flutters her hands at the other end of the room. Clearly, she will wait until I leave.

“Thanks.” I head down the long row of toilets and out the far end. Normally Celeste would have seen this second entrance, but I didn’t give her a chance to reconnoiter properly.

I reach the far door and push it open. Loud music pounds, but an angry female voice cuts through the wailing guitars. A quick look confirms it’s my new bestie, railing at Celeste. The stoic blonde ignores the woman, her gaze constantly roving over the crowd in the large lobby.

Clearly this is meant to be. When fate opens a door, you should go through. But I feel terrible about leaving Celeste completely in the dark. Yanking my lipstick out of my pocket, I race back into the bathroom and scrawl a note on the mirror: “See you at home.”

Then I run.