Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
ANDI
A repetitive cooing filters into my dreams and drags me toward reality. I fight it, but the charming sound becomes relentless. I snuggle deeper into my bed and reach for a blanket to cover my ears and block the bright sunlight.
When my questing hand hits something solid, I freeze. My eyes pop open. That felt like a—surely it isn’t an arm? When the “pillow” tucked against my back moves, memory floods through me. I flush at the ridiculous romantic scene: the fierce storm, my unreasonable terror, my protective hero.
Or rather my protective housemate and boss. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out my imagination. Not because Reece isn’t a treat to look at—he definitely is. But I can’t believe I ran sobbing to him because of a little storm.
“That was quite a show last night.” Reece’s soft voice rumbles through my ears and my back, still pressed against his chest.
I flush even hotter and toss the sleeping bag aside. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so dramatic. I’ve always hated thunderstorms.”
His hand lands on my upper arm, preventing my escape. “I wasn’t talking about you. Fear of something that can kill you is a good thing. But the lightning was spectacular.”
I wiggle in embarrassment, and his hand falls away. I scramble out of the sleeping bag and hurry to the door. “I was in the house. It wasn’t going to kill me.” Without looking at him, I run to my room.
What am I going to do now? Back in my room—his room!—I sink down on the bed, tucking my legs under the covers. That’s when I realize I’m wearing my pajamas: a Hello Kitty T-shirt and tiny shorts. My face goes nuclear. I can’t believe I threw myself at a man dressed only in my sleepwear. My cousin Victoriana would be scandalized.
Of course, I do a lot of things that scandalize Cousin Tori—including calling her that, which she hates because it “isn’t dignified.” But this is the first time I’ve slept with a virtual stranger.
The blush I thought couldn’t get any hotter nearly melts my face.
I suck in a deep breath. Okay, damage control. Although I doubt the royal etiquette book has a chapter on “the morning after,” I’m going to treat this like any other embarrassing situation: ignore, deflect, distract.
But first I’m going to hide in my bed until Reece goes downstairs. And pretend I didn’t wake up feeling more protected and cherished than I can remember in my adult life.
* * *
After the slowest toilette ever, I make my way down to the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee overcoming my reluctance to face Reece. I pause in the living room to peer out the window. The storm has given way to brilliant sun and deep blue skies. The annoying bird has ceased cooing, and in the distance some kind of farm equipment rumbles along a ridge.
Something clangs in the kitchen, followed by a soft exclamation I can’t make out. With a steadying breath, I repeat my mantra: ignore, deflect, distract. As I pull open the door, my sunny greeting gets derailed by the sight of Reece in an apron. “Good morn—are those waffles?”
He flips a crispy, golden disk onto a plate and scoops batter into a sizzling waffle iron. “Yes, ma’am. From my dad’s famous recipe.”
I inhale the sweet, toasty deliciousness. “That smells amazing.”
He offers the plate. “This one’s hot out of the iron.”
“I don’t want to steal your breakfast.”
He shakes the plate at me. “I’ve already had one. Syrup’s on the table. And there’s coffee on the counter. If you drink the stuff.”
I take the plate and follow the direction of his nod to the coffee maker. “Thank you.” I carry my breakfast to the little table, where he joins me. Half a waffle sits in a deep puddle of maple syrup. “That looks… sweet.”
He picks up his fork. “Yeah, I might have over-poured. But I’ll have another one to soak up the rest. You need milk or sugar with your coffee?”
I make a mock horrified face. “Is it so bad it requires camouflage?”
“I dunno. I don’t like coffee.” He taps the little teddy-bear shaped bowl with his index finger. “Sugar. There’s milk in the fridge.” He picks up his fork and cuts into the remains of his waffle.
I add a scant spoonful of sugar to my cup and stir. “You don’t drink coffee? But you made a whole pot.” I look back at the machine. “And that’s a pretty fancy machine for a guy who doesn’t drink it.”
He chews and swallows, then raises his mug. “My sister and my dad are addicted. I take tea, like my mum.”
I sip the coffee. “It’s not bad. You must have bought the good stuff.”
“That’s a roaster Katie likes that does mail order. I’ve been trained by coffee snobs.” Apparently, Reece espouses the ignore, deflect, distract method as well. “I figured she’d come down to visit some time, so I’d be prepared.”
“Down?” I relax as I spread butter on my waffle. It melts into the little squares, then I top it with a light drizzle of real maple syrup.
“She’s at the University of Washington.”
We eat in companionable silence, with him jumping up every few minutes in response to the waffle maker’s ding. He returns at one point with another plate-sized waffle and offers me half. I debate for a moment, then accept.
“I don’t need any more syrup, though.” The bottom was coated in the remains on his plate.
He looks up from adding more. “You have something against sweet stuff?”
“Sweet? No. Too sweet? Definitely.”
He finishes his waffle and pushes back from the table. “So, about last night?—”
I lift my chin a little in a useless effort to keep the hot blood from rushing to my cheeks. “Do we have to talk about it? I have an irrational fear of storms. I’ll try not to disturb you again.”
As I make to rise, he touches my wrist. Gently, like he’s reaching out to a frightened child or a lost puppy. “You didn’t disturb me. I was already awake, enjoying the show. And honestly—” He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture I’m coming to recognize as Reece feeling unsure. “I slept like a baby after it ended.” His cheeks go a little pink, too.
I go for levity. “Even with me drooling on your arm?” I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually drool.
As he turns back to me, his hand goes to his heart and his hazel eyes warm. “You cried on my chest, but you didn’t drool.”
“Ugh!” I put my head down on the edge of the table to hide my burning face. I should have stuck with deflecting and distracting.
His warm hand settles on my shoulder. “It’s fine. I don’t mind comforting a damsel in distress.”
“You seem to do that a lot for me.” First the rescue in London, now this.
“I am happy to be of service. And we don’t have to discuss it anymore if you prefer?—”
I sit up fast. “Good. Let’s talk about the remodel. What’s the plan?”
* * *
Moving the few dishes and small appliances from the kitchen to the garage only takes half an hour, and then it’s time to begin the demo. According to the original drawings Reece found in the garage when he moved in, the wall between the kitchen and the living room is load bearing, so we can’t take it out completely. But the one dividing the galley from the small dining area is not structural.
Reece brings a pair of giant hammers into the room and hands me some gloves. “I need to get someone with a bit more muscle to help me move the appliances, but we can work on this wall today.”
I automatically start to protest but give it up before the first word leaves my mouth. I am not a muscular woman by any definition of the word, and I’m okay with that. Cousin Tori would be proud of me for letting the men-folk be men. “Maybe Teo would help you.”
“You think?” He focuses on smoothing the leather gloves over his fingers. “I’m not sure he was in a helping mood when we left last night.”
“Did he give you the big brother treatment?” I puff out my chest and lower my voice. “Don’t get any ideas about living with my sister!”
“That’s almost exactly what he said.”
“Why do you think I left so fast? I was trying to protect you from the Wrath of Sebastien.” I pick up the smaller hammer. “Oof, this thing is heavy!”
His bright eyes snap to mine. “Who’s Sebastien?”
“Teo.” Oops. I forgot Reece doesn’t know our background. Here in Rotheberg, we’ve always gone by our middle names, and everyone has treated us like normal kids. Or at least like normal semi-regular European visitors. All four of us—Teo, me, Bianka, and Bertrand—attended the public schools for the few weeks we lived in the US each year, going to community events and class parties. No one here seems to care about our royal connection.
But Reece isn’t a local. He has no reason to know about my alternate identity. And since I’m no longer officially part of the royal family, I see no reason to bring it up—it will only add a layer of awkwardness to an already unusual relationship. So, I go back to my new mantra: ignore, deflect, distract. “Sebastien is his first name, but it’s too stuffy and formal. That’s why he goes by Teo.”
Reece’s left brow goes up, then he shrugs. “Sebastien Teodor? That’s a mouthful. Sounds like a duke or something.”
I freeze. Maybe he does know. “It does, doesn’t it? My father didn’t like it for that exact reason, I’m told, but he lost that argument.”
Reece lets the handle of his hammer slide through his hand, and the head settles on the floor. He stares at me. I stare back. He snorts. “That’s it? You aren’t going to fess up?”
“Fess up to what?”
“Come on, we’re friends. You can come clean. Princess.” He definitely knows.
I drop my own hammer with a thud, narrowly missing my foot. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a princess anymore.”
“But you’re part of a royal family.”
“When did you find out?” My breath catches in my throat. I don’t know why this discussion feels so momentous. Since I’ve been removed from the succession, my family connection is basically a nonissue.
A little voice in my head reminds me that’s not true. I can pretend to be a normal young woman here in Rotheberg, but everywhere else in the world, I’m still “a potential threat to the sovereignty of the country,” as Celeste said. And as my new housemate, Reece has the right to know.
“I’ve always known.” A little smirk twists the corner of his mouth.
“Always?”
“I recognized you on the Jubilee Bridge.”
My jaw drops. That explains why he went to all that trouble to walk me home. Clarity lands like a punch to my gut. If he recognized me on that bridge, so could any number of other people. Like those thugs. Did they know it was a former princess of Freiberg they had accosted? Were they planning to hold me for ransom or worse? I slide down the wall to my rear end. “Yikes.”
“What’s wrong?” He hunkers down in front of me.
I put a hand to my head. “I—I told you I got separated from my friend that night. But Celeste isn’t my friend. Well, she is, kind of. But she was my security detail.”
“I figured.”
“You did?”
He nods.
“We didn’t get separated. I ran away.” He doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “I thought I could see the city on my own, check out those places she didn’t want go because it was ‘too big a risk.’ I thought she was overly protective. I know it’s her job to be that way. But if you recognized me, anyone could have—” I put my forehead down on my knees. “Celeste was right!”
“Maybe.” He touches my head, so lightly I barely feel it. “But I only recognized you because?—”
I look up. “Why?” When he doesn’t respond, I sit up straighter, my brows knitted. “Did you really recognize me? People don’t, as a rule. Unless I draw attention to myself on social media. I haven’t posted anything personal since I left Freiberg. I’ve kind of fallen off the radar.”
He reaches out and pulls on the end of my ponytail. “The green is kind of hard to miss.”
“That’s why I dyed the top back to my natural color!”
“But in London, it was spectacular.”
I touch my hair self-consciously. “Thanks. But that still doesn’t explain why a guy from Texas recognized a minor former royal from Freiberg. In London, where all kinds of bigger celebrities hang out.”
He blushes, a full-on red-cheeked flush. It’s adorable. “My sister is a big fan. She’s kind of obsessed.”
I can’t resist teasing him. Crossing my arms, I tilt my head. “My little brother Bertie is obsessed with Pedro Pascal, but I wouldn’t recognize him if I ran into him on the street.”
“Pedro who?”
“Exactly.” I do a double take. “You don’t know who Pedro Pascal is?”
He shrugs. “I don’t watch a lot of football.”
I clutch my chest in mock disbelief. “But you’re from Texas! And he’s an actor, not a football player.”
He lifts a hand in denial. “Sorry, I meant soccer. He sounds like a soccer player. Of course I watch American football. I’d lose my Texan card if I didn’t.”
“Pedro’s from Game of Thrones. And Among Us. But don’t think you’re going to derail my train of thought. How did you recognize me?”
The fiery blush returns. “My sister—” He waves his hand again. “She got me hooked on your art channel. Hashtag ArtiAndi. You’ve created some amazing stuff.”
His approval washes through me like a cup of cocoa, leaving me cozy and satisfied. “You like my art?”
“I’d hardly hire you to decorate my house if I didn’t. Did you think I didn’t do my research?” He gestures around the empty kitchen.
“I think you recognized me in London long before you thought about giving me a place to live. And I’m flattered. But we should get to work, or we’ll never get to the decorating phase. I have an expiration date, remember?”
He frowns as he rises, then reaches a hand down to me. “Expiration date?”
I push up from the floor, so he doesn’t have to pull my whole weight. The extra shove sends me right into his chest. His arms close around me, and I clutch his shirt. Our eyes lock with an electric zing. For a timeless moment, we seem to communicate without saying a word. Approval. Affection. And something deeper.
That hint of strong emotion sends a shiver of fear down my spine. I’m here in Rotheberg to learn to stand on my own. To experience as much freedom as I can. I don’t want to get involved with someone who might put walls around me—even the safe, protective walls of a relationship. I take in a deep breath as I step back, but my nose fills with his amazing scent.
It takes a moment to remember what he asked. “Oh, my expiration date. I have a tourist visa, remember?” I try for a lighthearted laugh. “If you don’t want to marry me, I have to go home in three weeks.” The words come out serious instead of teasing, and I wince.
His gaze roams over my face, then he nods. “Right. Three weeks. I guess we’d better get to work.”