by London James
“Exactly. That's a whole lot of negativity being put out into the universe about a person. Maybe it all balled up into some sort of celestial hitman and came for him. It was my negative thoughts that pushed it over the edge."
“You didn't cause this. We're going to go and relax for a few days, and it's all going to seem so much better when you get back. Okay?”
“Yeah. Shawn and Leo should be here soon. They're going to watch Hometown Bed And Breakfast for me while I'm gone. Sebastian and Skylar are too busy at work to be able to be here all day. I need someone who can keep curious onlookers out of Mr. Mercer's room. Did I tell you I went out for less than an hour yesterday to buy some groceries and came back to find someone who had snuck in and was trying to pick the lock while carrying an armful of candles and other items I'd really rather not think about?”
“I promise they're going to take amazing care of the bed-and-breakfast,” Sebastian tells her. “And Skylar and I will come by just to check on it. Everything's going to be fine. You just go and enjoy your little stroll down memory lane with Prince Profiterole. Then when you get back, we'll start talking Christmas caramel apples. I'm thinking snowflake-shaped sprinkles and rum in the caramel.”
“That sounds amazing,” Avery says.
"Good. Are you just about ready? Our ride is waiting for us," I say.
"Ride?" she asks.
Chapter Seventeen
Avery
I thought Owen mentioning our ride waiting for us was in reference to the hay wagon sitting outside Hometown Bed And Breakfast when we left. I assumed we would be taking the ferry to the mainland before taking another boat to their island. I wasn't expecting to go to the boardwalk and get on a private boat. “This is Captain Jacks. He is the captain for our family boats.”
My eyes slide with uncertainty to Owen. He grins at me and hands down his own luggage before turning and taking my bags out of my hands to tosses over to the somewhat spindly man on the deck of the boat below.
“Captain Jacks will bring us over to the island and bring us back here when we're ready to return to Vidalia Isle,” he says.
His confidence is reassuring, but I'm still not completely sure as Owen helps me down off the marina and onto the deck of what looks like a floating luxury house.
A few moments later, we pull away from the marina and head out into the water. It doesn't take long for the memories of the last time I took this trip with my grandmother to wash over me. We had skipped a summer one year, and I remember being excited to go back the following summer. Even though I hadn't seen Owen the last two times we visited and had never asked about him, I always held out a glimmer of hope that he and his family would be visiting there at the same time again.
Owen looks over at me when I laugh. “What is it?” he asks.
“Just thinking how ridiculous I am to have thought the palace was a resort. Why did I think my grandparents were visiting their friends at a resort on a non-tropical island? It never even occurred to me to question that there was no check-in desk or other guests running around.”
“You were young,” he says. “Children can convince themselves of a lot of things.”
“What did you convince yourself of?” I ask.
“That the entire world was for my amusement and I'd always be able to get exactly what I wanted without having to try,” he tells me.
“Isn't that the truth?” I ask.
He shakes his head brushes my hair away from my face. “You tell me,” he says.
The rest of the journey to the island takes a little more than two hours, and I spend most of it sitting on a lounge chair, trying to will myself to rest. I haven't been able to sleep much over the last few nights, and it's caught up with me. The more I try to relax, though, the more I hear Owen's voice in my mind.
You tell me.
The words send a chill down my spine and make my palms feel sweaty. That kiss in the Hall of Mirrors was intense, and I haven't been able to get it out of my mind, yet Owen has barely gotten near me since we got back from the festival. I don't know if he’s just giving me my space to process everything that's been going on, or if he's been wrapped up in that moment and finding himself regretting every second. Now my brain feels unbalanced, and the sloshing of the boat in the water isn't helping.
Finally, the island comes into view on the horizon. Like Vidalia Isle, this mass of land would be a total disappointment to anyone hoping to sling up a hammock between two palm trees and take in some tropical breezes. There are beaches, but most are rocky or comprised primarily of grass-covered dunes.
The trees are oaks, maples, and magnolias, with plenty of pine and gum thrown in for a good mix. Vidalia Isle feels like someone carved a little town out of the Virginia valley, sprinkled it with a bit of low country, and set it to float in the bay. Owen's island is much the same, except smaller, and instead of a village, there's a sprawling compound with the palace as its crown jewel.
I have to remind myself this is only the vacation house of the royal family, as the boat slides into its place at the dock. It's sprawling and magnificent in the type of way that just calling it magnificent feels like an insult. The stone steps leading up the hill away from the dock are appropriately sweeping, and as soon as I see them, I feel like I'm ten years old again. But then Owen takes my hand to help me out of the boat, and the touch of his skin reminds me I'm not a little girl and he's not the twelve-year-old boy who ended up being my first crush.
"Thank you for the ride, Captain," Owen says.
"No problem," he replies. "You need some help with your luggage?"
"That's alright. I can handle it if you want to just swing it on over to me."
Captain Jacks does as he's asked, flinging the bags up toward Owen, who catches them one by one and sets them on the wood of the dock so he can reach for the next. When he has all of them, he gives him a wave.
"You have a good time," the captain says. He grins and waves at me, then offers Owen a stiff salute. We wave for a few seconds, then turn toward the sweeping stairs.
"That reminds me," I say, taking my phone out of my pocket and dialing. "Sebastian? We made it to the island. Is everything okay there?"
"Shawn and Leo are settled in and, so far, nothing of note has happened," he tells me.
"I guess that's a good thing," I say.
"Stop worrying about it. They can handle the bed-and-breakfast. You only have one new reservation, and I went over how to get them checked in and everything."
"And you went over remembering the new guest's name when they check in?" I ask.
There's silence on the other end of the line, which means Seb is probably sticking his tongue out at me.
"Just go. Run through the palace in a gown. Stare at the moon from the tower. Sing with a Jamaican crab. I'll see you when you get back," he says.
I hang up as we reach the top of the steps, and I see the palace in its full glory for the first time after so many years. A man I don't recognize comes through the door and rushes toward us urgently.
"Your Highness," he says, reaching for the bags Owen is holding. "You should have let me know you had arrived. You shouldn't be carrying those yourself."
Owen deftly swings the bags to the side to stop the older man from getting to them.
"I've got them, Miles. You don't have to be so formal. My parents aren't here," he says.
The man visibly relaxes but is still stiff enough to make me stand up a little straighter. "Thank you," he says.
"Avery, I don't know if you remember Miles. He's my right-hand man around here now that I've graduated from a nanny. Miles, this is Avery. She used to come here with her grandparents," Owen says, placing his hand on my back.
"Of course. I remember. It's been such a long time. I'm sorry to hear about your grandparents," Miles says.
"Thank you. I miss them every day."
Now that I've looked at him for a few moments, his features look more familiar, and I realize he is one of the men who was always present
when we visited. I never thought much about his role, but thinking back now, I remember him seeming to drift in and out of the rooms, checking on things.
"If you're ready," Miles says, "dinner is waiting for you."
We walk into the palace, and even though I've seen it before, the breath catches in my throat. It’s even more stunningly beautiful than I remember, and knowing it is a private home rather than a resort gives it more significance.
"I'll bring the luggage up, and we'll freshen up," Owen tells Miles.
"Very well. I'll tell Angela."
He makes a movement somewhere between a nod and a full bow, like a compromise between his formality and Owen's request for him to relax, and then he heads further back into the building.
"This is incredible," I say as we make our way toward a grand staircase that rivals the stone stairs outside.
"You've seen it before," Owen says with a laugh.
"When I thought it was a hotel," I point out. "Now all I can think about is you growing up here and how amazing that must have been. Did you ride your bike up and down the hallways? Or try to sled down the front steps? How many ponies did you have?"
I'm grinning, but he doesn't look anywhere near as amused.
"I didn't grow up here," he says. "Most of my time, when I was a young child was spent in Calidonia. My nanny would have wrapped me in a sheet and propped me up in the closet so I couldn't cause any more trouble if I tried to bike down the hallways. We always summered here, so there weren't a lot of sleds sitting around. No ponies, either."
By the time he's finished taking all the fun out of my visions of his youth, we've gotten to the landing, and he's leading me to another staircase. It isn't as impressive as the first, but still far more elaborate than any other stairs I climb on a regular basis.
"Your nanny?" I ask.
It's not the first time I've heard him reference being cared for by a nanny, and I'm intrigued to hear more about it.
"The King and Queen are very busy," he says. "Reigning over a country brings with it a long to-do list every day. Spending time with your son doesn't show up on that list terribly often."
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
He leads us down a hall to a set of doors that look like they should lead into the sanctuary of a large abbey. Made of thick, dark wood, they have metal straps at regular intervals down their entire length and come to a peak at the top.
"It's fine," Owen says, adjusting the bags so he can grab both hammered metal handles on the doors. "I was used to it."
"You shouldn't have had to be used to that," I tell him.
"It's part of being royal," he says, pausing with his hands on the handles so he can turn to me. "Your life doesn't belong to you. It belongs to everyone in your country first. It's not like my parents never spent time with me. When they weren't fulfilling official duties or hosting dignitaries, I got to see them a lot more. That was when I was younger, though. At thirteen it was off to the boarding school until I was eighteen. Only seeing them for holidays and the most important official events kind of put a chink in the bonding."
"I know how that feels," I say.
He nods. "I know. But anyway. I don't really want to talk about them right now. I very rarely get a chance to be here without it being for some sort of fussy gala or official trip with royal families from other countries. And you've never been here as an adult who doesn't think you can order room service and need a key card to get into your room. So, I say we get ready for dinner."
My black jeans and cream sweater seemed like a good sailing outfit when I put it on, but now the way he said that is making me question myself.
"Get ready?" I ask.
"Yes." He pushes the doors open, and I gasp. "Here, we dress for dinner."
Chapter Eighteen
Avery
The room beyond the double wooden doors is nothing short of breathtaking. Set at the back of the main palace building, away from the curious eyes of anyone at the front, the bedroom is built into the curve of a tower and encased nearly completely in glass. Heavy dark blue and gold velvet curtains hang from the windows and pull back to provide a clear view of the grounds beyond.
The sun is setting outside, but the room glows with illumination from modernized sconces positioned along the walls. While they look like they once held torches, the ornate stone holders are fitted with curved light bulbs that give the impression of flame but offer far more stable and reliable light. One side of the room features a collection of furniture in the same dark blue and gold, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a fireplace set against one of the few solid segments of wall.
But that's not what has my attention. My eyes are locked on the massive four-poster bed set on a round platform at the far end of the room. There's something draped across the cream-and-gold comforter, and it's so beautiful I almost don't want to approach it for fear of making it dissolve away if I get too close.
“Go ahead,” Owen says.
I glance up at him and then follow his encouraging nod across the polished marble floor to the bed. The gown is an unexpected shade of blush pink and studded with crystals that shimmer in the glow of the lamps. My hand shakes when I reach out to touch it.
“This is amazing,” I whisper, unsure if I can even get my voice loud enough for him to hear me.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
Holding the gown to my chest, I turn to nod at him.
“It's gorgeous,” I say. “How did you…”
“I started thinking about asking you to come here yesterday,” he admits. “There's no dressmaker on staff here, but the one from Calidonia was able to get that here on time. She sent me pictures of probably thirty dresses. As soon as I saw that one, I knew it was yours.” He points to a smaller door to one side. “My dressing room is right through there. I'll get ready and meet you at the top of the steps.”
He disappears into the next room, and I make a delighted sound as I twirl around. I'm so busy admiring how the dress looks held up against me; I almost forget to put it on. Finally, I come to my senses and rest the gown back on the bed so I can undress. The fabric is ethereal against my skin as it drifts down over my head and settles around my body. Rushing to where Owen put down my bags, I grab the one with my hair supplies and makeup and perch on the cushioned bench in front of a large vanity.
I could spend hours sitting right here, but my heart pounding in my chest and the nervous fluttering in my belly urges me to go faster so I can get to Owen. When I'm ready, I stand and take a last look into the mirror. A memory floods me and the smile on my lips gets bigger.
A pair of shoes, perfectly matched to the gown, sit waiting for me on the floor at the end of the bed and I step into them, the final touch. I'm breathless as I step out of the bedroom and walk toward the top of the staircase. Owen stands with his back to me, and I see he's changed into a sleek black suit.
He turns toward me, and I see the Royal Insignia on his chest, and my heart skips. His hand reaches out to me, and I rest my fingertips on to it. His other arm crossed behind his back, Owen bows to kiss my hand.
“You look incredible,” he says in a soft voice like he wants the words to belong just to me.
“So do you,” I tell him. “I thought you said you didn't want any of the formality.”
“Not from Miles,” he says. “But you deserve it.”
Holding my hand draped over his own, Owen leads me down the stairs. I glance over at him.
“This color,” I say, running my other hand along the side of my skirt. “It's the same one from the dress I wore the last night I saw you. There was a party, I know, but I was only allowed to be at a little bit of it before I had to go back to the room. You came in and danced with me.”
“I remember.”
We get to the dining room, and he settles me into the last chair on one long end of the expansive table. He sits at the head of the table, keeping him closer than if he had sat across from me, and people carrying platters of food begin appear
ing. Angela, the white-haired cook I remember bringing me cookies on my visits when I was a child, apologizes for the meal being so simple and promises snacks if we're hungry later in the evening.
I can't fathom what she imagines a not-simple meal to be as I take in the silver trays of roast chicken and beef, bowls of mashed potatoes and buttered carrots, and several different accompaniments I can't even identify. A younger woman steps forward to service, but Owen holds up his hand.
“No, thank you, Valerie. I can take it from here,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say to them as they stream back into the kitchen. “That's a skeleton staff?” I ask, leaning closer to Owen.
“It is for my parents,” he says. “Now, what can I serve you?”
I look over all the serving vessels again and let out a sigh. “All of it,” I say with a smile.
Owen grins back at me as he reaches for the utensils resting on the edge of the chicken platter.
“That's my girl,” he says.
My heart pounds.
My girl.
After dinner, Owen takes my hand again and leads me through the palace to the ballroom. There's no live orchestra this time, but the cool emptiness is much more appealing tonight. He touches a flat panel set into the wall and music rises up through the space.
“Royals of the future,” he says with a smile, and then sweeps me into the middle of the floor.
My body curls easily into his as he takes me into his arms to dance. There's something familiar about the way he holds me, about the way our bodies are aligned with one another, but I remind myself we've danced before. Even at twelve years old, Owen was self-assured and smooth when he wanted to be, and my ten-year-old mind could barely stand the attention.
I left the next morning go back to Vidalia Isle without even getting a chance to say goodbye to him. It was the perfect tragic, heartwarming end, but I am much more enjoying the continuation of the story.
“So, tell me,” I say as we sway in the center of the dance floor. “Why would a vacation house need a ballroom? I thought the whole point of taking a vacation would be to get away from things like this.”
