“You just told me ‘Thank you?’” He asked. “For real?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean—yes. For real.”
“That’s a first,” he said. And if it was possible—he hugged me even tighter.
I lay buried in his arms, my face pressed against his wide chest. The plane shook, the rocky air belted us back and forth, up and down. The plane bucked as I clung to him.
“Close your eyes love. Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. You are safe. You are protected. It’s not our time yet.” He held me so tight and whispered sweet, reassuring things into my ear…
Around five years or possibly a half hour later, the nightmare turbulence on Flight 711 ended. Nick held my hand while I white-knuckled his as the jet’s wheels bumped down on the Sauerhausen runway. The wind buffeted us side to side, while the landing gear screeched as the plane bounced on the runway.
“Made it Lizzie,” he said. “I told you we’d make it.”
“Whoo-hoo!” I exclaimed.
The pilot pulled the plane to an abrupt halt. I looked out my window—it faced the snow-capped mountains. “There really is snow in July in Fredonia?”
“Yup,” Nick said. “The mountaintops get snow all year round. A well-known fact about Fredonia. What? You bumped your head and got amnesia when you were in the States?”
“No.” I looked down at my hands—they were shaking, obviously from the stress. My stomach rumbled, I felt a little faint, was hypoglycemic and I needed a sugar fix.
I heard strange sounds: screeching, honking and blaring. “No. What in the hell is that noise? It sounds like my high school marching band.”
“I didn’t know All Saints had a marching band?”
“It was small.”
“Ah.” Nick ran his fingers through his black hair and squinted out the window in the direction of the music and frowned. “I think that’s the welcome wagon.”
Karl stood at the front of the plane and took the mic. “I bet you’re thinking, ‘Phew. We are so glad we didn’t die.’ But we at Fredonia Air always planned to get you safely to Sauerhausen. However, I’m tasked with delivering the unpleasant news that the doo-hickey that connects to the what-ya-ma-call-it has separated.”
“Not the doo-hickey?” I asked.
“Crap,” Nick said. “Not the what-ya-ma-call-it?”
“Are we going to be all right?” I inhaled sharply.
“Does this mean we can’t leave the plane,” Nick asked. “Because seriously, after flight from hell and no sausages—I could totally go for a single malt Scotch and some pretzels right about now.”
My stomach rumbled loudly and I felt woozier. “Pretzels would be awesome,” I said. “Or even better some fruit? Or possibly chocolate?”
“No, no,” Karl said. “The doo-hicky problem simply means our jet way gear can’t connect to the gate. You can, however, exit the plane via our staircase. We’ve already alerted the tower. Once you step foot on the tarmac, a limo will be arriving in no time to whisk you away to your destination. Thank you for flying Fredonia Airlines!” He saluted Nick sharply. “Might I say, sir, it’s been an honor serving you.”
Nick saluted him back. “Thank you! You are a patriot. You ready, Lizzie? Not going to puke on your pretty shoes are you?”
“Why’d he salute you?” I asked.
“Because I’m a Fredonia Airways Platinum Level Frequent Flier.”
“Ah.” I took a deep breath. “I can’t wait to see my beloved Fredonia. It’s only been sixteen months, but it feels like forever.” I reached down to retrieve my bags, but he’d already grabbed them for me. “You don’t have to—”
“Not a problem.” He nodded to the thin aisle between the seats in front of us “Ladies first.”
A timely reminder that I needed to act like a lady.
Pull it together, Lucy.
I rose like I was regal, to the manor born, and walked down the aisle in front of him. I held my head high and kept my shoulders back. “Thank you, Nick.” The mountain winds continued to batter the small aircraft and I held out my arms, hands extended, and bounced off a few seatbacks as the plane wobbled from side to side.
“No, thank you! I’ve got a much nicer view of your ass from back here. I don’t remember your bottom being that round, Lizzie. Have you started working out this past year? Lunges? Squats? You used to hate to exercise. Seriously, I do believe we could work out together during our time back in Fredonia. I’d be happy to spot you.”
I ground my teeth.
I frowned, clutched the railing and cautiously descended the jet’s steep, narrow staircase leaving Fredonia Air Flight Seven-from-Double Toothpicks hell. I stepped onto the concourse’s solid ground and contemplated for a long second about kissing it. But kneeling on greasy pavement might screw up Elizabeth’s suit and quite possibly invite more “ass” commentary from Nick.
The winds whipped around me and blew my expensive hair off my face as I got my first official look at Fredonia. This was what I’d been paid for. This is what I was here to do. Impersonate a Lady. Keep Prince Cristoph interested—but at bay—until Elizabeth was able to complete her super urgent mission and return to Fredonia.
The origin of the previous musical stylings became apparent when a small marching band rounded a compact, pristine, two-story building that was Sauerhausen’s only terminal. The festively attired crew headed toward me with a bandmaster dressed suspiciously like the Energizer Bunny in the lead. “Um?” I asked.
“Looks like we’re getting the official welcome wagon.” Nick stepped off the plane’s stairs and stood beside me on the tarmac, shielding his eyes with his hand as he stared at the band.
“Do they do this for everybody?” I shook my head. “Always?”
A horse-drawn carriage appeared behind the marching band. The buggy was old-fashioned, painted purple, white and gray, and accented with gilded gold. The two horses that pulled it were gleaming white as the mountain snow and, in sharp-contrast to the marching band, they high-stepped in perfect coordination.
An older man in a black suit and a top hat held their reins and sat tall on the carriage’s driver’s seat. Behind this dog and pony show, six news vans with satellite dishes on their roofs followed at a snail’s pace—a respectful distance away.
“What’s going on? Where’s the limo?” I asked.
“This is the limo,” Nick said.
The marching band played a song that was a blast from my parent’s past. “Oh my God,” I said. “They’re playing “I Think I Love You” by The Partridge Family.”
“Who?” Nick asked.
The procession approached us until it was about fifteen yards away. When the bandmaster lifted his hands into the air in a dramatic moment, paused and brought them crashing down. The band stopped playing on a dime.
I blinked.
The carriage door creaked open and a tall, mid-twenty-something guy wearing a finely cut black suit and tie hopped out. He dragged his fingers through his thick mane of blonde hair, turned toward me, grinned and then bowed. “Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley. Welcome home!”
Holy crap! This was the guy Elizabeth and Zara had told me about. The guy I was supposed to be nice to because her family’s survival depended on it: Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third. Not only was he was the heir to the Fredonia throne—he was a hell of a lot hotter than his pictures.
I performed the partial, bent-knee, curtsey-thing Zara taught me, when I remembered Elizabeth had told me to never curtsey to Prince Cristoph. He needed to see her as his equal. “Oh thank you your Royal…” no-no—Elizabeth told me I should call him by his first name. “Cristoph! What a lovely—” I pointed to the band, “—greeting. Like—super thoughtful of you.”
He strode across the tarmac toward us. “Anything for you, my dearest Elizabeth. Hey, Nick,” he frowned. “You’re an unexpected surprise, dude. I thought you were in the States on business.” The guys gingerly bear hugged for a second. A very
quick second. “You and Elizabeth shared a plane back?”
“Two planes. All the way from Chicago, can you believe it?” I asked.
Cristoph frowned. “You’re late. Did you… detour?”
“No.” Nick cleared his throat. “Tornados in the States pushed us back a bit. Then a snowstorm in the Alps. Weather, Cristoph. Simply, weather.”
“I trust you haven’t been trying to steal Elizabeth away from me?” Cristoph circled Nick, eyeing him suspiciously.
I peered at my shoes and remembered Nick’s strong, muscular arms holding me tight during the bumpiest ride of my life. How he crooned into my ear. Let me dig my nails into his arm. Hell, he even encouraged it.
Nick cleared his throat. “Cristoph—you’re heir to the throne. Elizabeth would never be interested in me.”
“Aah.” He nodded, rubbed his chin and then laughed. “You’re right.” He turned, pointed to the bandmaster and held his hand high up in the air for a few moments… and then brought it crashing down.
The band launched back into “I Think I Love You”.
The doors to the news crews vans popped open. Camera persons, five female and one male reporter dressed in business suits poured out and encircled us. They spoke in hushed tones into their mics while their behind-the-scenes people swiveled and focused their cameras on this whole circus.
I felt like a bug under a magnifying glass in the bright sun. I hadn’t eaten in hours and the last of the adrenaline from the near plane-crash vacated my body, leaving me with a solid case of hypoglycemia and mild shakes.
“Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley?” Cristoph smiled at me. “I need to ask you something.” He whipped out a large bouquet of red roses and handed them to me.
My hands trembled as I took the flowers. “Thank you. That is so sweet,” I said. “And I need to ask you something too.”
Chapter 14
I felt hot—but not in a good way—and fanned my face. “Do you have anything sweet I could snack on? Something with a little sugar? A piece of fruit. Some chocolate?” In the near distance, a blonde female reporter’s bouffant hair looked suspiciously like cotton candy and I willed myself not to bolt in her direction.
The reporters smelled weakness or blood and boldly tightened their circle around us. Their cameras clicked and snapped, popped and whirred.
Cristoph frowned. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. I’m not in charge of the menu for today. I think Mother has that covered.”
“Aah. Yes. Mother.” Fredonia’s queen was the beautiful, blonde, former actress, Cheree Dussair.
“Does anyone have a granola bar?” I asked. “Like, seriously—all you lovely people out there—” I dropped the flowers on the tarmac and dug through my Chanel bag groping for my wallet. “I’d pay ten euros for one granola bar. In the States it would cost ninety nine cents at a White Hen Pantry.” My hand quivered as I held out a bill. “I beg you!”
Reporters, photographers and band members dug though their purses and pants pockets and in seconds five wrapped bars flew through the air toward me. One hit Cristoph on his head and he winced. Nick caught another. Two bounced off the airplane and dropped onto the tarmac.
I leaped up, reached like a Chicago Bears wide receiver on game day and in a Herculean moment caught a bar. I turned away from the cameras, hunched over, ripped open the foil and shoved the cinnamon-raisin snackie in my mouth.
Nick turned with me. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“I get incredibly light-headed when my blood sugar drops. If it’s super bad, I have a history of fainting.” I munched and already felt the sugar oozing into my system. “But you can’t tell anyone—it’s a secret.”
“Okay. I’m sure the paparazzi haven’t noticed a thing. Are you planning on fainting now or in the near future?”
“Not anytime soon.” My hands trembled as I jammed the remains of the bar into my mouth. “The fainting thing only happens if my blood sugar is so low and I am completely exhausted, stressed, shocked or a combination thereof.” I swallowed the last bits, crumpled the foil in my hand and crammed it in my purse. “This totally did the trick. No worries. But thanks for asking.”
I turned toward the reporters and the band and delivered my royal wave. “Thank you kind people of Fredonia! It’s so good to be home!” I looked at Cristoph. “I apologize for that interruption.” I gestured at his crew behind him: the band members, the paparazzi and the guy on top of the carriage holding the reins.
Nick elbowed me discretely.
“What?” I hissed.
“Your lower lip. Left-hand corner.”
“What now? Do you want to suck on it?” I hissed. “Do you want to meet up with it at the Mile High Club? Leave. Me. Alone.”
“You’ve got a glob of granola with a raisin on your upper lip. Looks like a witch’s wart.”
I swiped my hand over my mouth, captured the crumb and flicked it behind me.
“Are you all right Elizabeth?” Cristoph asked.
“Yes! Carry on,” I said. “All is well. Disaster’s averted. And by that I mean the turbulent airplane flight.”
“Aah. Yes. Good to hear. So I’d like to get on with the program if I may.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “What’s on the program? I’ve been flying all day and I’m pretty exhausted. I could totally go for a quick bite to eat and then grab a nap.”
Cristoph stood in front of me, smiled and took both my hands in his tan muscular hands. And squeezed them. “Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley?”
“Aw crap,” Nick mumbled.
“Um, yes?”
“I, Prince Cristoph of Fredonia, have been in love with you since we met on the playground eighteen years ago.”
“Get out of town. For real?” I asked.
“For real,” he said. “You stomped around clutching your favorite doll and you were pouting something fierce.”
“I can’t believe you remember that?” I regarded Cristoph seriously for the first time. He was stunningly beautiful with sharp cheekbones and dirty blonde hair that kept traipsing across his forehead. “That’s incredibly sweet you remember.”
He nodded and smiled. “I remember everything about you Elizabeth.”
“Do you remember that you yanked her doll from her chubby hands, tore off Betty Wetty’s arms and legs and then tossed them over the schoolyard fence?” Nick asked.
“I have never had chubby hands!”
“And then you called her a baby when she cried,” Nick said. “Do you remember that?”
Cristoph frowned.
“Do you remember Elizabeth chasing you around the playground screaming at the top of her lungs while all the girls your own age called you The Doll Butcher?” Nick asked.
Cristoph grimaced. “That’s all in the past. What matters is the present. What matters is now.” He got down on one knee on the tarmac in front of me and pulled a black velvet box from his pants pocket.
I inhaled sharply and clutched my chest with one hand.
“I always knew it was you Elizabeth. But today’s the day that I formally ask.” He popped open the box and revealed an engagement ring the size of the bunion on my Great Aunt Hazel’s toe. Except this bunion sparkled. “Will you marry me, Elizabeth?”
“Um…” What remained of the adrenaline in my body left in a big whoosh.
The tuba player tooted his horn and I jumped. “Say yes!” the big guy yelled.
“Hmm?” A blast of mountain air swooped onto the tarmac and blew the cotton-candy reporter’s hair straight up like a Tootsie Pop. I swayed.
The uniformed trumpet players shot each other a look and blasted their trumpets in unison. “Say yes!” the head trumpeter grinned.
My eyes widened. “Uh?”
The cymbalist clashed his cymbals and the drummers drummed. “Say yes! Say yes!” they chanted.
In spite of the chilly mountain winds, I felt hot and fanned my face. I glared at Nick but he wouldn’t meet my look.
Cristoph reached over and took
my trembling hand. “Say yes, Elizabeth. You’ve been my princess since your first day of kindergarten. Now I’m asking you to marry me, be my wife and become Princess of Fredonia. What do you say?”
The camerapersons stomped their feet as they filmed this whole shebang. The female reporters chanted, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
I gazed at the brilliant, sparkling bunion and then at the gorgeous guy kneeling in front of me. I wondered for a millisecond why Lady and the Damp didn’t forewarn me about this possibility—when I realized a prince was proposing to me.
But not really to me.
My entire body broke out into a sweat followed by a wicked dose of the shivers. “Cristoph…” I clutched my stomach, “my answer is…” I swayed, as everything grew dim and gray around me. “My answer is…”
And everything shot to black.
I woke up to two, pretty, twenty-something female faces hovering over me, both wearing a healthy dose of concern. One girl chewed her lip and frowned. The second wrung her hands.
“God bless Fredonia, she’s awake!” A cute redhead with cropped, glossy hair exclaimed. “Elizabeth. Can you hear me? It’s Joan Brady.”
“Who’s Elizabeth?” I asked. “Of course I can hear you.” I glanced around at the small, white, sterile room with a uniformed guard stationed next to the door. “Where the heck am I?” When it dawned on me who Elizabeth was—my employer—and I better ix-nay these kinds of answers from here on out.
“She has amnesia!” A blonde woman hissed and chewed her lower lip. “Oh fudge, I haven’t talked to her in a year except on Facebook and now she has amnesia? How am I going to explain all this to her?” She cracked her knuckles and then her neck.
“Maybe you need to be thinking about Elizabeth right now and not yourself, Cheryl,” Joan said.
“I am not simply thinking about myself. I go through Facebook twice daily and click ‘Like’ on everyone’s posts. Except for the scary ones that involve bungee jumping or if one of my friends recently added the ‘I’m in a relationship but it’s complicated’ status. Those frighten me because that’s just secret code for they’re dating a transvestite, or someone who’s married, or both. And I just don’t see it turning out all that well, but God forbid you try telling them that because they just get pissed off and stop following your feed,” Cheryl said. “Or worse? They un-friend you.”
Part-time Princess Page 9
