by Tamara Lush
“Is it always this hot at this time of year in Florida?”
Tate looks down at me. “I think it’s unseasonably hot this year, Ms. Grimmelshausen.”
This morning I’d taught him to pronounce my last name, but he still says it in an adorable American accent that makes me giggle—even under these tense circumstances. The light changes, and the white pedestrian symbol flashes. Taking a deep breath, I step off the curb. We’re silent as we walk across the street and up the courthouse steps.
He opens the door for me, and I steel myself. The first thing I see is the metal detector.
The second thing I see are a dozen camera lenses, pointing right at me.
“Holy shit,” Tate hisses in my ear.
“Buckle up, buttercup,” I respond.
The judge raps the gavel against his desk, the crack making me jump a little in my seat. I look at Tate, who’s on my left. He looks at my new attorney, who is on my right. The new attorney looks at me, his mouth in a slant.
“A partial victory,” Tate says in a low voice.
“That was effing insane,” the other attorney mutters, hastily gathering his paperwork that’s on the table.
I paste on a tight smile, because that’s what I always do in public. “I should have warned you it would get out of control.”
“And I think it’s about to get even worse, from the looks of things. I’ve got a plan, though,” Tate says, eyeing the rows of eagle-eyed tabloid reporters sitting in the courtroom benches, smack between us and the exit. We all lean in, our faces inches from each other’s. I’m grinding my tenth mint of the day to dust between my molars.
“Let’s tell them we’ll make a statement outside, on the steps. You talk, Bella and I will nod and smile, and then we’ll slip away while you’re answering questions.”
My new attorney, a tall, thin man with a hipster handlebar moustache and a blue and white seersucker suit, grunts in agreement.
We all stand, and Tate keeps his hand on my mid-back as we move from the defendant’s table and into the public area of the court. We’re immediately swarmed by reporters and can barely move.
“Back off, you know you’re not supposed to do this in here,” a bailiff warns in a bored voice.
We take a few steps, the reporters ignoring the bailiff. They’re too close now, and I shrink into Tate’s body. I loathe being in crowds, and my heart speeds up from the anxiety of how close all the people are to my skin. As we shuffle to the door, reporters fire off question after question.
“Did you wrestle the alligator, Your Highness?” I’m silent, and Tate rolls his eyes.
“Why aren’t the royal attorneys from Montignac here representing you?” Now I’m rolling my eyes.
“I spoke with your Mother last week. She said you’ve accepted Prince Jacques’ marriage proposal. So what are you doing here in Florida? Do you have a secret lover?” That reporter has a snotty British accent, and I have to focus on my feet, otherwise I’m liable to retort with profanity. Or a punch to his eyeball.
Just then, a beefy video journalist shoves the reporter asking that question, sending him into me. I’m not sure if it was intentional—it probably wasn’t—but it sets off a chain of unintended events. I wobble and nearly topple over.
Tate snatches me closer, his arm around my waist. And he snarls at the reporter, who apologizes.
My other attorney mutters a profanity under his breath.
The bailiff springs into action. “No questions in the courthouse! This is your second warning. Everyone out! Now! Otherwise I’m going to start making arrests.”
Two more bailiffs materialize—where were they before?—and the reporters disperse to a manageable distance. The bailiffs walk with us, a buffer from the scrum, until we get to the exit.
Tate tells the media to stand a respectful distance away, and they comply, probably because the trio of bailiffs are now joined by five police officers.
By now, I’m in a daze. I go through the motions of the news conference—it’s a lot of bluster and legalese on the part of my new attorney. I smile and nod, and when my lawyer’s finished speaking, Tate and I briskly walk away.
And are immediately surrounded by reporters once again.
We break into a fast walk. Beads of sweat bloom on my forehead, and I take each step with care, praying I won’t roll an ankle in these heels.
It kind of feels like that night in the bar, except Chunky’s not with us and by the time we get into the SUV, we’re not laughing.
Tate fires up the ignition and punches the car in reverse.
“Uh, watch out for that guy with the boom mic. You might run him over,” I point out.
“Don’t give a crap if I do,” he growls, barely missing the guy’s foot.
We drive for several moments in tense silence, and he flips on the radio to a satellite news station.
This just in…The European princess accused of molesting an alligator on Paradise Beach gets a new attorney.
The hearing for the royal princess was held at the county court in Sarasota Monday, and Judge George P. Brennan repeatedly tangled with tabloid reporters during the proceedings. The judge even ordered three men from a London newspaper out of the courtroom because court officials found them secretly videotaping the proceedings.
Paradise Beach Police accuse Princess Isabella Grimmelshausen of Montignac of harassing wildlife. She was also arrested for assaulting a law enforcement officer, but the state attorney declined to file that charge.
Her attorney, Tate Hastings, withdrew from the case. Criminal Defense attorney John Trevi has stepped in to represent her.
Here he is, speaking about his royal client.
“I’m confident that Ms. Grimmelshausen will be exonerated. These charges are scurrilous at best…”
I stab the radio button off. “Well, at least the new lawyer can correctly pronounce my full name.”
I peer at Tate, and my heart sinks into a puddle. His dark brows furrow, and he’s biting his lip. His expression is both anguished and furious.
This is all due to me, and my entire body deflates with that realization. It’s enough to make me sob, and I steel myself. We’ve got a half-hour ride back to the house, and I must hold it together until I can cry in private.
I focus my gaze out the window at the passing cars. There are a lot of men who would kill to be with a rich princess. Some of them wouldn’t mind the media attention. A few would revel in it.
But Tate doesn’t care about money, status, or fame. And now that he’s seen what my life is really like, I doubt he’ll want anything to do with me.
Fifteen
Isabella
Tate’s eyes are still wild and unfocused. He grimaces and turns up the air conditioner.
“You’ve never been in a scrum like that, have you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Do they always ask such personal questions, or is this a special occasion?”
I flash back to one of the reporters’ shouted queries. “Is your marriage to Prince Jacques a done deal?” I hadn’t responded, because I was too busy shaking with anger—and trying to keep Tate away from the guy.
“It’s always like this. It’s one of the reasons I like to disappear on charity work in Southeast Asia. It’s harder and more expensive for the media to get to. And it’s boring. Me doing boring, nice things aren’t newsworthy.” I roll my eyes.
Tate runs a hand through his hair, and that’s when I notice his crisp red tie is slightly askew. Probably from sprinting when we crossed the street, trying to dodge the cameras. “I feel like I’ve aged five years in two hours.”
My stomach sinks. There’s no way this man will want to touch me with a ten-foot pole after witnessing that slice of chaos that is my life.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but, I told you so. They’re relentless.”
“I get why it would be this way for the royal family in London. But you…” His voice trails off as he accelerates onto the bridge leading to Paradis
e Beach. His eyes flit to the rear-view mirror. “No offense, you’re amazing. But you’re not commonly known royalty, at least not in the U.S. Dammit, are they following us? I think they are. What alternate universe are we in?”
I stare out the window at the blue water surrounding the bridge. “You’re in a parallel universe where people care about petty things and petty people. I’m used to it by now, which is why I try to travel undercover as much as possible. And try to stay out of the limelight. And no, we’re not household names, although we are better known in Europe. Which is why all these reporters came today.”
“I can’t believe you’ve had to live like that your entire life.”
My teeth pierce my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. I shoot him a quick glance. Uh oh. Then I turn back to the window. He’s such a good-natured, happy person—and now he’s scowling and obviously angry.
“Sorry,” I whisper, then take a huge inhale and regulate my shaky voice. “At least you’re no longer my attorney.”
“Well, I’m sorry the judge didn’t drop the charge. I think it’s a good sign that the state attorney didn’t file the assault charge, though. This case will be wrapped up in no time with Trevi on board.”
He reaches for my hand, and we give each other sad, tired smiles. We’re silent for the rest of the way back, but I can’t help noticing how many times he’s glancing in the side and rear mirrors. And how he’s driving faster than usual. And how his normally smiling mouth is slanted into a grim line.
The photographers follow us all the way to Tate’s gated community, and he releases my hand. Fortunately, there’s a line of cars waiting to get inside the guest entrance, and we sail through the resident gate, which clangs shut before any of the press can slip through.
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “It feels so safe here,” I whisper, almost to myself.
He roars into the driveway, then hesitates. “No, we should park inside, it’s probably better that way,” he mutters, then pushes a remote attached to the sun visor. The garage door opens, the lights automatically blaze on, and he pulls the car in as the mechanized sound of the wide door grinds and echoes through the windowless room.
The garage is the one place in the house I haven’t seen, and it’s a clean, organized space, with bicycles and kayaks and other sports equipment hung on hooks attached to the walls.
My eyes land on a kayak. If only I were a regular person. Tate and I could go on the water together, unmolested. Spend a day laughing and talking in nature. A lump forms in my throat because I know I’ll never be able to have that with him.
I open the door and climb out, moving slowly as if I’m in pain. I guess I probably am; there’s a decidedly strained mood hanging in the air between us. All because of me and my royal bullshit life.
Earlier, I thought we’d gleefully devour each other the second we were able. I’d imagined how he’d pull me inside the front door and press me against a wall in the foyer, kissing me until I was breathless.
Now, we’re five feet apart and trudging into his house through a side door. Tate tosses his briefcase on a table and shrugs out of his jacket, which he deposits on the back of a chair. He flops on the sofa, head dropped back, eyes closed.
Hesitant, I sit next to him, perched on the sofa’s edge with my legs crossed at the ankles. I twine my fingers together. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Please stop apologizing.”
My gaze goes to my feet, which are rubbed raw by the tight, black heels. I search my brain for a response, but I can’t think of one.
“I’m going to rest for a while,” I say quietly.
As I stand, I send a silent plea to Tate, begging him to stop me. To grab my wrist and pull me into his lap. To wrap those strong arms around me. To kiss me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.
But he doesn’t. Realistically, it probably isn’t going to be okay, not between us, anyway. The events at court today burst our joyful little bubble. He now understands who I am.
And he can’t handle it. Can’t blame him for that, can I?
With my head held high, I walk slowly to the guest room down the hall. The door closes with a whisper. I sink onto the bed, tears welling in my eyes.
This is another reason why I’ve never gotten too involved with a man. Eventually, they’d see what my life is about. I didn’t want the inevitable heartbreak when they decided that this life wasn’t for them. The few guys I’ve been with, mostly when I was in college and more reckless, were either royals themselves or connected to royal families.
They knew the game.
Now that I’m older and actually want a relationship—and now that I’ve found someone I adore—it’s harder to ask someone to be part of this insanity.
I really care for you, Tate. Hope you don’t mind a life of scrutiny, rumors, and annoying crowds of tabloid photographers. You cool with that?
A fat tear rolls down my cheek, and just as I’m wiping it away with my fingers, there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Bella?”
“Yes?” I look up, through my tear-stained lashes.
“Can I come in?”
I sniffle. “I guess.”
The door opens, and Tate walks in. His jaw is clenched so hard that the muscles are pulsing and bunching. This is the end of us. I can totally feel it. I heave a sigh, figuring I should get this over with. I pat the space next to me on the bed, and he sits.
“You don’t have to explain,” I say through my tears. “I get it.”
“Get what? Explain what?” He blinks rapidly.
“That you can’t handle being with me, that it’s best if we don’t go any further, that you no longer want me. I understand. Today was a lot, and it would scare any man off. It’s too much to ask of you.”
He cups my face and turns my head toward him. I lift my eyes and notice his facial muscles have relaxed. “I’m sorry. I wish it could be different,” I say.
“Bella. You’re wrong. About everything.”
I sniffle in response and give him a sad smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to spare my feelings. You’re so sweet.”
“Yes, it’s infuriating, what happened. But I do want to be with you. So much.”
My eyebrows lower. “You do?”
He nods. “I hate that they asked you about Jacques. I didn’t stop you from coming in here because I was sitting on the sofa trying to manage my rage.”
“Rage about what?” Now I’m really confused.
“About the questions the reporters asked. The questions about Jacques were all lies, right? Weren’t they?”
“You mean the ones about how my mother made a statement regarding my engagement with Jacques? How it’s a done deal? How I’ll start the formal engagement process when I return?” I wince at the idea.
God help me if I see Mother or Jacques anytime soon, because I feel the familiar red fog of rage swirling in my gut just thinking about them and their stupidity.
“Yeah. Those questions. Is there something more about this situation that you want to tell me? Because I can’t get more involved if you’re just going to leave and marry him out of obligation. I don’t mess with married, or soon-to-be, married women.”
I squint at him. “What?”
“I’m getting involved with you. I’m falling for you, Bella.”
Awareness surges through my body, and it finally registers what he’s trying to say.
“Oh, Tate.” I fall against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me. I breathe in and out, trying to steady my heartbeat, then pull away so I can look him in the eye. The intensity of my feelings for him makes me unsteady, and I have to gather a fistful of the duvet to feel grounded. “What do you want to hear from me?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. What are your plans with Jacques? Did your mother say all that? Are you going to marry him?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I can handle it, regardless.
I just want to know. Because if you are, I can’t be with you. The reporters’ questions got me thinking. Guess I should’ve asked them earlier. Or maybe I was under the impression that you were straight with me about Jacques when we talked the other night. But it’s better if we talk about this now than if we sleep together and talk later.”
I swallow hard. Until this moment, my future has been up in the air. But it’s time to make a decision. “My mother routinely leaks things to the tabloids. So, yes, she probably did say those things.”
A red flush creeps across Tate’s cheekbones. “Does that mean I’m just a final fling, a diversion before you become queen?”
I rear back as if he’d slapped me. “God, no! I’m going to renounce my title and allowance. We’re not getting married. I’d never be with you if I thought I’d end up marrying another man. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Really?” he whispers.
“Honest to God. But I’m not giving up my title for you. Or because of you. I’m doing this for me and doing it regardless of what happens between us.”
“I’m sorry for asking. The idea of you ending up with Jacques makes me ill.”
“You and me both.”
“Even if nothing happens between us, I want you to be happy. And I don’t believe you’ll be happy with him. Or as a queen.”
There’s that lump in my throat again. How is he so in tune with my true nature? I nod and stare at my feet.
“Quick question: do you want something to happen between us?” I look up to see him wrinkling his brow.
I rest my hand on his muscular thigh and give it a possessive squeeze. “Yes, I very much want us to happen. If you’ll have me, with all this craziness and with all my royal baggage.”
His fingers go into my hair, undoing the clip that’s holding my severe bun together. My hair spills onto my shoulders, and he runs his fingers through the strands.
“That feels so…” The words die in my throat when he strokes my cheek with his thumb, sending sparks showering through my body.
Out the corner of my eye, I spot our reflection in a mirror. His giant hand on my delicate cheekbone. His sharp jaw in contrast with my soft hair. His muscular, bronze body next to my smaller one. The image steals the breath from my lungs.
