by B. E. Baker
“Oh no,” Paisley says. “What’s wrong? I was going to see what your travel plans were, and whether you’d have time to meet in Munich or somewhere. Are you alright? It sounds like you’re having a rough trip.”
I’m not sure how much of what I say makes sense, but Paisley never stops me, listening patiently as I explain all of it. She giggles about the flat iron, but I don’t fault her for that.
“It’s your lucky day,” Paisley says. “Because I know just the place you can stay until the tour resumes, and it won’t cost you a dime.”
“Where?” I ask.
“With my family, here at our palace in Vaduz, of course,” Paisley says.
My eyes well up with tears again. “I wouldn’t want to impose like that.”
“Oh please. It would be so much fun for me to host you here. Trust me. And as a special bonus,” she says, “in case I wasn’t already up for friend of the year, I can even provide you a ride.”
“I can’t possibly impose like that.” Everyone says that the public transportation in Europe is tremendous. I’m sure I can find a train, or something. “Honestly. I bet I figure out—”
“With less than two hundred euros?” Paisley tuts. “My brother’s driving that direction anyway. I’ll just have him pick you up. Trust me, it’s no trouble.”
Finally something is going right. “Thank you so much, Pais. Really.”
4
Cole
“Are you kidding me right now?” I ask. “I’m nowhere near Frankfurt.”
“Cole,” Holly says. “Where’s your sense of chivalry? You can drive right by it, if you just drive through Cologne and Stuttgart instead of Luxembourg.”
“That adds an hour, plus I’d have to drive into Frankfurt.”
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Which has nothing at all to do with this situation.”
“You left during my visit and drove all the way out to Antwerp just to get away from Dad. If this gets you away for another hour or two, well, you’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape. I needed to check out the townhouse and sign some forms for my new job.” I tap at my GPS, inputting the hotel she mentioned. “It adds an hour and forty-one minutes.” I groan. “Can’t she take a train?”
“You said you loved to drive,” she says. “That’s why you refused to take the jet, which would have gotten you back here light years faster.”
“Send the jet for her,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be better?”
“She’s distraught,” Holly says. “She needs a friendly face as much as she needs a ride.”
“Who is this person again?”
“It’s my dear, dear friend Rob’s little sister, and beyond that, she’s my friend. She’s here to play the piano on tour with Henrietta Gauvón—which means that she’s an accomplished pianist. Thanks to circumstances beyond her control, the tour was delayed. She’s had a run of bad, bad, bad luck. Certainly you can spare an hour of your precious, non-royal time. Plus you’ll have her delightful company for half of your drive.”
I sigh heavily. “Fine, but if I do this, you can’t pull the pregnant card for the rest of your trip.”
“But I haven’t had this much fun since. . . Well. I’ve never had this much fun.”
“Take it or leave it.”
She sighs heavily. “Deal, I guess.” Holly hangs up and sends me a flurry of text messages with the details.
Elizabeth Graham—that’s the name of the pathetic kid sister Holly’s sending me to save. Could the name be any more American? She’s sitting, broke and lost, in the middle of some Frankfurt hotel lobby because she doesn’t want to call her mom and dad and ask them for help. At least I can relate to that sentiment. I reluctantly plug the address into my GPS and hit go.
Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe she’ll even be cute, like Trudy who Holly had me help before. And maybe she’s also already in love with some other guy. That’s sort of my pattern. Not that I have had any dates to fashion into a pattern lately. It’s been more than two years since I took out someone who I was excited to see. Which is pathetic.
It occurs to me for the first time that this might be a setup.
What exactly did Holly say about her friend? She’s an accomplished pianist. She used the word delightful at least once, I’m sure she did. By the time I turn off the 3 to head for her hotel, I’m more excited than I should be. When I was living at home, Mom and Dad incessantly set me up with titled lords and ladies. Princesses, the daughters of dukes, and the daughters of earls.
Snobs, all of them.
Most of them quickly decided that if I wasn’t even a prince of Liechtenstein, they were wasting their time with me. After all, a marquis in Belgium with tenuous ties to a prince who’s in poor health? Worthless. I couldn’t even argue with them. My father left me shares in several business ventures that haven’t done too badly, a townhome in Antwerp, the Château Solvay, a home in Vienna, and an apartment in Paris. I have a decent trust from him, and a trust from Mom’s grandfather as well, but none of it compares to the Liechtenstein family wealth.
I’m small potatoes.
But Americans don’t care about all that. Americans want someone who works hard, someone who will treat them well, someone who has a nice smile. I meet those criteria and then some. By the time I reach the Hampton on Grussonstrasse, I’m almost. . . excited. I slide my Range Rover into a space in the car park beneath the hotel and take the elevator upstairs, my eyes scanning the lobby eagerly for this distressed damsel. Will she have long blonde hair? Short dark hair? Dark, dramatic lips? A little pouty, maybe.
A man with grey hair glances up from reading a newspaper. He crinkles the pages and frowns. I look away quickly. The only other person in the lobby is slumped into the corner of a sofa, her face propped on her hand, asleep. And drooling. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, surrounds her head in an enormous halo of frizz. Her shoes are off, and her feet are resting on one of her suitcases. It’s a good thing I drive a Range Rover, because she has a lot of luggage. Her bright yellow dress looks like it could be quite cute, if it wasn’t rumpled, and if it didn’t have streaks of something dark that begin at the collar and run downward in uneven and clearly unplanned swaths.
Clearly not a setup.
I walk toward her and tap her lightly on the shoulder. “Uh, Elizabeth?”
Her head jerks upright, and she wipes at her face dazedly.
“My sister asked me to pick you up.”
She inhales sharply and squeaks. When she looks up at me, I realize what the streaks on her dress are from—mascara has run down beneath her eyes and covers her cheeks.
“You are Elizabeth Graham?”
She nods and stands up, looking around frantically.
“Is everything alright?”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to go to sleep, but I flew in last night, and I didn’t sleep very well, and I know it’s past noon here, but it’s barely six a.m. back in Atlanta.”
“I’ve been jet lagged on numerous occasions,” I say. “Please don’t worry about it. Can I help you carry any of this? My car is just downstairs.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “I can get it all. When Paisley told me you were driving right past here.” She makes a sound that closely resembles a hiccup. “I am really very grateful. Truly.”
“It was no big deal.” Shame over my irritation washes over me in a wave. It might not be a setup—indeed I may not find Holly’s friend the least bit attractive, but that’s no reason I can’t extend a helping hand.
She stands up and her head reaches almost to my shoulder. She’s much taller than I expected. She slings a purse over her body crosswise, a backpack over her shoulders, and then stacks a smallish rolling bag on top of a large one. “Ready.” She beams at me.
“Oh, no, I’ll grab those.” I snatch the rolling bags from her before she can object, knocking the smaller one off in the process.
She bends down to try and
grab it.
I hold out my hand and wave it at her. “No, no, please. I insist. Let’s go to the elevators. I hear you’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. The least I can do is navigate these to my car for you.”
“Thank you.” She gulps, and even with the halo of fluffy hair and the mascara streaks, there’s something endearing about her face. Like a chipmunk with a half eaten acorn, or a dog caught digging up a bone. Nervous, eager to please, grateful, and unaware of her own vulnerability.
She doesn’t say a word in the elevator, or when we approach my car. But when I’m swinging her bags up into the back of my car, she stares.
“Is everything alright?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, for sure,” she says. “But I just noticed how tall you are.”
“You’re fairly tall too,” I say. “It’s a good thing I don’t drive a sports car.”
Her laugh is like a trio of nightingales. I could listen to it all day. “If it was a convertible, the paparazzi would think you were on a road trip with Hagrid.”
I know she’s making fun of herself, her height, her frizzy mop of hair, but I can’t help chuckling anyway.
She’s smiling when she slides into the passenger seat, but she notices her face in the rear view mirror and stiffens. “Oh no.” She flips the visor down and whimpers. “Oh my—”
I slide into the passenger seat. “Your mascara might have run a bit.”
“I didn’t even have that much in the tube,” she wails. “I look like an ugly version of Marilyn Manson.”
I have no idea who she is. “It’s not that bad,” I say. “Honestly.”
When she turns to look at me, the only word for her expression is stricken. “I’m a licensed cosmetologist. Do you know what that means? I don’t know the word for it in German. It’s literally my job to do people’s hair and makeup. I bought waterproof mascara, I’m sure I did.” She begins rummaging around in her bag and then yanks out a little black tube. “See?” She squints and groans. “Oh, no. They must’ve changed the packaging. This is mortifying.”
“If it helps, I doubt anyone in there suspected you were a beauty expert. Or whatever the word you used means.” I certainly never would have guessed it.
She shuffles around in her purse again until she finds a package of something and pulls a tissue from it. She begins wiping on her face, but a moment later she squawks again. “It’s all over my dress. This day couldn’t have gotten much worse.” But instead of crying, or complaining, she begins to laugh, the same beautiful, lilting, melodious laugh.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
She finally stops laughing and finishes wiping the makeup residue from her face. “You have no idea how much I love Paisley right now. She is just the best person in the world, and you too, by extension.”
When she turns to face me this time, I’m shocked at the transformation. She’s not a supermodel, but she no longer resembles a clown.
“I’m not an idiot, Cole. I’m pretty sure you weren’t driving right by my hotel, and I know that picking up an idiotic twenty-something who is a complete and utter mess wasn’t high on your list of things to do for the day. I really appreciate it.”
I’m a completely selfish jerk who does not deserve her gratitude. “If we’re being totally honest, I should confess that Holly basically twisted my arm to get me here.”
When I glance her way, Elizabeth is frowning. “Who’s Holly?”
“Right, she’s Paisley to you. My sister goes by her middle name in Atlanta. Her first name is Holly, which is what we all call her.”
“I heard that at some point, I think,” she says. “But I’m a little slow today. I’m sorry.”
“Stop thanking me and stop apologizing,” I say. “Or I’ll have to gag you, and I doubt Holly would appreciate that.”
“I wouldn’t say a word about it,” she says.
When I look her direction, her lips are compressed. So it was a pun about being unable to talk because of the gag. She has a strange sense of humor, but I like it. Now if I could get her to laugh again.
“What do you do, Cole? When you aren’t driving to and from Frankfurt at a moment’s notice?”
“Uh, well, that’s a little awkward,” I say. “I’m sort of between jobs right now.”
“Well, what was your last job?”
“It was more of an unofficial position,” I hedge.
“As what?” she asks. “Because I’m beginning to wonder if you’re, like, smuggling drugs and I’m a conveniently frizzy cover for your whole operation. Maybe that’s why you needed to put my luggage in the back yourself.”
“Actually, I’ve been filling in for my dad, since he’s been sick,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Right, because Paisley’s a princess. So you’re a prince, but you’re working as the king, basically?”
“Actually, Liechtenstein is sort of a strange country,” I say. “Or, compared to the bigger ones you probably studied at school it is.”
“Well, we have plenty of time,” she says. “Why not give me a primer?”
I smirk. “You need another nap?”
“Oh please. I’m American. We find all of this fascinating.”
“The first time you yawn,” I say, “I’m done.”
“Deal,” she says.
“So the Liechtenstein family started with just the Liechtenstein castle in Vienna. Various ancestors of my Dad, whose given name is Hans-Michael, advised the Habsburgs, whom you likely have heard of, one of the most famous royal houses of Austria. In America, I believe they say Hapsburg. Their family held the throne of the Holy Roman Empire for over three hundred years, from 1438 to 1740 when the House of Bourbon replaced them.”
“Still awake over here,” Elizabeth says.
I roll my eyes. “I should hope so, as I’m just getting started. So, my dad’s ancestors gave good enough advice that the Habsburgs gave them quite a few valuable lands, but none of them gave them a position in what you’d call the Parliament, but we call it the Diet, spelled d-i-e-t, but pronounced dye-et.”
“And they wanted that position?”
I nod. “Badly, actually. So back in 1699, an enterprising relative arranged to buy a nearly worthless lordship, Shellenberg, as well as the County of Vaduz, both of which reported directly to the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Good old Charles VI decided to combine them into a Principality for his dear friend Anton Florian, and he called that Principality ‘Liechtenstein.’”
“So, it’s not its own country?” she asks, rather astutely.
“It wasn’t in the early 1700s, that’s for sure, and as a funny bit of trivia, good old Anton and his family didn’t even set foot in their shiny new Principality for decades.”
“You’re kidding.”
I shake my head. “They didn’t care about it at all, just the privileges and power it would afford them.”
“Wow, that’s wild.”
“Well, Dad’s family sort of wobbled along, not really caring much about their Principality, other than the title it bestowed of ‘prince.’ In 1788, Johann Joseph decided to become a military man. He turned out to be quite good at it, and the Napoleonic wars afforded him the opportunity to prove himself admirably. After his father passed away and he became the reigning Prince, he kept right on fighting. In fact, he attained the rank of General three years after he took over as active prince. He fought and fought, but eventually negotiated two different peace treaties with Napoleon that the Austrians felt were a little too good for Napoleon.”
“Did he betray his own people?” she asks.
I shrug. “Depends on your perspective, I suppose. He was fairly forward thinking. He had to resign from the military when the Austrians got mad at what they felt were not very aggressive treaties, but as a result of his impressive service and Napoleon’s favor, Napoleon made Liechtenstein a sovereign state in his Confederation of the Rhine.” I smile. “And good old Johann Joseph went on to create quite a few rights for his people that were fairly liberal for the time. He
also fostered a lot of agriculture and forestry, both of which still benefit the country today.”
“It sounds like you admire him,” Elizabeth says.
“I suppose I do,” I say. “He did a lot of good. He didn’t ever live in Liechtenstein, but he visited and was quite generous with his firewood and other resources. He wasn’t perfect, but he tried his best, and he wasn’t afraid to jump in and work—and fight—whenever necessary. No matter the risk to himself.”
“A decent role model,” she says. “I could use a little more risk tolerance in my life.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Holly tells me you flew out here to join a tour without ever having been to Europe. You might have had a few bumps, but I imagine you’d have worked something out, even if I hadn’t been close enough to give you a ride.”
“I was researching hostels,” she says. “But my credit card had been frozen thanks to some jerk in Texas who stole the number. It was going to be a very bumpy few weeks before Paisley called. Or, I guess, Holly. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m used to hearing Paisley. Her husband James calls her Paisley, too. Honestly, I mostly say Holly out of a combination of habit and the desire to annoy her.”
“Ah yes,” Elizabeth says. “That instinct runs deep with brothers.”
“So you clearly have a brother or two.”
“One brother was plenty for me,” she says.
I wish I still had a brother, but there’s no way for her to know about Noel. I shake it off—it’s not a great road trip story.
“So what happened after good old Johann passed? At some point, someone has to move out to Liechtenstein, right? Once they realize what a beautiful little bucolic country it is?”
“Have you ever seen Liechtenstein?” I ask.
She blushes. “Uh, no. Did I use the wrong word? I realized after I said it that I’m not actually sure what that word means.”
Adorable. Utterly adorable. “It means cute and country, I think, but you shouldn’t quote me on that. English is my third language and I struggled, honestly.”
