by Liz Johnson
She cast him a side-long glance as she picked back up the red bottle she’d been holding before. “Do they live here in Tinsel?”
He snorted. “Heck, no. They’re in…” He was about to give too much away. He cleared his throat, unwilling to lie. That was his father’s tactic, not his. “They’re across the country.”
“I see.”
No, she didn’t, but that was ideal. He pointed to the rows of polish options. “Why is this such a struggle? I think my ex used that Rebel Red you have there.”
She quickly set it back down. “I normally use the palest of pinks. But now, I can…well.”
“Branch out?”
“Something like that.” She rolled in her lower lip, and he wondered if she knew she was smudging her perfectly applied lip gloss. Then he wondered how it might taste, and he quickly edged a step back.
He tried to ignore the intense pull of attraction. Crazy. He was here on a break—including a break from women. The last thing he needed was to get tied up with some royal chick who couldn’t even choose a nail polish color on her own. How did she manage to run a country—via Magic 8 Ball? “There’s a nice Cancun Coral there.” He pointed.
Eleanor wrapped her white sweater around her body, folding her arms in front of her as she tilted her head toward him. “You seem oddly acquainted with nail polish colors. Secret fetish?”
“Hardly. Just been in this position a time or two—helping a lady choose.”
Her eye twitched. “I see.” Her hand hesitated before snatching a bottle of pink. Pale pink, so pale it was almost translucent.
“No way, Princess.” He grabbed it from her and re-shelved it, unsure why he cared so much and equally determined not to think about it. “This is your moment. Go big or go home.”
“Go big or go what?” She frowned in confusion.
He crossed his arms. “You know, the expression. Go big or go home, meaning make it count or—”
Suddenly a customer in a denim jacket and ball cap pressed up beside them, forcing Eleanor to side-step as he reached for a bag of cotton balls to Eleanor’s left. He barked a quick “excuse me” and was gone before Liam could react.
The surge of adrenaline flooding his limbs left him paralyzed. If he moved at all, he’d sprint. Bolt. Pound something. He’d been in more than his share of bar fights and club scuffles, and all his instincts shouted to protect. Even now, in the wake of no danger at all, his fists clenched at his sides and his heart raced.
“Miles?”
Eleanor’s voice, far away, sounded in the recesses of his mind as he stared at the stocked shelves of colors, the shades blurring into a rainbow of memories. The pulse of the music in his veins. Shoving his sister, Tristan, aside just in time to take the fist that landed square on his jaw. Police strobes, blue and red. The dislocated shoulder his dad had popped back in place for him late that night after writing the cop a check to avoid a ticket and negative press. The threatening notes that had flooded his PO Box for a month afterward.
“Miles!”
He snapped to attention as Eleanor’s voice sunk in. Miles. Right. That was his name now. “Sorry. Must have gotten caught up in this impossible dilemma of yours.” He shook his head, determined not to let her see how the last thirty seconds had affected him…how she was affecting him.
He was her driver—not her bodyguard. Apparently, her family hadn’t seen the point in sending one, or Jackson and some other beef-heads in black athletic gear would have been on their tail from the minute he’d left the tarmac. Why a Princess wouldn’t require constant detail in America, he couldn’t imagine. But it wasn’t his job. He’d only come with her inside the store to buy his own box of Cheez-its, for crying out loud.
She looked up at him, a mixture of curiosity and concern pooling in her doe-eyes, and he squeezed his hand into a fist again—this time to fight a different, yet equally paralyzing battle.
Maybe he couldn’t protect his family all the time. Maybe watching out for Eleanor wasn’t his job.
But he was pretty sure it had just become his duty.
Of all the chauffeurs in all of Tinsel, she’d gotten stuck with Miles Channing. The man ate Cheez-its, whatever those were, right out of the box in the car, for crying out loud. He refused to take off that beanie, lurked in her personal space every time a stranger got within ten feet of her, and made fun of her desire to obtain a library card for her short stay. He’d also slapped a magazine tabloid out of her hand at the check-out counter of the general store after she’d finally decided on a nail polish—Berry Kiss—deeming the publication “unfit for society”. Which wasn’t a loss—it wasn’t like the publications lately boasted any headlines other than that of the most recent Neal family scandal, anyway.
Still. She hadn’t been able to help but raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, really? And what do you read? Comic books?”
He’d admitted he was a long-term fan of Snoopy and the Peanuts Gang, then redirected her attention to the gum selection—which took her yet another agonizingly long time to pick from. Something about being on foreign soil had rendered her incapable of making decisions. Maybe because she’d rarely had to before.
And was so desperate to get to keep doing so.
Sure, her cabinet in Brightloch tried to make her feel like she was accomplishing something. They’d taken her carefully planned suggestions for public school improvements and pushed the papers around a bit, in effort to patronize her before dismissing them completely. Just as they’d done with her ideas for the children’s wing of the local hospital. That one still stung for different reasons.
But at the end of the day, it was the queen and her board that controlled everything about Brightloch. Eleanor was just a puppet on display, used for publicity and parades. Her face might be on magazines, and she might be the one on stage giving pre-written speeches, but her influence where it mattered lately felt completely non-existent. If she couldn’t contribute—why should she stay?
She ran her fingers over the hem of a pale green gown hanging from a wooden hanger, searching for a price tag. This was the second boutique store they’d stopped at, and she’d finally put her foot down and demanded that Miles stay in the car. She’d blamed it on a desire to keep the vehicle running to combat the frigid December temps, but in all honesty, she needed a breather. Because as annoying as Miles was—as badly as he grated on her nerves after these last twenty-four-hours—she couldn’t deny one stark, obvious truth.
She was ridiculously attracted to him.
She clenched the dress in her fist. The freedom was going to her head, that was all. She’d never had an opportunity to choose her own dates, and the parade of men that her mother had attempted to match her with over the past several years had not gone swimmingly. Well, that was true figuratively, at least. There had been that one poor chap from England who’d tripped during their walk and landed in the castle fountain.
She couldn’t be attracted to Miles, but rather, to the freedom he represented. He was someone her mother would never approve of, so of course during this time of familial conflict, she would subconsciously seek out a way to annoy the queen further. Human nature wasn’t pretty, and this wasn’t the best part of hers, but it was honest. She had to acknowledge that and not do something foolish—such as get attached to this beanie-wearing man any further. He was her driver. She must keep him at a professional distance.
“Excuse me. Would you like a fitting room?” A petite blonde woman with a sleek ponytail gestured toward the dress Eleanor fisted in her hand.
She released the material, smoothing it. “Yes, please.” She stepped back while the clerk maneuvered it from the high hanging rack.
Inside the dimly lit fitting room, which was adorned with garland draped around the mirror for the holidays, Eleanor slipped into the dress. It wasn’t casual, which had been her goal, but it was beautiful. She wished she had an occasion to wear it during her stay in Tinsel. The spaghetti straps hit perfectly on her slender shoulders, and the sweethear
t neckline dipped with more grace than suggestion. She spun, the fabric swirling slightly around her knees before draping daintily back in place.
She had to get it. But she also had to be practical. She called for the salesclerk, who quickly brought her several pairs of velour sweatpants, off-the shoulder baggy sweatshirts, yoga pants, and layering tanks.
The clerk who’d been helping her handed over the last violet tank, then hesitated, her hand stopping the door from shutting completely. “Excuse me, you’re not…I mean, this is pretty silly, but are you really Princess—”
Eleanor dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Yes, I am, but please don’t—”
The blonde squeaked ten octaves higher than her normal voice. “Mary!” She squeaked again. “Mary! You won’t believe this!” She ran from the fitting room area into the store, where the other saleswoman waited behind the counter.
Eleanor watched through the open crack of her door, heart sinking. She knew she'd be recognized in Tinsel, but she'd hoped to keep as low a profile as possible, for as long as possible. The mayor did his best to keep the media away—how, she wasn't entirely certain, but several of their more famous friends admitted to having experienced wonderful holidays in the charming little town over the years. It was the best chance she had for a normal vacation.
Or longer, if that was her decision.
She shut the door between her and the salespeople with a solid click.
Getting out of the spotlight was one of Eleanor's more immediate goals. She might be recognized for the rest of her life, but the further she was removed from her title and Brightloch, the less people would care. Then she could live a normal life—and more importantly, raise kids that deserved one too.
Her least favorite memory—the morning of her father's funeral—darted into the forefront of her mind, and she gripped the door handle. The waterproof mascara her mom insisted she wear. The handkerchief in her black dress pocket she was to use only if necessary. The half hour of coached smiling in front of the mirror—not too broad, but cheerfully enough to convince the public of Brightloch that all would be well.
The funeral itself was a blur of forbidden tears and failed mascara.
Hopefully her future children wouldn’t have to grieve for her at age twelve—but she at least wanted them to have the freedom to do so. To go to the grocery store and buy a soda without having a bodyguard trail them down aisle six. To attend a concert in the park without constant stares and hidden whispers. To make decisions for themselves, and learn and grow, without marionette strings attached.
No one in Brightloch understood—they’d never worn her shoes, the ones that pinched a little too tight. She had no siblings to commiserate. It was just her and the queen, and a house full of servants, maids and hierarchy that controlled everything. When her mom started whispering to the Duchess of Dean about arranged marriages, she knew it was time to take a stand—however trembling her legs might have been beneath her.
It was now or never.
A gentle knock sounded on the door, and Eleanor opened it a crack. The blonde saleswoman.
She smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I mean, your Highness?”
Eleanor offered a gracious smile, one she didn’t feel but somehow meant, all at the same time. It wasn’t this girl’s fault. “Quite alright.”
“I just got excited.” She nervously adjusted the collar of her black blazer. “You should have seen me last year when Reba McEntire shopped here.”
Whoever that was. “I understand.” Eleanor handed over the pile of clothes she’d tried on. “I’ll take them all. I’ll be along in a moment and will purchase this dress, as well.”
The blonde’s eyes widened in delight as Eleanor gently swung the door shut on her exclamation. “Yes, ma’am!”
Eleanor shook her head as she began to unzip the green dress. At least the girl had apologized for causing a scene—and at least this scene had been relatively small. The worst were when the media got involved. Thankfully in Tinsel, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Another knock on her door.
She bit back a sigh, fumbling with the zipper. Maybe the blonde hadn’t taken the hint, after all. “Just a minute!” Hopefully the clerk hadn’t told anyone else who she was. The last thing she wanted was a line outside her door. She wasn’t allowed to give autographs—and that was the one rule she refused to break. The stakes were too high.
Another sharp tap, louder this time. She stumbled over the dress bunching at her ankles, hopping twice to catch her balance. “I’ll be right out.”
A deep voice boomed. “Yo, Princess! Let’s go. I’m burning gas out here.”
She paused mid-hop and sighed. On second thought, maybe a line wouldn’t be so bad—so long as Miles Channing wasn’t at the front of it.
Chapter 3
Even though he’d been dry for three hundred and forty-two days, he still fought the craving to crack a beer any time he had a steak. Old habits died hard—but he’d much rather kill them than himself. And last year, he’d come a little too close for comfort.
So, soda it was.
Liam popped open a can of Coke, wrenched back the handle of the old plaid recliner Uncle Albert had loaned him for his extended stay in the garage apartment, and adjusted his lap-tray of food. Finally. After a long day of driving around Miss Daisy, he needed a little peace and quiet—with a side of beef. He eagerly picked up his fork just as his cell rang.
He groaned. Not answering wouldn’t do any good. Best to get it over with.
He set his drink on the rickety end table. “Hey, Dad.” Then he intentionally shoved a giant piece of steak in his mouth. Maybe if his father heard him chewing, he’d cut the call short.
“Medium rare?” His dad’s familiar, dry tone sounded through the phone.
Liam snorted. “Always.”
“Drink a cold one for me.”
“You know I quit all that.”
“Oh, right, right.” His dad’s breezy response indicated he hadn’t remembered. No one in the family did. They assumed it was a phase, if they gave it any merit whatsoever. After all, the Neals weren’t exactly known for their sobriety and best behavior. Dad had bailed Tristan out of a DUI just last week, according to his sister’s latest text message update. He’d hoped she’d follow his recent example…but if he wasn’t around, how could she?
The bite of steak wedged in his throat and he forced himself to swallow. He was here for a purpose, whatever that was. And if that purpose was simply to drive Eleanor around and clear his head for a holiday season, so be it.
Thankfully Liam had tugged the tabloid out of Eleanor’s hands at the store earlier that afternoon before she saw the photo of him on the front page—a candid of him crossing the street a month ago heading into church, of all places. But instead, the headlines credited him as stressed out over the current Neal family scandal and leaving the courthouse, which was located next door to the church he’d recently started attending near L.A. They also attested it to being last week instead of almost a month ago. Just another high-five to credible journalism. It used to rile him more than it did now. Now, it was a fact of life.
One his father wasn’t making any easier with his newest wave of drama.
“How’s Albert?”
Liam took another bite of steak. “Good.” Sober. Upstanding. A productive member of society. Traits his dad wouldn’t know if they bit him in the—
“Anyone recognized you yet?”
“No.” The new beard, the cut of his signature shoulder-length hair, and the constant long sleeves covering his tattoos had so far done the trick. Between that, his shades, and his North Face beanie, he was flying low. Besides, who expected Liam Neal of the Neal family to be driving people around in Tinsel, Vermont? He had his own chauffer back home any time he wanted—not that he ever took advantage. He preferred navigating quarter miles in his restored 1969 Camaro, with Digs riding shotgun.
A quick glance around the sparsely furnished apartment almost ma
de him laugh at the contrast. Besides the end table and the recliner, the only other furniture in the studio apartment was a decade-old flat screen, a futon excuse of a bed, a nightstand, a microwave, and dorm sized mini-fridge. A far cry from his elaborate condo back home, with marble countertops, custom wood floors, and the latest in technology.
“You don’t have to stay there, you know.” Disdain coated his father’s voice, along with the impatient click of a pen. He must be in his study at home, where he liked to kick back with Bourbon and whatever current big game was on TV. “Just because your whack-a-doodle therapist recommended you get away for a bit doesn’t make it a legal order.”
She wasn’t whack-a-doodle. She was helping him see exactly how much his parents were, though. “This is my decision, not Dr. Swanson’s.”
“She put the idea in your head.”
“Well, that’s what you’re paying her one-ninety an hour for.”
Dad started to say something, then stopped. Liam smirked. So he did still have brakes.
His father switched tactics. “It’s seventy-five degrees here today.”
Liam shrugged as he speared a green bean. “I like the cold around the holidays. It’s joyful and triumphant.” He gave his best Grinch imitation.
“Stubborn.”
“Insert witty comment here about apples falling off trees.”
Silence pulsed through the line. Liam took the opportunity to swallow another bite of steak. The restaurant on the corner had grilled it to perfection. He wondered what Eleanor was eating for dinner.
Nope. Didn’t matter.
He forked another green bean. As long as she wasn’t reading tabloids, he didn’t care what she was doing.
Well, as long as she was safe, of course.
Dang it, the thoughts wouldn’t stop. He stacked beans on his fork. Stab. Stab. Stab. What did it even matter if Eleanor knew who he was? He knew who she was. Didn’t change anything. She’d hired him, for crying out loud. She didn’t need him, and he definitely didn’t need—
