by Liz Johnson
“Princess Eleanor of Brightloch.”
He choked on his forkful of beans. “What?”
“I said, Princess Eleanor is allegedly in your area.” His dad laughed. “But you know how often magazines get things right.”
Actually, when it came to Vincent Neal, the tabloids usually nailed it. “She is.”
“Really? Have you seen her?”
He debated on sharing the truth, then figured—why not? It wasn’t a secret. Nothing of Eleanor’s was his to keep. He let out a slow sigh. “I’m her chauffeur.”
His dad’s snort of surprise blasted through the connection. “Get out.”
“It’s true. I drove her to the library today.”
Awe filled his father’s voice. “This is perfect.”
Liam blinked. “Sure, I guess—if you love to read.”
“Not the library. Princess Eleanor! She’s the single one, right?”
He groaned. This couldn’t be going anywhere healthy. “Dad. Remember that pretty blonde lady that lives with you? We call her Mom?”
“Not for me, goofball.”
Not this time, anyway. Liam gripped his cell phone tighter. His steak was getting cold, and the bad memories were piling up alongside the dysfunction. “Look, I really need to go—”
“For you. This is the perfect chance.” His dad’s voice rambled faster, which meant he was getting an idea and spinning into salesman mode.
Liam closed his eyes. He hated salesman mode. It was one of the things he most looked forward to escaping once he got his new venture off the ground. All of his earnings—measly as they were—from this job with Uncle Albert were going straight into his business savings account. The one his family knew nothing about, and wouldn’t—until they read the newspaper headlines and realized he’d struck out on his own. Just a few more months, and he’d be ready.
His dad was still talking. “Think about it. Princess Eleanor is all class. The magazines love her.”
That was true. She’d never appeared in a scandal. His dad could take lessons. Liam exhaled sharply. “What’s your point?”
“If the tabloids start pairing you two together, it could bring the family some decent press for once.”
Always the opportunist politician. Liam scrubbed his hand over his face, the beard he wasn’t used to yet scratching his palm. Surely his dad realized if he stayed above the law, that could also bring decent press.
Liam’s neck and shoulders tensed in unison. “If you’re suggesting I tell the media that we’re dating, you’re crazy.” Crazy, and impossible. Tinsel was a media-free zone. The local paper was free, full of advertisements, and boasted community events with coupons for free hot chocolate. Any outside reporters were strictly forbidden. It was part of Tinsel’s holiday-escape charm.
“Of course not.” His dad scoffed, the pen clicking faster now in the background. “That’d be ridiculous.”
Liam’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he picked up his abandoned can of Coke.
“I meant, date her for real.”
His soda slipped through his fingers and tumbled to the floor.
Eleanor was bored for the first time that she could remember in her adult life—and she’d never been happier. She blew one more time on her almost-dry nails, admiring the bright color. Miles hadn’t let her buy the pale pink, and she couldn’t be more relieved. Perhaps it was just nail polish. But it was so much more.
It was freedom.
She picked up a Cheez-it from the box on the floral comforter beside her—eating post-dinner snacks in bed, of all things!—and scrolled aimlessly through the social media site on her phone. She’d never been allowed to post on her own page—the press team back home handled those official accounts—but sometimes, she just liked to look around. It felt like briefly peeking through the one clear spot on a foggy window.
She ate another cracker as she browsed through the site. The crackers weren’t bad, but she didn’t quite understand the fuss about them. Miles had bought three boxes for himself earlier that afternoon.
Why did he keep popping into her thoughts? She didn’t quite understand that, either.
She took another cracker—then stopped mid-crunch as she viewed her own name on an ad for a quiz. Who Is Your Royal Equivalent? It was followed by a photo of herself, Princess Catherine, and Princess Meghan. She sighed. Who cared? She wished women would spend more time investing in becoming better versions of themselves, rather than trying to live up to someone else’s title. That was just one lesson she’d be sure to teach her future daughter.
Assuming she got to have one. Because if her only option was being forced to marry some overly privileged, entitled jerk like so many of the “eligible bachelors” her mother had not-so-subtly paraded past her lately, well…
And there was Miles again, crowding her subconscious.
She dropped her phone on the bed and quickly wrapped up the bag of Cheez-its. Unfortunately, the seal on her runaway thoughts wouldn’t close as easily. Miles was sort of a jerk in his own right, wasn’t he? But it was in such an honest way, which was refreshing. There were no games with Miles. He was just a normal guy, with a normal job—perhaps with an abnormal amount of self-confidence—and was the walking epitome of “what you see is what you get.”
Not that he was a candidate for the role of her future daughter’s father.
But it was something to be noted as an admirable trait.
Eleanor walked to the window overlooking the gazebo in the center of town, now blanketed in a quiet darkness, and touched the chilly pane. Her father would thoroughly disapprove of the men her mom was pushing her toward. So much would be different if he were still around. Mom would be different if he were still around. But isn’t that what grief did? Changed things?
Perhaps the queen was doing the best she could. But she insisted on carrying so many burdens she didn’t have to. Burdens Eleanor felt tied to, as if she was stumbling after her mother, out of rhythm, being tugged along against every instinct toward a goal she didn’t share. She had her own goals. Family. Children. A quiet life, contributing toward something that mattered. She wanted to make a difference for future generations. And ironically, in her position of power, she couldn’t. She could only help enforce someone else’s plans.
Her own remained unheard.
The twinkle lights lining the gazebo blurred into one and she blinked to clear the moisture in her eyes. Then a shape began to emerge from beside the wooden structure. She blinked again. A person.
A man.
Walking toward the Snowflake Cottage.
Her heartbeat quickened and she ducked out of sight. She was certainly overreacting. Just because she saw him didn’t mean he had been watching her. Maybe it was just another guest out for a stroll?
In below-thirty temps…
She flattened herself against the wall and gripped the floor-length curtain in one hand, berating herself for not having shut them earlier. It had grown dark while she lounged in bed, and now she was paying the price of being lazy. Her privacy was being invaded. Was it a reporter? Had word gotten out that she was in Tinsel? But the mayor—
Tap. Something hit the window.
Eleanor held her breath, fingers tightening against the burgundy drapes. The wind? A tree branch?
Tap. Tap.
Lines from Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven flitted through her mind. Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; ‘Tis the wind and nothing more. She usually loved American literature, but this recap was coming at the most frightfully inappropriate time.
Because there were no tree branches by her window.
She swallowed hard. She had to back away from the window and shut the curtains, or else she’d be stuck against the wall all night. Besides, she was on the second story. It was highly doubtful someone had propped a ladder on the sill in the last sixty seconds.
She boldly stepped in front of the window, curtains grasped in each hand, and began to swish them closed across the rod. Then she
stopped mid-motion as another tap echoed across the glass. The shape below on the ground registered.
Miles.
Throwing rocks.
Chapter 4
He wasn’t sure why this move was always considered romantic in movies. Or books, for that matter. He didn’t read much, but he figured characters did it in books too.
Liam chucked another rock, wincing at the sharp ping of contact. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through. Mrs. Hough was going to—
The window flung open and Eleanor emerged. “Have you gone mad? You’re going to break the glass. This isn’t even my house!” The Princess of Brightloch hissed, but the chastising effect was lost in the wake of her haphazard ponytail, off-the-shoulder baggy sweatshirt, and black work-out pants.
He tore his eyes from the curve of her shoulder. “Yeah, I guess it is pretty dangerous.” He dropped the remaining rocks he held to the snowy ground and shrugged.
Eleanor braced her arms on the sill and looked down at him, confusion etching her features, illuminated only by the soft lamplight below. His stomach knotted, and suddenly, he sort of understood the whole Romeo and Juliet thing he’d rolled his eyes at all through high school. “Come down.”
She shifted her weight, crossing her arms and rubbing them briskly against the cold. “Excuse me?”
The half-formed idea solidified the second time he said it. “Come down.”
“It’s…bedtime.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You have a curfew, Princess?”
“Well, no, but I’m not—dressed.” She looked down at her outfit and they both knew it was an excuse.
“Sure you are. Throw on a coat and a scarf.” He’d come over initially because of his upsetting conversation with his dad—and because his steak had grown cold and because of the lack of late-night TV options. But mostly because he hadn’t seen Eleanor in about six hours and he didn’t like that.
He didn’t like that he didn’t like it, but the fact remained, there was nothing to like. Except everything about her.
She hesitated in the window, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Come on, I didn’t ask you to jump.”
She snorted back a laugh, and the sound was so unexpected, he couldn’t help but grin. The Princess had let down her guard, and suddenly, his only goal was to make her do it again.
“I’ll get you hot chocolate.” He tossed out the bribe, and she bit like he expected.
“One moment.” The windowsill snapped neatly in place.
She emerged silently from the front porch of the B&B a few moments later, shivering inside a puffy ski jacket she’d bought that afternoon, yoga pants tucked into furry boots. The hunter green scarf around her neck made her eyes appear even more mocha-brown as she stood solemnly before him, hands in her pockets. “Take me to your hot chocolate.”
Her lips looked like berries, and he took a quick step back. “This way. Careful with the ice.” He would have taken her hand to make sure she didn’t slip, but he was thrown off at her proximity and didn’t dare risk it. His dad had gotten in his head with his stupid idea of romancing the Princess for good publicity, that was all. Ridiculous.
And yet, somehow, here he was, tossing rocks at her window a few hours later because he didn’t have her cell phone number. A fact he needed to remedy. He paused on the sidewalk by the gazebo, opened his contacts on his phone, and began typing her name. “By the way—what’s your number?”
She rolled in her lower lip and hesitated.
A mild irritation flared. Partly at himself, for being unable to figure out what he was even doing here, but mostly because he still wondered about the flavor of her lip gloss. “Do you ever not do that?”
She narrowed her eyes, her chin raising slightly. “Do what?”
“Think. Debate. Mull over every possible scenario before making a decision.” He waved the phone at her. “It’s just a phone number. Doesn’t it make sense that I need it, as I’m the one escorting you around every day?”
“Oh. Right. For work.”
Well, not just for work. But she’d figure that out later.
She shrugged, her scarf bunching around her shoulders. “I suppose I’m used to protocol. Having to over-think every word and decision.”
He understood that—in his own way. He pretended to put his phone back in his pocket. “I guess I could just keep resorting to rocks every time I need to get in touch with you.”
“No!” She laughed and grabbed at his arm, rattling off her digits.
He grinned, attempting to ignore how his arm inside his hoodie heated about five hundred degrees at her touch, and tapped in her number. Then he hit save before either of them could change their mind. “This way.”
Snow crunched under their boots as he led the way toward the hot chocolate food truck parked outside the gazebo, near the hardware store.
She walked quickly to keep up with his long strides. “Why did you come by, anyway?”
He stalled. “What do you mean?”
“You simply assumed I might be thirsty?” She shot him a look that clearly stated she didn’t buy it.
He shrugged, his heart thumping, unable and unwilling to tell her the whole truth. “Everyone needs to experience Tinsel after-hours.” That much was true. The town was downright charming at night, and the closer the holidays crept, the more enchanting the whole place became. His uncle, who’d never been the sentimental type as far back as Liam could remember, even admitted there was something magical about Tinsel at Christmas.
Eleanor didn’t press the issue, thankfully. They approached the truck, which was dark, lit only by the string of Christmas lights along the roof extension that stayed on all night.
Disappointment tinged Eleanor’s voice as she pulled up short. “They’re closed.”
“Not to me.” He lifted the welcome mat from the top step that read “Stay Toasty” with a sketch of a piece of bread wearing a scarf, and produced the key he’d seen the truck owner place there a dozen times over the last few weeks. “After you.”
Eleanor gasped, grabbing Miles’ arm to stop him. “That’s breaking and entering.” In that beanie he wore pulled down low over his eyes, he sort of looked the part of a criminal, too.
Miles grinned and waved the key in emphasis. “Not exactly, Princess.”
She stepped back and crossed her arms, ignoring the way her title on his lips sounded more like a nickname than an official appellation. “So, you’re saying you have permission to be here?”
“I’m saying I’m not going to hurt anything.” He smoothly unlocked the door—and dodged her question—before gesturing for her to follow.
She remained firmly planted in the snow as he disappeared inside the baby blue truck.
He poked his head out the door, smiling down at her from the top step. “Plus, I’m a good tipper.” He popped back inside the vehicle, and a moment later, the sound of clanking pans and running water echoed through the silent night.
“Shh!” She clamored up the stairs after him, heart racing. “If you’re going to do something illegal, at least have the decency to be quiet about it.” Panic clawed at her chest. What he was doing might not be technically against the law, but at the least, it would be heavily frowned upon. “Listen, I can’t even be in the vicinity of a scandal. I’m a Princess. The media will—”
“Relax.” Miles glanced at her over his shoulder as he pulled two to-go cups from a cabinet by the small but functional sink. “You’re in Tinsel now, remember? There are no reporters. No newspaper slander. No paparazzi.”
Right. Wasn’t that why she was here?
She leaned against the counter as he poured milk into a steamer. It appeared he’d done that before. “How exactly does that work, anyway? The media ban.” She and Jackson had both spoken on the phone with the town’s mayor before her arrival in Tinsel, to ensure her safety and awareness she was coming. The mayor had been polite and extremely welcoming, but didn’t offer any backstory to the town’s unique quirk.
“According to my Uncle Albert, rumor has it that Mayor Hayden used to be famous himself. But no one can quite figure out who he was. Apparently, he got sick of the limelight and came home for good.” Miles shrugged as he stirred chocolate into their steaming cups. “He has pull—everywhere—and no one dares challenge him. It’s like an understanding of mutual respect. Once people cross over these town lines, they’re safe. It’s a haven.”
A haven. She liked that. Somewhere that felt like home.
She wished Brightloch did, but the longer she stayed away, the more distant it became in her head. Like waking from a dream.
She watched as Miles found a bag of marshmallows and plopped two enormous ones into the top of her drink. Then he handed her the Styrofoam cup. “Hot cocoa, as promised.”
“Let it be known—when I accepted the offer, I didn’t realize I was aiding and abetting.” She inhaled the steam of her drink and the pleasant aroma brought instant comfort. Instant memories of Christmas.
And of her father. She swallowed hard.
Miles wiped the counter clean of dripped milk and set the carton back inside the industrial fridge. “See? Cleaner than when I got here. They’ll think a fairy visited overnight.” He pulled a twenty-dollar bill—twice the amount of two drinks, according to the chalkboard sign outside—and motioned for her to leave the confines of the truck.
He locked the door behind them and replaced the key. “Either that’s the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had, or you’re thinking of something else pretty hard.” He slurped from his cup, his knowing gaze never leaving hers.
She didn’t normally open up to strangers. Her mother had instilled in her the highest sense of propriety. Her burdens were not her people’s—she was to help bear theirs. But something about standing under the stars, holding a hot cup of chocolate—which was the best she’d ever had—made her revisit her ingrained habits. Made her want to think it was okay to share now and then. To pass the emotional load.
She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “My father…” The words stuck.
