by Liz Johnson
Miles raised an eyebrow and waited, turning to rest his back against the truck siding. She joined him, finding it easier to enjoy his presence without his piercing gaze reading hers. He saw too much.
She sipped her drink, then found her voice. Or perhaps it was her courage. “My father died when I was twelve. Christmas was always our thing.”
He nodded slowly, not saying anything, but letting the admission hover gently between them, like fresh snowflakes searching for a spot to land.
She took a deep breath. “Some years are harder than others.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
Was it? It seemed lately like that answer changed every time she evaluated it. She licked her dry lips. “I needed a break. And I need to prove a few things.”
“To…your mother?”
She nodded. “And to myself.”
“I understand.” He coughed. “I mean, I can imagine. You know. That’s got to be rough—being in the spotlight like you are.”
“It’s never been the same since my dad passed.” Everything got harder after that. She cast a sideways glance at Miles. “Are you close with your dad?”
He snorted. “Hardly.”
“Do you talk often? You said earlier he doesn’t live around here, right?”
Miles stiffened, pushing away from the side of the truck. “Our relationship is pretty complicated. But no, he’s not in Tinsel. Just my uncle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked toward the gazebo, the tiny lights burning steady in the quiet darkness. “I’d give anything to make Christmas cookies with my dad, one more time.”
Miles rigidly sipped the end of his cocoa. “Let’s just say my father isn’t exactly the cookie-making type of dad.”
Something had shifted. He wasn’t the easy-going Miles who had left a generous tip for contraband hot chocolate a moment ago. His relationship with his parents must be worse than he let on. She chose her next words carefully. “That’s unfortunate. I believe everyone should be the cookie-making type.”
“You think so, huh?” Miles held up his empty cup. “Should everyone be the illegally making hot chocolate type?”
She raised one eyebrow at him. “That’s highly debatable.”
“Interesting.” He bent over and scooped loose snow into the Styrofoam. “Well, should everyone be the snowball throwing type?” He tapped the bottom of the cup in his palm to pack it.
She backed up two steps, then three, simultaneously grateful that easy-going Miles was back but dreading what was inevitably about to occur. “Most certainly not.”
“Which type do you think I am?” He turned the cup over in his hand and palmed the instant snowball.
She bit back a shriek and darted away, toward the gazebo. He followed at a brisk pace. She paused and held up her arm as a shield. “I command you to stop.”
He grinned as he continued to approach. “I think you’re a little out of your jurisdiction, Princess.”
She should have known that wouldn’t work. Miles seemed completely unaffected by her title. He was entirely comfortable around her, whereas most people treated her like—well, like royalty. Famous. Fragile. He treated her as if she was the same as him.
Which meant she was probably about to get a snowball in the face.
She hid behind one of the gazebo columns, daring a peek around the wooden frame. He aimed and tossed, and she ducked. The snow slammed into the post and she made a quick escape. Within seconds, she formed her own snowball and lobbed it toward him.
It hit his chest, dead center, and sent a smattering of snow down the front of his dark hoodie. His beanie shifted, revealing a few strands of dark hair across his forehead. He looked up with a half growl and a menacing grin, one that released a storm of butterflies in her stomach. “I’m pretty sure this means war.”
And she was fairly certain a brand new one had just been declared in her heart.
Chapter 5
Eleanor was grateful Mrs. Hough had provided her a key to the B&B along with a key to her individual room. At the time, she’d thought that was unnecessary—as if she, a foreign visitor to Tinsel, had any reason to be out after hours and require it.
Tonight, she’d needed it.
She eased the door open, not wanting to wake any of the other guests or the sweet B&B owner, and pushed the side button of her phone to check the time. The light glowed excruciatingly bright in the darkness of the lobby. Eleven-thirty.
Their snowball fight had lasted quite a while, much longer than the hot chocolate. Out of breath, they strolled the town square while Miles filled her in on the different shops they passed. He knew that the vintage vinyls were cheaper in-store than on Amazon, that the bakery discounted their unsold treats after 3 p.m. each afternoon, and that every Friday, the coffee bar played only Christmas music and it made the barista grumpy and therefore the coffee bitter.
He’d showed her pictures of his dog, Digs, running on the beach, and she’d shared photos of Brightloch and the castle where she lived. He’d talked about his dad a little more, never in detail, but alluding to wishing their dynamic growing up had been more like that of her and her father’s. He’d mentioned his sister and his natural inclination to protect her, and she’d shared how she’d always wished she’d had a sibling to commiserate with.
They’d connected—a fact that was equally as startling as that first snowball had been.
Eleanor headed for the stairs, shivering from the wet spots still soaking her clothes. The moment her foot touched the bottom step, a creak echoed through the dim lobby. Immediately, a light flickered on from the common room across the front hall.
A gentle voice rang through the stillness. “Hello? Who’s there?”
Mrs. Hough.
Eleanor planted her foot back on the first floor, feeling sheepish even though she’d done nothing wrong. She wasn’t in Brightloch anymore. If she’d been caught sneaking back into the castle at this time of night, unescorted, that’d be an entirely different story.
She raised her voice slightly to be heard in the other room. “It’s Eleanor, ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mrs. Hough shuffled in fuzzy pink slippers into the lobby, a wide smile on her gracefully aging face. Her hair, dark with an even smattering of gray, was still perfectly coifed even at this time of night. Her shapeless plaid house dress hung loose around her frame. “Don’t be silly, dear.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Oh, my. Is that too forward? You’re such a nice young lady, I forget your position. It’s just such an honor to house you.”
Eleanor smiled. “Not at all.” In fact, it was comforting, in a grandmotherly sort of way.
“It’s mighty cold out this evening.” Mrs. Hough set her cup of tea, the bag string still dangling from the side, on the check-in desk and reached to take Eleanor’s coat. “And you’ve covered in snow! You must be freezing.”
Before she could protest, Mrs. Hough had ushered her into the common room and positioned Eleanor in front of the roaring fireplace by the recliner. “There. That’ll warm you up in no time.”
It did help. Eleanor held her hands before the rush of heat and soaked in the warmth. “Thank you.” The touch of mothering felt nice, and for the first time since arriving in America, she thought she might miss her own mom. It’d been so hard to separate the queen from her mother these past few years. Maybe if she’d been more of a mom and less of a title, she wouldn’t feel so far away—and in a way that had nothing to do with physical distance.
All the more reason to start a new life—to create an environment of family and home that wasn’t political or dutiful above all else. She wanted her kids to have Christmas-cookie memories, not hide-your-handkerchief-from-the-public-eye memories. She wanted them to live in an environment where they could have dreams and pursue them, and be heard.
Not be silenced, as she was.
Eleanor rubbed her arms a few times to warm up and admired the row of snow globes, all different sizes and colors, lining a
shelf above the fireplace. Mrs. Hough must collect them. There were probably twenty or more, some themed, some classy, some kitschy.
“Did you get lost out there?” Mrs. Hough joined her by the fireplace, extending the jacket toward the flames to dry it, rubbing her hand briskly over the damp sleeves.
“Not exactly.” Eleanor hedged, wondering how much to share. Would it seem inappropriate to admit she was out with Miles? This was America, after all. She didn’t exactly have a curfew. And he was just her chauffeur…
Well, he used to be, anyway. After tonight, she wasn’t so sure about the “just” part. Her stomach knotted on cue. Oh dear. That wouldn’t do at all. Developing an infatuation for a man on this trip had not been on her carefully planned agenda.
Mrs. Hough winked at her as she continued to dry Eleanor’s coat. “I imagine the company was pleasant, then.”
Eleanor’s arms slipped to her sides and she turned away from the fireplace hearth. “How did you—”
Mrs. Hough bustled over to the loveseat and draped Eleanor’s jacket across the back. “Now, dear, you don’t have to tell an old lady about your love life, but it’d be a shame to let some good old-fashioned romance go to waste.”
Eleanor almost choked on her cough. “I don’t have a love life.”
“Well, now, I imagine that’s even more of a shame.”
Maybe she could share with Mrs. Hough.
Before she knew it, she was sitting on the opposite end of the brown leather couch, feet curled up underneath her and tucked beneath a fluffy white blanket while Mrs. Hough pressed a cup of tea into her hands. “It was Miles, wasn’t it? Albert’s nephew.”
Eleanor nodded, pausing to take a small sip of the steaming brew. This was the second hot beverage she’d enjoyed in good company tonight. Tinsel had been a little lonely, and while she’d partially come to Tinsel in the first place to escape the pressure of socialization, maybe she’d had too much of a good thing. “He’s my driver.”
“Seems like a nice boy.” Mrs. Hough nodded her approval. “I see him around Tinsel. Leaving big tips in the barista’s jar, picking up trash on the sidewalk when he thinks no one is looking. He’s a kind soul.”
“He’s the only person I know right now, is all.” Eleanor couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince Mrs. Hough—or herself. She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “We got off to a bit of a rocky start. He can be a little sarcastic.” And blunt. And arrogant.
But tonight, he’d shown the side she suspected lurked all along—the side Mrs. Hough was speaking of. Sensitivity, compassion, generosity. Any man who had a photo of his golden retriever as his phone wallpaper had to have a soft side.
“And now you know me.” Mrs. Hough patted her leg through the blanket. “And there’s plenty of other friendly folk in Tinsel. The barista at the coffee shop, for starters. Not to mention the other handful of guests here at the Snowflake Cottage. But just give yourself some time. How long are you here?”
Wasn’t that the question of the hour? The queen had insisted she return after New Year’s, to attend the first of the year meetings with the council. She’d not technically agreed, nor had she stated otherwise—verbally anyway. At this moment, she had no desire to go back to life in the spotlight. But her mother would be expecting her after the holidays. And Jackson, too. Despite being staff, he was the closest to family she had outside of her mother. “I’m not sure yet.”
Mrs. Hough nodded, as if a princess from another country with no plans to return to said country was completely normal. “You’re welcome here as long as you’d like.”
“I do enjoy it. Tinsel is a little like living in a snow globe.” Eleanor sipped from her tea, appreciating the warmth seeping inside out. Though, truly, Mrs. Hough had a little to do with that, too.
The kind B&B owner smiled. “I’ve lived here twenty-five years and have no intention of leaving. It’s such a unique place. You should see the lines of tourists at the post office every year, waiting to get their Christmas cards stamped with Tinsel, Vermont.” She chuckled. “And have you heard of the Christmas Day parade yet?”
Eleanor nodded. “Miles mentioned it.”
“It’s always a big time. The mayor comes out and leads the charge in a horse-drawn carriage, and shop-owners and city councilmen drive decorated floats or nice cars and throw goodies to the crowd, while holiday music plays.” She beamed. “All of my favorite things are right here. It’s like that song—we’ve got raindrops and roses, snowflakes and silver white winters…sleigh bells and apple strudels.”
Eleanor grinned. “My dad used to sing that song every Christmas while we decorated the tree.”
“It’s a good song.”
She sobered. “My father was a good man.”
Mrs. Hough patted Eleanor’s leg again. “I remember seeing the news, when your father passed all those years ago. He seemed like a wise king.”
She rolled in her lower lip and nodded.
“I bet he’d be proud of you.”
Would he? Unexpected tears pricked her eyelids. “But I sort of ran away.”
“I don’t see it that way.” Mrs. Hough leaned back against the couch cushion. “You’re taking a holiday. Everyone needs a vacation—even royalty.”
“But what if its more than a vacation? What if I just…don’t go back?” She’d be deserting her people—the crown—her own mother. The tears pressed a little harder. “I love my family and my country, but Brightloch doesn’t seem to fit who I’m becoming. Or at least, who I want to become.”
“And who is that?”
Eleanor inhaled deeply, pressing back the emotion to listen to her heart. “Someone with a voice that is heard.”
“Does that mean right now, you believe your voice is stifled?”
“Stifled, yes—and ignored, if heard at all.” She shook her head. “But even if or when I’m made queen one day, I don’t know that I want the role. I want a family—a normal life, where my kids can be kids and not have to deal with the issues I did.”
“I see. Those are complicated choices, and I’d imagine there are no easy answers.” Mrs. Hough tilted her head. “But the good news is, they don’t have to be answered tonight. Would you like more tea?”
“I don’t think so.” Eleanor handed over her empty cup. It felt good to vent, especially to someone safe who seemed to truly care. “I appreciate the listening ear.”
Mrs. Hough touched her shoulder as she stood. “Anytime. Don’t you forget, now. You’re a smart woman with a lot to offer—whether that’s the people of Brightloch, or a small Christmas town in America.”
“Thank you.” The tears dissipated, and the compliment warmed her far deeper than the tea.
Mrs. Hough called over her shoulder as she shuffled to the kitchen with their mugs. “These things have a way of working out, you know.”
Maybe. Eleanor traced her finger over the thread pattern in the blanket. She wasn’t sure what that would look like, but Mrs. Hough’s words of wisdom resonated. She didn’t have to know right now. As hard as it was to let go of the anxiety, she should enjoy her holiday—for however long it lasted.
Miles’ teasing grin and mischievous eyes from their snowball fight filled her mind, and her stomach flip-flopped. Maybe enjoying herself wouldn’t be quite as difficult as she feared.
As usual when there were no customers around, the TV in Uncle Albert’s shop blared the news. Whether his uncle had a fetish for the weather channel or just liked staying on top of things, Liam wasn’t sure. But he could bet every weekday morning at 8:30 a.m., his uncle would be parked in front of the TV in the back of his shop, one hip braced against the side of his desk as he drank coffee almost too dark to be deserving of the term liquid.
Liam had learned over the past few weeks to tune it out. He went about clocking in, organizing his schedule for the day—which here recently involved driving Eleanor around and making himself crazy with looking forward to seeing her—and making sure the small fleet of cars had full t
anks of gas and aired tires for the other drivers. The usual.
But he couldn’t tune out his name.
“…famously wealthy Neal family.”
Liam set down the gas can he’d been about to carry into the garage. Albert picked up the remote and nudged the volume up a few clicks, as if the entire town couldn’t already hear it.
A reporter with a news station airing from nearby Burlington, Vermont, stood on a street corner in a dark coat, microphone clenched in a gloved hand. “I’m Darren Hicks, Channel 8. Here with me today is a victim from one of Vincent Neal’s latest ventures.”
Liam clenched his teeth. This couldn’t be good.
A round woman with frizzy blonde hair stood next to the reporter. She grabbed for the microphone Darren extended toward her and held on with both hands, even though he refused to relinquish it completely. “I trusted Mr. Neal. He’s an important figure in this country, you know, and makes a lot of money. He’s smart! So when he advertised that new investment opportunity, I told my Henry we should jump on board.”
The reporter wrestled the microphone back from her. “How much did you lose in Mr. Neal’s Ponzi scheme?”
She leaned in, her hair falling in front of her eyes as she practically shouted into the microphone. “Three thousand dollars.”
“That’s all?” Albert snorted. “Lucky.”
Liam cut his eyes to his uncle, then back to the TV. His uncle hadn’t been a part of this latest issue, but he’d had his share of burns in the past.
“That might not be very much to Mr. Neal, but that was all of our savings. Every last dime.” The woman shook her head. “So much for Christmas.”
“And that’s not all.” Darren’s face grew grim. “Callers from all over the country are reporting that Neal’s latest scam has also affected them in multiple monetary ways.” He rattled off an address for their news website, where viewers could check the stats for themselves. “One caller from New York clarified yesterday evening that they had signed up for the investment to fund their daughter’s extensive medical bills. Now, they’re left with nothing.”
