Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

  She shifted gears and bumped his jean-clad knee with the stick. “Sorry.”

  He just smiled, his shoulders back and relaxed, chin high. And five o’clock shadow on full display.

  “You know, most guys have their beard grown in before they get to Tinsel.”

  “Most guys?”

  She shrugged, turning away from the square and toward the highway that ran outside of town. “You know, the ones running from photographers. The ones hoping to hide out here for a few weeks.”

  “And you think that’s what I’m doing?”

  Silly boy. She laughed out loud at him. “Of course that’s what you’re doing. You’re on the run, hoping whatever story about you that made the front page of the papers will blow over in time for you to make it home for Christmas.”

  He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his jacket pulling tight. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  “It’s not rocket science, and I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out your story.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as his eyes went wide. “Really?” He choked out the word.

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “You’re on the run from the cops. My guess is bank robber. Although, you do have a posh accent. Art thief? No, your visual taste isn’t good enough for that.”

  “Hey!”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, glad to see his wide smile. “What? You’re offended I don’t think you’re an art thief?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “A Ponzi scheme, isn’t it? You’re one of those high-end brokers that take all their clients’ money. Then again, with that kind of money, you’d probably be in South America by now. Which countries don’t extradite?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Hmm . . . I guess maybe you’re not on the lam then. A real thief would definitely know.”

  He laughed as she turned into the small parking lot of the purple Victorian home, its steep gables and bright windows offering a warm welcome. Once it had been a doctor’s office, but all of its exam rooms had been converted into residences. While Gram didn’t love living on the third floor, she was awfully fond of the refurbished elevator and its scissor gate.

  And Charlie tried to be fond of anything Gram was. For her sake.

  “I feel like I should warn you,” she said as they opted for the steep cement steps over the gently sloping ramp.

  “Of what? The food?”

  “No. The company. Gram is wonderful . . . but she’s . . .” How did one describe a woman so dearly loved and so very ornery at the same time?

  Before Charlie could find the words, the door swung open, and Mrs. Pettington waved them in. “Come in. Come in, Charlie. And you’ve brought a friend. We’re delighted to have you. What’s your name? Oh, Mildred will be just delighted. She talks about you non-stop, you know.”

  Charlie didn’t know how Gram could get a word in edgewise with Mrs. Pettington chattering away, but Gram never complained.

  Andrew shot her a questioning look, and Charlie could do nothing but shrug. After all, he’d invited himself on this lunch adventure.

  The foyer of the home was vast and open to the second floor, a grand staircase straight ahead. Its wooden railings had been carved by a master, so intricate and stunning. But the steps had certainly been worn down over the years. A reception desk to the right no longer housed a nurse but instead was decorated with big red poinsettia plants. And to the left, a simple Christmas tree adorned with strings of popcorn and classic red bows. Probably decorated by the residents.

  Mrs. Pettington pointed them toward the dining room and then wandered off, still prattling on about something. The small round tables were beginning to fill, but Charlie quickly spotted Gram at a table with one of her friends.

  Andrew followed her, and she suddenly realized exactly what her Gram would think upon seeing him. Assumptions would be made. Embarrassment doled out liberally. And all because Charlie had not brought home a gentleman friend since Warner. Then again, she hadn’t really had time. Her years in New York had been about auditions and call backs and praying for a chance to shine. And then she’d been in Tinsel, caring for Gram, keeping the store afloat. She hadn’t had time for a gentleman.

  Not that Andrew was hers. By any stretch of the imagination. But he laughed at her jokes and played along with her plans and generally made for a good companion.

  Gram looked up as Charlie approached, her smile broad. She puffed up her recently set hair with her hands. “What do you think?”

  “Bernadette did a fantastic job.” She leaned over and pressed her lips to her grandmother’s silky cheek. “You look lovely.” Just as she turned to introduce Andrew, Gram spoke up.

  “And who is this dashing young man?”

  “This is my friend Andrew.”

  He stepped forward, not offering his hand but instead bestowing a slight bow on her. “Ma’am. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Why? What have you heard?” Gram’s gaze narrowed over cloudy eyes, the wrinkles of her forehead growing deeper.

  Andrew let out a low chuckle of surprise. “All good things, I assure you. Your granddaughter sings your praises.”

  “Charlotte can’t carry a tune in bucket.”

  Again, his laughter burst out, this time filled with humor. Charlie should have done a better job of preparing him. Except he played along like he’d known Gram forever. “I have no opinion on that. I’ve never heard her sing.”

  “Never heard her sing? What kind of friend are you?” Gram sounded truly offended. “She sings prettier than a bird.”

  He looked over his shoulder as though to confirm which of Gram’s assertions he should believe, and Charlie could only shrug and mouth a sorry. “If we had a piano player to accompany her, you could hear just how good she is.”

  “Oh, no, Gram. No one has time for that. Look, lunch is being served.”

  But her distraction didn’t work. “I can play the piano,” Andrew said.

  All eyes at the table shot to him. “You can?” Charlie didn’t know why she was shocked not to know this. There was so much she didn’t know about him. She just had this strange feeling that she knew him.

  Gram slapped her thigh. “Then we’ll have a concert after lunch.”

  Charlie tried to turn down the request. “No, I don’t think—”

  “Sit down, Charlotte. Lunch is served.”

  Charlie did as she was instructed, and Andrew lowered himself into the seat beside her as a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes was set before him. “Thank you,” he said to Darcy, the teenage girl who couldn’t take her wide eyes off him.

  His eyes stayed focused on his plate, and he visibly shrank into himself. But as soon as the girl left the room, he returned to the man she’d come to know.

  Between bites of the creamy mashed potatoes, Gram asked, “So how did you meet?”

  “Oh, um . . .” Charlie should have been prepared for that question, but as she searched for anything but the truth, Andrew replied.

  “I’m a friend of Warner’s.”

  Noooooooooo.

  The scream inside her head was almost audible, as was the pounding of her heart. Warner was not a safe topic with Gram.

  Tilting her chin down and raising her white eyebrows, Gram glared at him. “You are a friend of Warner’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We met at university.”

  Gram clucked her tongue. “Oxford.” She said it like it was a curse.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Andrew’s eyebrows drew close together, clearly uncertain what was wrong with his choice of university.

  “You know Warner chose Oxford over our Charlotte here? Is that the kind of friend you want?”

  “No.” Charlie waved her white napkin. “Calm down. Warner did not choose Oxford over me. I chose not to go to England with him.”

  “But he asked you to,” Andrew confirmed.

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “My darling had dreams of her own—Broadway dreams
,” Gram huffed. “And if he’d really loved her, he would have gone to New York. There are fine schools on the East Coast. One he’s now teaching at, I should mention.”

  “Gram.” Charlie pressed her hand to her grandmother’s arm. It was so thin she could feel the bones right beneath the skin. “It’s okay. He’s happy, and so am I. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

  “But you’re still alone.”

  “No, I’m not. I have you.”

  Gram forked another bite of her meatloaf into her mouth. “Lot of good that’s doing you. You need a man by your side.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but glance at Andrew, who was clearly fighting a smile.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “We’ve had this conversation more than once.”

  He nodded. Then his gaze darted toward the upright piano along the far wall. “Want to give them a show instead?”

  “Yes,” she breathed on a sigh of relief.

  He pulled out her chair and then followed her across the room. Several sheets of music sat on the stand, and she picked them up. “Some Christmas carols?”

  He nodded.

  “These arrangements look a little complicated.”

  “I’ll manage. You?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  So he settled onto the bench, pumped the pedals a few times, and stretched his fingers. He touched a few of the ivories, which were only slightly out of tune. And then he ran his fingers up and down a few scales. “Ready?”

  She nodded, and he played the intro to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” The music filled the room, and all twenty residents looked up from their meals. It wasn’t quite the lights of Broadway, but she belted out the words like an entire theater depended on her voice.

  It had been years since she’d sung anywhere except in the shower or on Sunday mornings at church, but her tone was true, her pitch spot on.

  Andrew’s playing was too. She leaned over him to check the lyrics on the second verse, resting her hand on his shoulder. He looked up and smiled at her, the sheet music completely unnecessary. It was so easy to fall into rhythm with him, and soon they’d gone through “Joy to the World” and “Silent Night” too.

  As Andrew pulled his fingers from the keys and the last notes drifted into silence, the room erupted with applause.

  “That’s my granddaughter,” Gram announced. “And her friend.”

  The room cheered again, and Charlie dipped her chin toward them. The praise was nice, but better than any of it was this strange connection with Andrew. She’d never have pegged him as a professional pianist, but he had to have had years of training.

  “Thank you,” she said, for his ears alone.

  “That was more fun than I’ve ever had at a piano.”

  And then Gram was calling them, urging them back into the fray of conversation.

  “Come here.” She pointed at Andrew and crooked her finger. He stepped forward at the command. “Closer. These cataracts make it hard to see.” He leaned over. “Closer, my boy.”

  The term hardly seemed fitting since he was probably nearly thirty if he was about the same age as she and Warner. But he didn’t seem to mind, leaning in until there were only inches between them. Gram’s eyes roved over his face, seeming to store every angle and valley in her memory.

  Charlie couldn’t blame her. She’d already spent more than a few minutes memorizing his features, the expressions in his eyes, how the curve of his mouth changed when he found something truly funny.

  Gram pinched his cheek and then tapped it twice. “My, but you look like your grandfather.”

  Charlie clapped a hand over each of her own cheeks as they flushed with warmth. “Oh, Gram. I think you’re confused.”

  “Not at all. We were all in love with his grandfather, all my girlfriends and me. We dreamed of traveling to Italy or the south of France and hoped we’d meet him on a beach there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlie stared at her grandmother, whose eyes were focused. A laughing smile danced across her aged features.

  “Oh, you must be more blind than I am. Can’t you see how very much he resembles his grandfather?”

  Andrew’s head dipped, his mouth forming nothing but a grim line. But he didn’t deny whatever it was that Gram seemed to know.

  “His grandfather?” Charlie could only parrot the words. “Who’s his grandfather?”

  “King Alexander.”

  Gram said the words with such conviction. She had no doubt to their truth. Which made Andrew . . .

  “Don’t you know your friend? Your pianist? He’s Prince Andrew of Marvonia.”

  Chapter 6

  Charlie marched out of the dining room, through the entryway, and straight outside. And then she leaned over the porch railing as her stomach threatened to empty itself on the leafless bushes below.

  Prince Andrew? Prince Andrew? Oh, Lord, she was such a fool. He’d looked familiar because she’d seen him in a dozen magazines at the salon. She’d just never paid much attention to them. Or him apparently.

  She pulled out her phone and quickly searched his name. Prince Andrew of Marvonia. His face appeared in a grid of squares. All except one image. She tapped on it, and a picture popped up. His face was calm in the distance, but the other person in the picture—a young woman—raged at him as something flew from her outstretched hand. She zoomed in on the image and could clearly make out a ring. And the accompanying headline told her everything she needed to know about why he was in Tinsel.

  Alexandra Ends Royal Engagement Amid Rumors of Infidelity

  The door behind her quickly opened and closed, but she didn’t need to turn around to know who had joined her.

  “Listen, Charlie, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “I feel so stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” Had she been the only person in town not to realize who he was? Even the girl who’d served their lunch had clearly known. Smoothing her fingers over her temples, she tried to massage away the tension building there, but it was no use.

  “Don’t . . . please don’t feel stupid. The truth is, I’m glad you didn’t know me. It was nice to be treated—”

  “No-no-no.” She wailed into her hands, trying for some humor but finding only endless reams of embarrassing memories. “I’ve been so casual with you. I touched you! You’re not supposed to touch royals. Like that time Beyonce hugged the Duchess of Sussex. Am I going to be arrested for manhandling you?”

  He laughed softly before sidling up to her along the porch railing, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel his warmth. Close enough that she wanted to lean into it. Oh, how she wanted to lean into it. Almost as much as she wanted to burrow into the ground until everyone forgot what an idiot she was.

  “First of all, I don’t think there’s been any manhandling. And second, I don’t think there are any laws against it in the U.S.”

  “But I laughed at your designs.”

  He shrugged. “They were bad. They deserved to be laughed at.”

  “I’m just so embarrassed.” She buried her face further into her hands, wishing it was enough to hide from him, knowing it wasn’t. “I accused you of being a criminal.”

  He leaned his hands onto the railing, right in her line of vision. “I thought you were kidding. But if you make a habit of giving rides to strangers you think might be dangerous, you’ve got bigger worries than me.”

  “Of course, I was kidding. And now I’ve looked you up, and—” She could do nothing but shove the picture on her phone in his direction.

  Andrew hung his head and closed his eyes. But it didn’t help. That picture had ingrained itself on the backs of his eyelids, and he saw it whether he wanted to or not.

  “Is this true? I mean, I’ve known you for about three days, and it seems completely out of character for you.”

  Charlie was the first person to ask him if the story was true. She was the first person to ask him anything about the story, actually. Funny how that went.
When someone saw a tabloid article they wanted to be true, it always was. But not for Charlie.

  He opened his eyes but couldn’t quite bring himself to look at her, even though he could feel her gaze on his face. So he stared at the houses across the street. Even in the bright afternoon sun, the simple strands of colorful lights following the line of the gutters stood out. Open curtains displayed rich evergreens through front windows, and he wondered what kind of gifts were tucked beneath the lowest branches. Probably toys and games and screens galore. All the things he’d dreamed of as a child.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to put his speech together in his mind. His father had taught him never to go in unprepared—especially when he was expected to give remarks. And Charlie was most certainly waiting for remarks.

  “It’s not easy dating a royal.”

  She grunted with displeasure, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was directed at him or at Alexandra. He had a feeling she might not like the truth, so he hurried on.

  “I met Lady Alexandra through a mutual friend slash matchmaker. Our friend insisted that we’d be perfect together, and the expectations of my title are . . .”

  “You have to provide an heir.” She said it so clinically that he wondered if she’d already talked with his mother.

  “Yes. Exactly. And my mother is more than eager for me to settle down.”

  “Right. Because you’re such a playboy . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she cocked her head to the side. “Except you’re not. Are you? The pictures of you in the magazines are never of you partying late at night. What do you do with your time?”

  He smiled then, finally turning to meet her gaze. “I have responsibilities—ones that I’m avoiding for the first time in my life right now.”

  “Oh, so you are a rebel.” She laughed and nudged his shoulder with her own. Then she froze and took a step away from him. “Sorry.”