Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

  Mayor Hayden’s lips made a lemon twist, and his face turned red, especially his forehead under a few wisps of gray hair. Then his mouth opened and closed, but no sound made it out.

  That’s when Andrew stepped forward. He plucked a single electric candle from a bin on the end of the first aisle and asked, “Bill me for it?” Ripping open the cardboard box, he pulled out the white candle with fake wax dripping down the sides. He set it on the corner of the windowsill and plugged in the cord. The orange flame flickered, the tiny light hardly visible against a wall filled by the sun.

  But Andrew turned around, dusting his hands together, a proud gleam in his eye. “There. All set. Thanks, Mayor.”

  And with that, he ushered the grumbling man out the door and flipped the sign to Closed.

  They were still laughing as they climbed into her truck a few minutes later. “Brilliant,” she said around a guffaw. “How did you come up with that?”

  He shrugged. “I figured the fastest way to get rid of him would be to do what he asked. At least the bare minimum.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll stay away forever,” she said as she drove past the backside of the Welcome to Tinsel sign and toward the highway. “But thank you for today. I’ll remember the look on his face for years.”

  They sat in silence for a long time after that, only the rattle of the old truck and the smell of evergreen that was anything but artificial to keep them company.

  Finally Andrew turned his gaze away from the row of pine trees along the roadside and stared at her. “Why don’t you put up some decorations at the store?”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s obviously a bee in the mayor’s bonnet, which—don’t get me wrong—is highly entertaining. But what’s keeping you from joining in the festivities?” He licked the corner of his mouth, his gaze narrow and intense. “I mean, you have no problem helping me decorate the Hillstone’s. Why not your own store?”

  She sighed. When he said it like that, it sounded so simple. It would be easy enough to get Hayden off her back if she’d just put a few lights in the window. But . . . She had to dig deep to find the words to make it make sense.

  “I took over the store eight years ago—right after Thanksgiving. Right after my dad died. And that was a really terrible time for me. Like, I can’t begin to explain how bad it was.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need him to. There was nothing he could say that would make that time any less awful. But his silence spoke volumes. It reminded her that he was a safe place to share the truth.

  “Gram got me through it. Maybe it was because she needed me, and right about then, I just needed to be needed. Or maybe it was because she let me grieve. She was grieving too in her own way. The loss of her son was different than the loss of a father, but grief doesn’t discriminate. It just hurts. And that hurt needs to be felt.

  “Gram and I felt it sharp as a blade for a long time. It’s not like the pain ever goes away, but it becomes less sharp, more of a dull ache. And then we began remembering the happy times we’d shared, the sweet memories he’d insisted we make.

  “And then the day-to-day of running the store and making sure Gram took her medications and ate healthy meals became my whole life. I didn’t have time to miss the life I’d given up in New York.” She paused, not quite sure how to connect that story to the ridiculous window that she just didn’t feel like decorating.

  “Until now,” he said.

  She took her eyes off the road just long enough to meet Andrew’s gaze.

  “Now that your grandmother is taken care of, you have all this time to think about your dreams and your past and what you missed out on.”

  “In part, yes. But also, decorating the window was something that Gram and I did together. And decorating it by myself this year feels like the final reminder that I’m alone.”

  “Could you ask your grandmother to help you? I mean, she just lives a few blocks away.”

  Charlie chuckled at the mental image of Gram stringing lights around the window. “Oh, she’d be happy to help. But keeping her off a ladder would take more strength than I could muster. And with my luck, she’d end up falling off and needing to get her other knee replaced.”

  His half smile told her he could picture it too, but he didn’t say another word.

  She wanted him to. She wanted him to say something very specific. Something about how he’d like to help her decorate the stupid window.

  But that would only postpone the problem. Because next year she’d be back in the same spot.

  “So is that why you came back from New York? I heard you sing. You’re good. You could have made it.”

  The warmth of his compliment was better than the heater, filling her chest and radiating all the way to the tips of her fingers. “I did make it.”

  “What? Am I in the presence of a bona fide Broadway star?”

  “Shut up, Prince.”

  He laughed with her but nodded for her to continue.

  “I didn’t originate a role or anything, but I played Glinda in Wicked for nearly a year.”

  “Whoa.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “So, why didn’t you go back? Why not sell the store, get your grandmother set up in a nice home, and go back to the theater?”

  Her sigh was a little sad, a little self-deprecating. And she wished they were closer to the orchard. But there were at least fifteen more miles of winding two lane roads before they arrived, and there was no way she could dodge his question for that long.

  Maybe it was better for him to know, better to tell him the truth about the things she regretted. The things he’d eventually find out if he ever searched her name on the internet.

  “The truth is, I didn’t like that version of me very well. I don’t think you would have either.”

  He reached for her hand, which rested on the bench seat at her side. Squeezing her fingers, he whispered, “I can’t believe that would be true.”

  “Trust me when I tell you that I . . . the spotlight brought out a side of me that I’m not proud of.”

  “I do trust you, but I can’t believe you’d do anything—”

  “I got the role I wanted, but I ruined every other relationship in my life in the process.”

  He shook his head. Hard. “I know that’s not true. Your Gram loves you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  “Not if you—”

  This was her chance. If princes could take confession, then maybe this was her chance to absolve herself of the many sins she’d committed in pursuit of stardom. “First of all, I broke Warner’s heart. I turned him down when he proposed, when he asked me to go to England with him.”

  “Did you love him?” The words sounded like they were trying to strangle Andrew, but if he could ask them, she could answer.

  “Not enough. I loved him because he was part of my life—he’d always been part of my life. But I didn’t love him with a death-do-us-part love. I didn’t want to lose him, but I didn’t love him enough to sacrifice for him. And isn’t that what love is, laying your life down for the other person?”

  “But there has to be room in love to encourage the other person in their dreams, right?”

  “Maybe. But I wasn’t willing to compromise any of my dreams for his.

  “And then there was my roommate Marianne. She was my first friend in New York, and it was never an issue that we were going out for the same parts. But when she got a call back for Wicked, well, I thought she was better than me. And I craved that spotlight. I wanted that recognition. So I—” She gulped back the bile that still rose in her throat at the memory. “Another friend of mind said he’d leak a story to some New York theater magazines that she had gone to rehab the year before and might be relapsing. And I let him. I knew it was all a lie, but by the time the social media posts were live, no one cared how much truth there was to it. I tried to have it corrected, but it had taken on a life of its own. Even whe
n social media posts are taken down, they still live on the internet somewhere.”

  “Wow.” He leaned back and scrubbed a hand down his face, his palms rasping against his whiskers.

  “Trust me, you can’t say or think anything worse than I’ve thought about myself.” She shot him a quick glance. “I got that role, but Marianne went on to star in a new show. She was nominated for a Tony Award, and I heard she got married. But I heard none of that from her because I ruined our friendship.

  “And then there was the call from Gram saying that my dad was getting worse. She asked me to come home, but I had a show, and there was a rumor that some big pop star was going to be there—along with the paparazzi.

  “I wanted my face in those magazines. I wanted my name in the headlines. And I was sure my dad wasn’t really that bad. So I stayed in New York.

  “And I missed my chance to say goodbye.” The backs of her eyes burned, and she forced herself to face the blurry road.

  Andrew was silent for so long that she wondered if he’d even heard her—except for the gentle squeeze of his hand on hers. Finally he whispered, “So you’ve stayed in Tinsel because you’re afraid of making similar mistakes?”

  She bit back the refusal that jumped to the tip of her tongue and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if people change. I don’t know if I’ve changed. I just know that I don’t have to worry about it, as long as I’m in Tinsel.”

  “Because it’s safe.” He said it like it was a bad thing, like she’d been hiding or something.

  “Well, you know how it is. People come to Tinsel to hide out from the press. Maybe I’m just in it for the long term.”

  The line of his lips bunched to the side, and his forehead wrinkled. “Here’s what I know. You were kind to me before you knew that I come with press. You’ve been kind to me since. And you were what, twenty back then?”

  “Twenty-one. And immaturity isn’t an excuse.”

  “But maturity can bring change. I don’t think you’re the same person you were ten years ago.”

  It was a lovely thought, but only if it was true. And she couldn’t be sure of that. It was just safer to stay where she was.

  Just then she saw the maroon sign on the side of the road that pointed to Cranberry Orchard. She slowed down and pulled onto the gravel road, patches of it still covered in snow. Rows of trees on each side were bare of fruit and leaves and shivering in the cold, victims of the winter frost.

  “How are we going to get apples here?” he asked, eyeing the same trees suspiciously.

  “We’re going to get the last of the season.”

  Chapter 8

  Andrew could tell the exact moment that Bonnie Brighton, owner of Cranberry Orchard, recognized him for who he was. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew bright. And she did a strange little curtsy.

  Thank goodness for Charlie, who took Bonnie by the arm. “We’re here for the last of the season.”

  “Of course. I . . .” Bonnie’s gaze drifted back to him. “We save a few bushels from our last harvest and put them in the cooler for holiday baking. They’re a local favorite. Everyone makes apple pie and apple crisp and apple cider and apple dumplings.”

  He nodded politely but couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise if he’d wanted to.

  “You know what I think?” Charlie interrupted. “I think Andrew would really like to taste some of your homemade cider.”

  “Oh, yes! We have that in the cooler too. I’ll bring them up. Be right back.” Bonnie disappeared through a door behind the counter. From the outside, the building looked like the quintessential farm barn. Big red sides, black roof, and wooden doors that slid open. But inside was a quaint country store, which sold everything from hand towels to coffee mugs to apple ice cream—which was apparently a big hit in the summer. Not so much in December.

  Everything wore the Cranberry Orchard logo, and he leaned over a stack of aprons on a wooden table to get a better look at the embroidered image, which had an A made in the shape of an apple. “So, where are the cranberries?”

  Charlie shook her head. “No cranberries. Just apples.”

  “Then what’s with the name?”

  She frowned, and her gaze stayed somewhere in the neighborhood of his knees. “I don’t know. I never asked.” She quickly turned toward the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind her.

  “Charlie?”

  “Hm?” She found a sudden interest in a white bag of apple cobbler mix, turning it over and over in her hands, never even looking in his direction.

  “Charlie, I’m glad you told me about your past.”

  Her face crinkled, eyes still trained on that ridiculous mix. “I’m sorry I dumped that on you. I’ve actually never told anyone else all of that before.”

  “Then I’m honored.” He stepped closer to her, and she shuffled back. “Truly.”

  “Thanks for listening. But I wouldn’t blame you if . . .”

  “If what? We all have parts of our past we’d rather never happened.”

  “Yes, but most people . . .”

  “Don’t make a bad decision that hurts someone?” he asked. Then he raised his hand, because he had to own up to that one. “Dated Alexandra. And made her very angry—although I don’t think I broke her heart.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

  “What then? Gotten mixed up with the press?” He again raised his hand. “I know the first thing you found when you searched for me was that Alexandra story.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I wish I could change those decisions.”

  “Maybe regret means you’ve changed. Maybe regret is part of coming to terms with the person you want to be, not just the one you were.” He stepped even closer to her, and once again she moved away.

  Suddenly she yelped, her arms flapping wildly as she stumbled backward. He reached for her without thinking, hauling her up against his chest, his arm around her waist. Her eyes were huge, her breaths coming in quick gasps.

  “Sorry,” she said. They both looked down at the stool she’d tripped on, then back up to where their gazes met.

  “Are you all right?” His voice came out a little lower than usual, a little more gravelly. And his insides were a mess that he couldn’t name.

  “Yes. Fine. Thank you.” Her words rushed out, but she continued to stare unblinking. Then her gaze flickered for the briefest moment to the spot where her hand rested on his chest. Right over his pounding heart. It thundered beneath his ribs, in his ears, at the base of his throat. Not because she’d nearly fallen.

  But because she was so near.

  He’d never once felt this kind of physical reaction to Alexandra. Or any of the other ladies and countesses and royal wannabes he’d been set up with.

  How had he spent nearly thirty years without ever feeling this before? He couldn’t name it, but he could feel it in the way his arm tightened about her and the tiny gasp she made when he did. He could feel it in the fire that burned in his chest and the way she both stoked and soothed that flame.

  And suddenly having her this close wasn’t nearly close enough. He leaned toward her, and she ran a hand down his arm.

  “Is this okay?” she whispered.

  He knew she referenced keeping her hands off a royal, but still he said, “No.”

  Despite his arm around her waist, she tried to jump back. “Did I cross a royal boundary?”

  “I meant that it was better than okay.”

  She slapped his arm. “Well, talk faster next time.”

  “Next time?” His voice was low and lilting as he closed some of the distance between them. “You want there to be a next time?”

  She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, and she chewed on the corner of her lip. He’d thought her cute from the first time he’d met her, but this close she was like a painting he’d just noticed, a melody both new and familiar.

  She shot him a coy smile. “I’d really like for there to be a first time.”

  His hea
rt slammed against his ribcage again, but he dipped even closer until there was only a breath between their lips. With his free hand, he brushed his thumb against her cheek, all satin and smooth lines. Her eyes drifted closed, and she made a sweet sound in the back of her throat—the same one she’d made when she’d eaten that scone.

  His breathing turned shallow and quick, fire racing through his veins. He knew this was dangerous territory, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Charlie.” He said her name, the whisper all that was between them.

  Until someone cleared their throat.

  Charlie jumped away like she’d been burned, and he was forced to drop his arms to his side, forced to hold off on the kiss that he’d been craving. They turned to face Bonnie, whose raised eyebrows and knowing glances had absolutely nothing to do with the cart of apples she pulled behind her.

  With a self-conscious chuckle, Charlie tried for a smile, but it fell flat. Andrew was certain he was supposed to step in and save the day, but his tongue was tied, his mind squarely on other pursuits. And the silence hung around them, cold and oppressive.

  It was Bonnie who finally spoke up, breaking the awkwardness. “So . . . the apples?”

  They bought a bushel—Bonnie had said it was forty pounds—and he loaded them into the cab on the bench seat between driver and passenger after Charlie suggested that they didn’t want the apples to freeze in the bed of her truck.

  More likely she wanted some sort of barrier between them.

  He couldn’t blame her. Space was good after nearly making a mistake that could ruin a friendship. Then again, he wouldn’t have minded making said mistake at least once. Maybe twice.

  Lost in daydreams about just such activity, imagining the taste of her lips and reveling in the feel of her pressed against him, he nearly missed her words as they rolled down the highway.

  “Well, that was awkward.” Her laughter was stretched thin, humor all but missing from the situation.

  “I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

  She chuckled again, this burst more one of unbelief. “Why should you? I’m the one who threw myself at you.”