Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

  He shook his head and turned to face her over the basket of apples. They took up more than the middle seat but smelled crisp and tangy. “I think I started it.”

  “No, I nearly fell down.”

  “But I caught you.”

  She chanced a glance in his direction. “Thank you for that by the way.”

  “Anytime.” And he meant it.

  Charlie was starting to think she might have scared Andrew off. Especially when she didn’t hear from him for a few days after their orchard adventure. Maybe literally falling into his arms hadn’t been the best way to catch his attention.

  Not that she was exactly trying to do that.

  Then again, maybe telling him all the details of her regrettable past had been enough to make him realize how wholly unfit she was for the public eye. Or even a corner of the limelight. She didn’t trust herself, so how could she expect him to?

  But after two days, she was still thinking about what he’d said about her shop window. She stood on the street and faced her store, her hands on her hips and chin tucked into her scarf. The wind had picked up, and the air smelled of snow.

  She still hadn’t decorated her window.

  Because she was afraid it would mean she was really alone. Because she’d have to admit that maybe she’d been hiding out in Tinsel all this time.

  But she wasn’t hiding. She had a life here that she enjoyed, a store that once meant the world to her dad, that carried on his legacy. That was important. Plus, she had friends and activities and Gram.

  So why couldn’t she decorate this stupid window?

  “Hey, Charlie. Whatcha doing?” Meg hurried down the sidewalk toward her. Meg’s apron hung loose around her neck, and she snatched at the strings to secure it in place at her waist.

  “Just thinking, I guess.”

  “It’s awfully cold to be outside just thinking.” As if to corroborate the story, Meg’s words came out on a cloud of white and then drifted up and away. “Trying to decide how to decorate your window? You know Christmas Eve is only five days away. I’d offer to help, but we have a huge order of cookies for Christmas Eve service at the church. Will I see you there?”

  “Of course.” But Meg was already gone, hustling toward the bakery and disappearing behind the glass door.

  As she spun around slowly, Charlie surveyed the town square and all the scurrying bodies trying to get to wherever they needed to be. Their shoulders hunched against the cold, heads bowed, they were too busy to notice one measly unlit window. Maybe it didn’t matter that she hadn’t strung the lights or flocked the corners with fake snow.

  Christmas wasn’t about decorations anyway. As far as she was concerned, making a building look festive was mostly an excuse to spend time with people she cared about.

  As if that realization had cued the call, her phone rang. Andrew.

  She bit back her smile to answer it. “Hello.”

  “Hey.” He paused for a long moment. Usually by this time in their conversation, he’d asked for a favor. But now he was silent.

  “What have you been up to?” She tried to sound casual, as though she hadn’t spent every minute of the last two days wondering how he was spending each minute. But, of course, she had been. Because she was ridiculous.

  “Hanging lights. Spraying fake snow on the trees. Generally making good use of your ladder.”

  “I’m glad it’s not going to waste.” She strolled toward the door to the store, unwinding her red and white scarf and hanging it on the coat rack as she stepped inside.

  Another long pause filled the line, and all she could think about was the kiss they’d nearly shared at the orchard. And how she’d practically begged him for it. Terribly embarrassing. Maybe he was thinking about something—anything—else. She could only pray for that to be true.

  “So, how’s it coming? The decorations, I mean. Do you have all the pieces you need?”

  “I think so. It seems like it matches the sketch you drew up.”

  “Well, that’s good. I hope it’s better than that sketch.”

  “I do too.” He chuckled. “Maybe you’d like to come over and see it for yourself?”

  She hoped he didn’t notice that she agreed before he’d even finished asking.

  After closing up the empty store, she hurried to her truck and had the heater blasting cold air. Before she could pull away from the curb, she had another thought for the house. Dashing back to the store, she left her truck running, and returned with a paper bag full of goodies.

  By the time she reached his house, she could hardly wait to show him what she’d brought. Andrew was in the front yard, hanging off the ladder as he stretched to hook another string of white icicle lights from the eaves along the side of the house. The second story gables too boasted twinkle lights. Even unplugged and in the daylight, she could tell they would transform the whole home.

  The two evergreens in the yard had received a liberal frosting of fake snow, and a bucket of glittering white snowflake ornaments sat before them.

  Hopping from the ladder, Andrew loped across the lawn, tugging on the hem of his peacoat. “What do you think?” He spread his arm wide to encompass the whole yard.

  “Pretty amazing.”

  “I still have to hang the ornaments on the trees and spray the windows, but I never knew creating a winter wonderland could be so much fun.”

  “Really?” She wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking, but Andrew barreled on.

  “I’ve never gotten to decorate anything before. The castle just wakes up one morning fully dressed for the season.”

  She shook her head. “But you’re having fun?”

  “So much.” He tugged her arm to show her the lights that covered the bushes and the spirals that ran the length of each of the porch columns. He proudly showed her the snowflake lights that illuminated the brick walkway from the curb and pointed out each of his favorite parts.

  “I’m so glad you’re having a good time with it. And I have another idea.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small motorized strobe light.

  His eyes grew huge. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  Chapter 9

  “I need your help.”

  Andrew laughed at Charlie’s call the next day. “That’s a bit of a change. Aren’t I the one who always calls you?”

  “Yes, so you owe me.” Her words came out in an emphatic rush. “Please.”

  “I suppose.” He purposefully dragged the words out as though he might refuse her. But didn’t she know by now that he could deny her nothing? He’d gladly give her all of his kingdom—at least the castles and vineyards he owned.

  “My oven is on the fritz, and Gram is frantic to get her pie baked in time for her Bunco game tonight. She says she doesn’t trust the oven at her home, and I don’t know where else to go.” Her voice rose in volume with every word, each more tremulous than the last.

  “It’s okay. You can use mine. I mean, you can use Mrs. Hillstone’s.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. You think after all the times you’ve helped me that I’d leave you in your hour of apple pie baking need? Anyway, it’ll make the whole house smell amazing, so how could I refuse?” It was also another excuse to see her. Not that he intended to point that out.

  “Thank you,” she said on a big sigh.

  “But you better bring over any ingredients that you need because I have no idea what’s in the pantry.”

  “We will.”

  Charlie and her grandmother arrived about an hour later. Andrew heard the truck as it pulled into the driveway, and he stepped outside to help them unload the car. But when he reached Gram, she handed him a brown paper bag and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “Good to see you again, Andrew.” She reached across herself to pat his shoulder, stopping long enough to squeeze the muscle there. “You must be an active boy.”

  “I suppose so.” He did still partake in the occasiona
l rugby match. But honestly the majority of his exercise in Tinsel had consisted of walking to and from the hardware store with an occasional stop at the bakery for some drinkable coffee. His daily attempts continued to be worthy of nothing but the drain.

  “So, now. You went to get apples with my Charlotte.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Charlie, who was carrying a basket of apples. She mouthed an apology, and he could only nod in return before responding to Gram. “Yes, ma’am. We had a nice drive.”

  “Uh huh. And . . .”

  His middle twisted with uncertainty. How much had Charlie told her? Did Gram know about their almost kiss or how Charlie had told him her biggest regrets? Truthfully, he’d wanted to kiss her and hold her close. But if it was between holding Charlie and hearing her story, he was thankful she’d trusted him with her secrets. Those were more precious than anything else.

  He decided to go with the safe reply. “And we bought some apples.”

  “Well, I’m not blind, my boy,” she said as she ascended the three brick steps with careful measure, leaning heavily on his arm. “What else did you do?”

  “That was about the sum of our mission, ma’am.”

  She grumbled something under her breath about kids keeping too many secrets. In her day they’d apparently been much more open.

  He doubted that was truly the case, but he’d long ago learned never to argue with his elders.

  As he saw them into the kitchen and set Gram up on a stool at the counter, he turned to take the apples from Charlie, but she had already removed her coat and scarf and begun unpacking the ingredients in the paper bag.

  “Most people think the apples are the most important part of the pie,” Gram said, already beginning to chop at the butter and flour in the stainless steel mixing bowl that had somehow appeared at her elbow—likely courtesy of her granddaughter. “Now don’t get me wrong, they are very important, but nothing is more important than the crust. Apples and cinnamon, that’s what makes up most of the filling. But the crust, that’s what you savor. Too sweet, and you can’t taste the apples. Not sweet enough and it tastes like Play Dough.”

  He wasn’t familiar with the term, but the face that Gram made told him everything he needed to know.

  “You’ve got to get the crust flaky but so it still holds together.” She began pouring a little bit of each of the items in front of her into the bowl, never measuring or counting. But her guesses must have been good, because she smiled widely as she divided the dough and rolled one of the parts onto a pile of flour on the counter.

  By the time she’d set the circle into the pie pan, Gram was breathing hard. Her arms looked too heavy to lift, and her eyes drooped closed.

  “Gram?” Charlie set down the ingredients she’d been putting away and rushed to her grandmother’s side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, my dear. Just need a little rest.”

  Andrew swooped to her other side, putting his arm under hers and helping her toward the living room. “Why don’t you lie down for a while? We can handle the rest of the pie.”

  Gram looked closely at his face, then addressed Charlie. “Don’t let him ruin my pie.”

  “Of course not, Gram. I’ve helped you make it since I was a kid. I remember.”

  “Get the slices even and—”

  “Thin.” Charlie smiled as she helped Gram lay down and tucked a throw blanket around her petite form. She was already asleep by the time they returned to the kitchen.

  “Is she all right?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes. She’s ornery as ever, so she’s fine. She just wears out faster than she used to, but she wouldn’t hear of staying at home today. Not when her pie had to be made.”

  He smiled. “Good. Then put me to work.”

  Resting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the counter space around them. Gram had left a bit of a mess, and she pointed at it with her chin. “We can clean that up while the pie is in the oven. Why don’t you start by washing the apples, drying them off, and then peeling them? I’ll take care of slicing them.”

  He nodded and began plucking them from the wooden basket, running them under the water and patting them dry. “This isn’t so hard. Maybe I should have been a chef instead of an economist.”

  She chuckled as she set the oven and pulled some utensils out of a drawer. “We’ll see about that. I don’t know if washing fruit counts as a culinary skill.”

  “Is it part of the process?”

  “I guess.” She sounded doubtful.

  “Then it’s a culinary skill. Move over there.” He swung around and set a handful of them on the counter. “Now, where’s my knife?”

  Her eyebrows pinched together, but she held up a strange looking tool for him. “Peeler.”

  “Peeler?” The tip formed a blunt V, and he pressed the pad of his thumb to it. “But it’s not sharp.” He waved it around as he had his first foil during his early years of fencing, and it made her laugh.

  “But these edges are.” She pointed to the parallel parts and mimicked a motion for using the little tool. “Take off just the outer red layer of skin. We want to keep as much of the meat as possible.”

  “All right.” He picked up an apple and held it against the palm of his left hand, still waving the peeler in his right. Risking a glance in her direction, he watched her watch him for a long moment. Then he slashed at the apple, hacking off short pieces of the red skin, just as she’d said.

  “Whoa there!” She grabbed his forearm and stopped him short. “It’s not a potato.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Like this.” Her fingers were soft, her touch gentle as she helped him reposition the apple into his fingers and change his grip on the peeler. “Now. Start at the top and work your way down in circles.” She held his hands, demonstrating the movement, but all he could focus on was the way she leaned against his arm.

  “Now you try,” she said.

  With a shrug, he tried to remember how she’d done it. He managed about an inch before it tore off, and he looked at her helplessly.

  “Okay, so now you’re going to pick up right where you left off and get another piece.”

  He tried. Same result. Maybe he needed her to show him again. Or maybe he just liked the feel of her hands against his bare skin.

  No maybe about that. He definitely enjoyed her touch. And her smell—like snow and pine trees. And suddenly he couldn’t help himself from pressing his nose into her hair and inhaling every bit of her scent. Blood pumped through his veins hard and steady. His pulse throbbed at the base of his neck.

  And it had absolutely nothing to do with peeling apples. Or the lack thereof.

  “Andrew?” Her voice was low, husky. And there was a question in the way she spoke his name. A question he couldn’t answer but longed to hear her speak again.

  “Yes?”

  She swallowed audibly. “Maybe I should peel the apples?”

  “If you like. Or maybe we could find something else to pass the time?”

  “We have to make the pie.” She remained firmly rooted, staring over the countertop and into the breakfast nook, her eyes straight ahead, her breaths ragged and uneven. “For Gram,” she whispered.

  “Uh huh.” He heard her, but all he saw was the tender slope of her neck where it met her shoulder. And all he knew was a crazy urge to press his lips there, to know if she tasted sweeter than apple pie.

  There was a long list of reasons why he should not do that. And only one reason he should.

  He wanted to kiss Charlotte Hudson like the rest of the world craved snow on Christmas.

  He set his work on the counter and then brushed a knuckle down the side of her neck. Her whole body shivered then stiffened as if she might keep her reaction in check. As if she might be able to ignore it altogether. But a tiny movement caught his eye as she licked across her perfectly pink lips from corner to corner.

  She couldn’t pretend now. And he wasn’t about to as hope speared him in
the chest.

  “Charlie?”

  “Hm?”

  “Look at me.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She reached for the peeler he’d laid down but couldn’t seem to convince her fingers to pick it up.

  “Please.” He breathed into the hair at her temple. Silky and full of life, it swayed before falling back into place.

  “No. Not a good idea.”

  “So, what would be a good idea?” He tried to sound reasonable when every bell in his head clanged that he needed to take action. He needed to make something happen.

  “Making apple pie?” She started off so strong, so convincing. But by the last word, he could hear her doubting herself.

  “Or?”

  She swallowed thickly as he slipped behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist. He held on loosely, giving her plenty of freedom to step away if she wanted. But he prayed to God in heaven that she wouldn’t. Whatever they’d started at the Orchard—scratch that. It had started long before the Orchard. It had just nearly come to fruition in the old country store.

  Whatever it was, he prayed it might happen in an old kitchen that boasted none of the sleek modern designs and all of the heart of this home.

  She was stiff for the longest moment. Perhaps she would push him away. He might deserve it. But then she let out a deep sigh and sank back against his chest.

  Heaven. He was holding heaven in his arms.

  Resting her hands on his where they clasped against her stomach, she leaned her ear against his chest. “Your heart is racing.”

  “Yours would be too, if you were holding you.”

  She giggled. “That made no sense at all.”

  “Are you kidding? I managed to string an entire sentence together. I deserve a medal.”

  Again, she laughed, so sweet. So rich. And he could wait no longer. He pressed his lips to the spot at the base of her neck and sighed into her.

  Her hands trembled but the rest of her froze as though needing to savor every single moment of the contact. She smelled even sweeter this close, temptingly so. And it just made him want more. More time with her. More of her stories. More of this.