by Pippa Grant
“You’re no such thing.”
“Yes, we are. And you’re too polite and protective to ever say it, so I have to.”
“You do not—”
“I do. There is so much good you can do here, but me and Papaya? We’ll be trouble no matter where we go. So thank you. Thank you for giving her to me, but I can’t do this to you anymore. You deserve so much more.”
“Peach—” He reaches for me, but stops himself.
“It’s not you, Viktor. It’s never been you. It’s me. And you can’t fix me.”
He can’t fix me.
I can’t fix me.
And I can’t fix Papaya.
All I can do is keep her from destroying his country.
His jaw is ticking. “This is what you want.”
No.
No, leaving is not what I want.
But it’s what I have to do. It’s what I always have to do. “We’ll pay for any damages—”
“Not necessary.”
“It is so fucking necessary.” I don’t know why I’m shouting, but I am.
And he doesn’t even flinch.
I move toward him and stop myself, but my dress doesn’t get the message, and the damn poofy skirt keeps trailing in his direction. “I clean up my own messes. I made a mess, and I’m fixing it. It’s what I do. Every time. I fix my fucking messes.”
“Peach.”
“No. Stop. You don’t get to say my name like I’m being a crazy irrational person. I hate that some people get to be special just because they were born lucky. I hate that the only reason Papaya isn’t in jail right now is because you’re a king. She should be in jail. She stole a fucking balloon again. I tried to cover for her the first time, and this is what happened.” I gesture to the damn dress, swaying like a bell. “I’m jumping through hoops to try to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved because I couldn’t save myself when I was her age. And I know I can’t save her, but I have to try, and I don’t have room in my life for all this queen bullshit or for being a good business partner to Joey or even to letting myself fall in love with a really great guy, because that’s not the hand I was dealt. That’s not the family I was born into.”
I’m crying now, and I don’t care.
I’m mad.
I’m sad.
I’m just broken.
“You may deal yourself a new hand,” he says. “You have dealt yourself a new hand.”
“It’s what I do.”
“You run away, you mean.”
“You think I want to do this?”
“You ran from the trouble in Alabama to come here. Why not run from the trouble here to go back to Alabama?”
“I’m trying to do what’s best—”
“For your heart to stay safe and secure and unable to be damaged. And by whom, Peach? Who here would wish you harm?”
“You’re twisting this—”
“Am I? Or are you?”
He’s right.
Of course he’s right. He’s Viktor. He’s always right.
But he’s wrong too.
“You have duties and responsibilities to an entire country. I can’t—”
“You don’t want to, I believe you intended to say.” His mouth is so rigid, his bloodshot eyes hurt and betrayed, and I have to look away. “Were I a bookkeeper, or a carpenter, or a janitor, you would still be running. ‘Tis not your worry for Papaya. ‘Tis your worry for yourself.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You would merely find another excuse.” He turns. “If you wish to go, I shan’t keep you. You are free, my lady. Would that I could convince you to stay, but I wish your pity no more than you wish mine.”
He doesn’t head to the stairs and the bedrooms.
Not Viktor.
He leaves the apartment.
Because Amoria’s Love Laureate needs to know their king is brokenhearted over his wife’s refusal to love him the way he so very much deserves to be loved.
And his wife needs to get her priorities straightened out.
I’m spending too much time pretending to be a queen of a country, and not enough time being the guardian my sister still needs.
42
Viktor
By Sunday morning, the only evidence that Peach was ever in residence is her soiled wedding dress hanging in the closet and the two boxes left to be shipped back to America that her secretary was packing when I entered the bedroom.
Joey and Zeus have also gone, as have Papaya and Meemaw, naturally, but Gracie and Manning remained, along with Queen Sylvie and Prince Colden of Stölland.
Even Gracie is subdued over the formal breakfast, which is cold oats with heart-shaped burnt toast and mushy tomatoes. “She’s just scared,” she informs me.
Which is not new news.
Nor does it make the ache in my chest subside.
I’m quite unaccustomed to needing anyone else. I’ve always taken satisfaction in doing my duties well and faithfully, and I’ve seen enough of the world to know that my standards are not always the standards others hold themselves to.
Which is why I was quite good at my job as a bodyguard, and why I’m striving to be the best king I might be.
Yet I expect Peach to hold herself to my standards.
To duty. To loyalty. To honesty.
Because I know she has it within herself.
Except when it comes to her feelings for me.
Or perhaps any man, as to her, I’m no better than the lot who have hurt her.
Eva laughs at something Colden has said, which surprises me not at all, as the two attended school together and were quite good friends. “Eva,” I ask her, “would you wish to be queen?”
She laughs again, though this time with far more derision than her previous laugh. “No, thank you.”
I look to my brother, who’s so deep in discussion with Queen Sylvie and Mum that he hasn’t noticed my question to Eva at all.
They’re on the topic of the monarchy’s responsibility to those who would wish to eliminate it—as the now former Duke of Prievia has been attempting to inspire since Parliament’s inquiry turned up evidence of assault and battery and nearly unanimously voted to approve stripping his title.
I’ve not made a single decision in these past months that has not been approved or suggested by Alexander. He’s written speeches for me. Advised which causes to take up, and which to subtly delegate to interested members of the aristocracy.
He should have been king.
I stand quite abruptly and stride from the dining room, placing a call directly to the Prime Minister as I go.
Thirty minutes later, he arrives at my office.
“Your Majesty,” he says in German with a smart bow. “My…condolences on your…adventure yesterday.”
I’m aware the news wires worldwide have picked up the story—in all its iterations—and run it across all corners of the globe. Some favorably, some not. All detailing quite correctly that the grand wedding of the new king of Amoria was disrupted by a hot air balloon.
Much like my life was interrupted a few months ago.
“Amoria claims to be the country of love, no?” I inquire.
“That is correct, Your Majesty.”
I nod. “You have thirty-six hours to make the laws live up to the title, or you’ll be without a monarch.”
43
Peach
Alabama is different.
It’s warm. There’s no snow.
And I don’t have to fight anyone to keep Papaya.
I’m also not taking any shit for her not being in school the week after Thanksgiving. Instead, I take her with me to Weightless. “You understand how parabolic flight works?” I ask her.
She’s been sullen and moody since we boarded the private jet Joey, Gracie, and their men rented to come to the wedding, so it doesn’t surprise me when she just shrugs.
“Once you get high enough in the atmosphere, little green men come out of the clouds and hook the plane onto magica
l cranes and swing it in a circle.”
She doesn’t even blink.
We pull into the parking lot of the aluminum building, and I march her into the conference room. Joey has visitors, and she looks about ready to scratch someone’s eyes out.
“Gentlemen,” I say, settling into the seat at the head of the table as if teenagers come into business meetings with us every day with Taylor Swift blaring from their earbuds. “Thank you for waiting. Mind bringing me up to speed?”
“Larry, Curly, and Moe won the Magellian contract,” Joey informs me.
I count two men, not three, but I catch the stooges reference. “Ah.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says.
“Do they know where the door is?” The normal rhythm is coming back easily. It’s in the smell of the room—paper, overheated computers, and jet fuel—and the feel of the leather chair under my butt and the inspirational posters all featuring military planes on the walls.
Home.
It is home, dammit.
And that weird blip in my heart suggesting it’s not can go fuck itself.
“Ladies, you haven’t even heard our proposition,” Curly says.
“You won a contract, don’t have a plane, and want to rent ours dirt cheap,” I guess. Because these aren’t the first men to come into our conference room and propose the same thing in the last year.
“We’re sacrificing our entire profit margin here,” Moe adds.
“The door?” I say to Joey.
She nods. “Less paperwork that way.”
“If you’ll just think about it—” Curly starts.
“Aw, honey, bless your heart. If you would’ve thought before you bid on a contract you’re not equipped to fulfill, we wouldn’t be here.”
I look at Joey. She gives me a nod, and I know she’s already filed a protest to the award, which is a pain in the ass, but it’s the only way to make sure douchewaffles like these guys don’t underbid all the competition and then try to pressure us into doing their work practically for free.
“Ladies, we’re—”
I hit a button on the intercom. “Security, please.”
Joey scowls at me.
“Don’t start. I need you in top flying shape, not explaining to the cops—again—why there are men with bloody noses on our doorstep.”
Once our visitors are gone, I grab Papaya by the arm, and the two of us follow Joey out to the hangar behind the building. We have office space at the edge of a private airfield north of Huntsville, which is convenient for the planes, though we’re working on getting space in northern Virginia and Seattle, since demand is rising on both coasts.
I’ve missed Weightless.
I also wonder if anyone will pick up my projects in Amoria.
Fuck.
And now I have something in my eye again.
I let Viktor down.
Not Papaya. Not the hot air balloon operator who let himself be lured away. Not Papaya’s friend and her parents.
Me.
I let him down.
And I don’t know that I could’ve done anything differently.
“You’re letting me near the plane?” Papaya says with all the snooty attitude she can work up.
“We’re going for a ride,” Joey replies.
Thirty minutes later, we’re strapped in to a Weightless plane in flight suits. “Why are you rewarding bad behavior?” Papaya asks.
“Don’t thank me until you don’t puke,” I reply.
I wonder if Viktor got to go along when Joey took Manning on a flight last year.
What he’s up to now.
It’s late afternoon in Amoria. He’s probably had meetings all day. I hope my secretary didn’t get fired, but Viktor wouldn’t do that.
He’d find another job for her.
“So this is guilt,” Papaya says. “You feel bad for taking me away from all my friends. Again. And for making me leave Fred behind.”
“Yep. That’s exactly it.”
“Are we going back to Amoria?” She sits straighter. “But we’re not packed. If we’re going back—”
Another piece of my heart frosts back over, because there’s no hope to keep it warm. “No.”
“Oh.” She slouches back, arms crossed, and doesn’t say anything else again until our crew assistant stands up and signals it’s time as we’re soaring at thirty thousand feet over the earth.
“C’mon,” I tell Papaya, unbuckling and heading for the front of the plane where the seats are removed and the walls are padded. “Stand up and come here.”
Ten minutes later, Joey takes the plane into the first zero-gravity parabola, and we’re floating in the cabin like we’re in outer space. No gravity, only the walls of the plane keeping us from drifting away.
“Ohmygod!” Papaya shrieks as she somersaults mid-air. “This is so blitz.”
I have no idea what blitz means, but I’ll assume based on the smile that it’s a good thing.
And I can’t disagree.
It’s fucking unreal to float in the air like a feather.
Despite owning the company, I don’t often go on flights with Joey. There’s too much else to do, and it’s better for the bottom line to have paying customers.
Watching Papaya laugh and float and be inspired is pure magic.
“I’m going to be a fu—udging astronaut when I grow up,” she shrieks as she somersaults again.
I don’t know if she means it or not, but it doesn’t matter.
She’s getting to see what else is out there in the world beyond stirring up trouble. And that anyone—me, her, Joey—can be successful even if they start with nothing.
“Can we go again?” she asks when we land back in Huntsville.
“When you can pay for it yourself.”
Her eyes bug out. “But that’s like over a thousand dollars.”
Well over. “Get a job.”
We unbuckle, and Joey and her co-pilots step out of the cockpit.
“I am so learning to fly like that when I grow up,” Papaya tells her. There’s a look of awe I’ve never seen on her face before, and I wonder how different the last few months would’ve been if I’d taken her on a flight before impulsively convincing Viktor to marry me.
Thor, I can’t even think his name without my heart cracking a little.
“Stay in school,” Joey says to Papaya. “Wanna see the cockpit?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
Papaya’s already dashing past her.
“Don’t let her touch anything,” Joey says to Monkey Butt, her flight engineer.
“Got it, boss.”
I high five her when we meet in the middle of the open part of the fuselage. “Nice flying.”
“She had fun?”
“We both did.”
She grunts in response.
Papaya’s talking a mile a minute, asking about the controls and the physics of how the plane can simulate zero gravity.
The only other thing I’ve seen her get this excited over was Fred.
Shit.
And there go my eyes again.
Viktor will take good care of Papaya’s alpacas. That’s what he does.
He takes care of things.
“I can take you back,” Joey says.
I shake my head.
Because it doesn’t matter that Viktor will take care of everything.
He shouldn’t have to.
I should be able to take care of my own messes.
“Peach—” Joey cuts herself off with a shake of her head.
“What?”
“Finding your person isn’t about being perfect for them. It’s about doing the best you can and accepting that they’re doing the best they can too.”
“But he has so many people counting on him.”
“And maybe he needs someone just as strong that he can count on too.”
My voice isn’t anywhere near steady when I answer her. “Hopefully he’ll find her one day.”
44
Peach
Home isn’t the same without Gracie. Since it’s hockey season, she’s gone back to Copper Valley, a thriving city in southern Virginia where Manning’s team, the Thrusters, plays. Meemaw has deserted us for the casinos in Mississippi, which is good, because I found out why Judge Liverspot retired and I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since.
Joey’s spending her weekends in Copper Valley too, since Zeus delayed retirement by a year to play for the Thrusters too.
So Saturday morning, Papaya’s sleeping in while I sip my coffee—that I made myself—and research alternate school options for her.
All alone. On the back porch of my cookie-cutter house that has all the modern amenities Meemaw’s trailer didn’t have, but none of the personality.
In the peaceful chill of early December in the South.
With no fireplace. No chance of pretty snow.
My toes are cold.
The last time my toes were cold, Viktor wrapped my feet between his legs until they were warmed up, and just to be safe, he pressed my hands to his bare chest and kissed me silly until I climbed on top of him and rode him under the covers until we were both breathless, sated jellyfish.
I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a slow breath. I hope he’s okay. That he’s not hurting. That his family has been nice to him this week and no idiotic dukes have tried to bully him into making him remind them that he’s the fucking king, because I know how much he wants to earn his people’s respect rather than demanding it because he has a title.
He hasn’t called or texted.
Not that I expected him to.
I left.
I’m the one who owes him first contact.
I should text him. Apologize.
There’s no point in trying to explain.
Because the truth is, I’m scared. And I think he knows it.
Of course he knows it.
He’s Viktor. He knows.
He knows me.
Holy hammer of Thor, he knows me.
But does that mean he knows me and he loves me? Or does that mean he knows me well enough to know he shouldn’t love me?
“Hey.”
