Kismet: A Royal Romance

by Dee Lagasse

  Unable to string any words together thanks to the bout of nerves that have crept up, I just nod, offering a small smile before sliding across the seat to the right side of the car. Opening the door, I step out onto the sidewalk and glance up to the sign that reads, “Cambridge Coffee & Confections.”

  Cambridge.

  Just like Bodie’s last name. Without looking back, I close the door of the car and stand in front of the cafe. The blinds covering the long windows are all closed shut and there’s a Closed sign on the door, but there’s no mistaking the bright light illuminating from inside the building.

  Unsure of whether I should just attempt to walk in or knock, I choose the latter. Tapping on the glass door softly, I jump when, within seconds, two of the blinds in the upper half of the door move and the sound of the door clicking unlocked immediately follows. As the door slowly opens, the light from inside begins to showcase the person in the doorway and I must remind myself to breathe.

  God, he’s so handsome.

  The gray t-shirt he was wearing at the event earlier is now covered by a solid black hooded sweatshirt. His hair is a little messy as a result of taking off the baseball cap he had been wearing, but it suits him.

  “You came!” he smiles warmly, opening the door all the way allowing me to come in.

  “I did,” I confirm, stepping into the cafe. The smell of fresh pressed coffee is the first thing that grabs my attention. “Is that fresh coffee I smell?”

  “It is,” he says, leading me to the table he has set up by a lit fireplace. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want. So I made coffee and got a kettle ready in case you wanted tea or hot cocoa.”

  “Coffee please,” I say, taking a seat, noticing the packets of sugar already on the table. “With milk, if you don’t mind?”

  Coming out holding two mugs of coffee, Bodie places them on the table before going back behind a counter, filling a small carafe of milk. After putting the small open-topped glass on the table, he takes the seat across from me.

  “So, Sutton, I have a very important question for you,” he starts as he rips two white sugar packets open and pours them into his cup of coffee. Looking up at me as he takes a spoon from the tray and stirs his coffee.

  “Oh?” I ask, reaching for the milk. “What’s that?”

  “Are you a chocolate chip cookie or raspberry scone kind of girl?”

  Chapter 4

  Bodie

  She’s a chocolate chip cookie kind of girl.

  I wouldn’t have judged her if she had said raspberry scones. Hell, I almost expected that to be her response. She is a princess after all. I’m sure she’s used to having the best of everything.

  After doing an internet search and a little social media stalking, I discovered she’s the real deal. She lives in a freakin’ palace. A real, actual palace. She attends events wearing tiaras and dresses that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. There are fashion blogs with her style and fan-made Instagram accounts dedicated completely to her. The whole world seems to share my infatuation with her.

  Pulling up her name up on Google, the first thing that popped up was an article featuring one of her former housekeepers. As hard as the interviewer seemed to pull for dirt on Sutton, they kept coming up empty-handed. Instead, Sutton’s former employee gushed about how Sutton was so understanding with her prenatal appointments and had even booked her a special prenatal massage. The article went on to say that the housekeeper, who only left her position with Sutton to take an extended maternity leave, asked Sutton for her blessing to do the article and Sutton had laughed and said, “If they want to pay you to tell you how I come home every night, put on a pair of cozy pajamas, and curl up with a book, let them.”

  Following that article, there were dozens more showcasing Sutton in only the best light…

  “Princess Sutton joins The Duke and Duchess of Thornwick at a pediatric hospital, delivering stuffed animals and books to patients.”

  “Princesses Simone and Sutton donate all proceeds of their children’s books to single women’s home in Abington.”

  “HRH Sutton Alloway-Dimarco of Abington forgoes traditional 30th birthday bash at Basingstoke Palace and plans to spend two weeks at her favorite lion conservation in South Africa.”

  I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t looking for some form of scandal. But there was nothing in the four pages of results I scanned through that popped up on the search engine.

  The only official form of social media it appears she has is an Instagram with 6.2 million followers. I had felt pretty good about my 892 thousand followers until I started scrolling through Sutton’s. A slew of former presidents and first ladies, actors and actresses, and singers are among the five other official Instagram accounts from the Royal Family of Windham.

  Going back to the search engine, I type in “Windham monarchy” in search of more technical specifics. After ten minutes, I learn that her family as a whole is the reigning monarchy of the entire country of Windham. Her grandmother is the queen, her mom is next in line for the crown, and her sister after that. Most of her family lives within four different residencies in Abington and Lashbrook, two of the biggest cities in the country. Unlike the United States, instead of separate states with individual governments, Windham is separated by provinces and counties. As each member of the family gets married, they are given a province to represent.

  Thankfully, I found a website that explained it all to us commoners when Sutton’s sister got married.

  For her entire life, Simone Alloway has been Simone, Princess of Holden. Very much like her sister is Sutton, Princess of Holden. That is because their parents, Sara and Sterling are the Princess and Prince of Holden. A title bestowed upon them by Sara’s mother, Jane, the queen of Windham. Yes, they are still ALL part of Windham’s Royal Family, but when someone gets married, they get their own territory. It’s nothing really, just a title, a technicality if you will.

  After last week’s nuptials, Simone is no longer known as “the Princess of Holden,” but as one of half of the duo that is now known as the Duke and Duchess of Thornwick. The other half being her new husband, Jameson.

  And, when Sutton gets married, she will no longer be Sutton, Princess of Holden, but have her own title and territory to represent as well.

  Once I feel like I have somewhat of an understanding of how things work, I decide to browse through some of the fifteen hundred photos that were posted on her Instagram while I waited to see if she showed up. Pausing immediately upon seeing there was already a post made from tonight.

  Princess Sutton had the chance to talk about Roxy and the new Royal Reading Center in South Boston tonight. HRH, joined by her cousin Princess Estelle, spent the evening with players from the 2018 World Champion Boston Red Sox and other influential members of the Boston community at an event benefiting multiple children’s charities throughout Massachusetts.

  The first photograph is a head-on shot of Sutton from the red carpet, the second is a photo of her and her cousin posing together, but the last is my favorite. It’s one from the series of photographs taken in front of the Commissioner’s Trophy for the Boston Globe.

  Unlike the ones we were aware that the photographer was taking, this one is candid. Sutton is glancing up at me, laughing at me like I had just said the funniest thing she had ever heard. It was right after I got her to admit that she had never watched a baseball game and I pretended to rip my heart out of my chest and handed it to her.

  “You mean to tell me, you’ve never once been to a baseball game?” I asked in mock disdain.

  Placing my hand over the left side of my chest, I twisted my face into something resembling pain and pretend to pull my heart, extending my hand to her.

  “Here, take it,” I turn slightly, feigning a dismissive attitude toward the princess, “The day a beautiful princess tells me she’s never watched a single game of baseball is the day I no longer need my heart.”

  With the gentlest touch, she wrapp
ed her hand around my figurative heart and slowly pushed it back toward my chest.

  “Well, I certainly don’t want any ripped hearts on my conscience,” she started. “What if I promise to come back to Boston in the spring for a game?”

  “It’s a date,” I agreed quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, not that it’s a date-date. But that I would love for you to come back and come to a game. I mean, if you want to, that is.”

  As I was tripping over my words, she tipped her head back and the same beautiful laugh that drew me to her in the first place left her lips.

  “It’s a date, hometown hero.”

  I may have screenshot the photo and saved it to my phone’s camera roll.

  “Soooo, is this your cafe?” Sutton asks, bringing me right back to the moment.

  Following her hands as she brings the white mug to her lips, I have to force myself to continue my gaze, settling on her dark brown eyes.

  “It’s actually my dad’s,” I tell her. “But I’ve been known to pour a cup of java and wash a dish or two during the off-season though.”

  “Well, make sure you pass on to your dad that this is the first decent cup of coffee I’ve had since leaving Abington,” she says, smiling warmly at me as she tips an imaginary hat at me. “And, my compliments to the barista.”

  “If you think the coffee’s good, just wait until you’ve had the cookies,” I tell her. “After I finish my cup, I’ll go warm up the oven and pop some in.”

  “Oh, can I help?” she asks earnestly. “It’s been far too long since I’ve baked something without a kitchen of people hovering over me.”

  I had planned to just take some of the pre-made dough I knew was in the walk-in refrigerator in the back. My dad does most of the prep work at home since there isn’t much space to bake here in the cafe. During the day, the oven behind the counter is only used to toast sandwiches and to bake fresh cookies as needed.

  After running out of the pre-made dough during last year’s insane Black Friday rush, my dad now keeps a backup stash of all the ingredients needed to make a few batches of cookies scattered in the dry storage and the walk-in. But the thought of Sutton behind the counter, making cookies in my dad’s cafe causes my heart to pick up speed and I can’t bring myself to tell her that I was just going to scoop balls of dough onto a cookie tray.

  “I would love the help,” I tell her. “I just need to know if I need to prepare myself. Should I be getting water buckets ready? Have the fire department on standby?”

  “Ha. Ha. Actually, I cook a lot,” she begins. “Almost nightly at home. In fact, most nights my sister ends up popping in to see what’s for dinner at the Cottage. I haven’t baked anything in a long time.”

  “The Cottage?” I question. When I think of the word “cottage,” I think of a tiny little house covered in moss in the middle of the woods. Not exactly where I would picture the fifth in line to the Windham throne to reside.

  Maybe I should have gone a little deeper in that Google search while waiting to see if Sutton would come.

  But it turns out, she doesn’t live in a fairy dwelling in the middle of the woods but in a two-bedroom house simply called “Pearce Cottage” behind Basingstoke Palace. I knew about Basingstoke after reading up on her family’s history, but I didn’t know there were houses within the grounds of the palace. Though nothing should surprise me at this point, I guess. Until tonight, I didn’t even realize there were other palaces and royal homes in addition to Briallen Palace.

  Of course I knew about Briallen Palace. It’s as iconic as The Statue of Liberty, The Eiffel Tower, and The Leaning Tower of Pisa. And while I knew her grandmother Queen Jane is one of the world’s longest reigning monarchs, I knew nothing about Sutton and the rest of her family until tonight.

  “So there are actually about fifteen members of my family plus their spouses and kids living on the grounds at Basingstoke,” she explains when I admit that I didn’t know about any other palace than the one that apparently only her grandparents live in. “Unlike Briallen, which is one building only separated by the rooms, Basingstoke has multiple apartments that are closed off as individual living spaces. There are a few houses and offices, including my home and office, within the compound too. Growing up, we lived in Apartment 1, which my sister and her family now live in. My cousin Estelle, both her brothers, and a few of my grandmother’s cousins all have apartments at Basingstoke too. And since it’s just them, my parents live at Malcolynn House, about fifteen minutes away in Lashbrook. But I’m sure the living arrangements of my family is quite boring for you, so tell me about you. Tell me about baseball.”

  “Truth be told, I’m a pretty simple guy,” I tell her, shrugging. “Born and raised right here in Willoughby. I live about ten minutes away from here in the same house my grandparents bought when they were newlyweds. And baseball? Baseball’s kind of all I know. I was drafted to the Sox in 2006 right out of high school, and I’ve been lucky enough to get to stay in Boston from the beginning of my career.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, the conversation easily flows between us. Taking turns, we talk about everything - from our careers, the charities we love, and our families. As Sutton is showing me a picture of her golden retriever with a lion mane around his head, a call pops up on her phone from Luke, the name I recognize as the press secretary from the event earlier.

  “Excuse me, I have to take this,” she says as she accepts the call, still in her seat. “Hello, Lucas.”

  Her voice is professional, and I can detect a touch of sass as she calls the man by his full name instead of the nickname she has programmed into her phone. There’s no mistaking her amusement as she listens to the voice on the other line of the call.

  “I think you can handle that on your own, Luke. I trust your judgment and if that’s all you need, I’m going to end this call. I’m being rude to Mr. Cambridge.”

  Laughter erupts from me as she hangs up the phone when I realize that had been her fall back phone call. If things weren’t going well, or Sutton wanted an easy exit, she would have a valid excuse to leave without being rude to me.

  Unapologetically she shrugs, but as she opens her mouth to explain herself, I wave her off.

  “You don’t need to explain to me. I’ve been there. I’m just glad you didn’t need to take the easy way out with me,” I laugh. “How about we go make some cookies?”

  She makes a comment about how a “girl always needs to have a plan” while she stands up, unbuttoning the white jersey she’s still wearing from the event earlier. Underneath is an all-white camisole, tucked into the high waisted black pants she has on. Tugging at the tank-top, she pulls it from her pants and reaches into the little bag she had placed on the table, pulling out a small black hair elastic. Pulling up all the loose curls of her blonde hair, there’s a ponytail in the back of her head in one quick swoop.

  “What’s your rule about shoes in the kitchen?” she asks, looking down as if she’s perplexed by the black heels on her feet.

  Bending down I begin to untie the white laces of my athletic shoes. “We actually have a no shoes rules, if you’d believe that.”

  “I don’t,” she laughs. “But I won’t argue.”

  Sliding off my shoes, I decide to follow suit with my socks as well. If she’s going to be barefoot, so will I. I’m one hundred percent sure we’re breaking about twelve health code violations right now, but I can’t bring myself to tell her that she needs to stay in those heels for a second longer.

  Lifting the flip-up counter used as the entrance to the back of the cafe where my dad and his employees serve drinks and prepare food, I watch as Sutton passes by me and goes right to the sink to wash her hands. As soon as she’s finished, I do the same and begin listing the things we’ll need before dipping into the walk-in fridge to get eggs and butter.

  When I come back, not only does she have all the ingredients I’d rattled off, but she’s also pulled down a mixing bowl, measuring cups, and a couple wooden spoons. Placing the
eggs and butter on the counter, I walk over to the industrial oven, preheating it to three hundred and fifty degrees.

  Seamlessly, we move about the small space together. Like our dancing earlier, every step we take seems rehearsed. And it feels that way too. Despite the knots in my stomach reminding me this is the first time Sutton has been here, everything she does, everything she says, seems familiar.

  Seeing how excited she had been, I hang back and let her do most of the prep work, only reaching in for measuring cups and utensils when I know she’s done with them. Placing them in the deep aluminum sink, I let the water warm up before reaching for a sponge and the dish soap. Smiling when I hear Sutton singing along to the song playing softly on the speakers scattered on the walls of the café.

  Once I’m done with the small pile of dishes, I turn to ask Sutton if she needs any help, but words fail me. Unaware of my fixation, she opens the oven and places the tray of cookies she’s put together on the rack as she sways her hips back and forth to the beat of the Frank Sinatra song that’s ending.

  Without pause, the next song starts, and I recognize it immediately because it’s my new favorite song. I don’t know who sings it or what it’s called, all I know is it’s the song that somehow got Sutton to dance with me in a room full of people.

  With a mind of their own, my feet begin making their way over to where Sutton is standing.

  “It’s our song,” I say, offering her my hand.

  There isn’t much space behind the counter and I’m fully aware there’s a good chance she’s going to shoot the idea down completely, but I would be a fool not to at least try.

  “So it is,” she says, placing her hand in mine.

  This dance isn’t as theatrical as it had been at the fundraiser, but there’s no doubt given the option to choose which one is my favorite, I’d pick this one. Our moves still give some semblance to a cha-cha, but Sutton allows herself to be a hell of a lot closer to me than she had been when there were hundreds of eyes on the two of us.