“Emmeline, would you turn on my music?” Even though he had lived in the US for many years, he still spoke with a Belgian accent, though not as thick as it once was.
Her grandfather’s music featured his favorite Belgian singers, all recorded ages ago, although Emma finally managed to find the albums on CD for him. The songs were often similar, singers telling tales of Belgian life, the girl they met in a local pub, and of course, beer. Belgium was known for three things: chocolate, cheese, and beer.
The music wafted from the speakers of the sound system she bought to help keep him happy and occupied. Her grandfather had fussed about it, insisting he didn’t need anything so fancy.
Still, Emma could tell he was enjoying it. With a five-CD disc changer, she could put in all his favorites and let them play for hours. It was about as close to modern as the apartment got.
Emma considered getting her grandfather an iPod so he wouldn’t have to fiddle with CDs, but she worried he might also realize he could read books on it, which would make it an e-reader (in other words, The Devil Incarnate), and he’d toss it out the window.
She settled instead on making sure he had a cell phone, but a very basic one. No frills, please! She had originally bought him an iPhone and caught him using it as a coaster when he couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.
He lived in a largish apartment on the third floor above the store. The building also had a furnished second apartment below it, which he typically rented in the summer. Fortunately her grandfather hadn’t gotten around to it this year, so Emma was able to live there while she was taking care of him. She would be close enough to care for him, but still have her own space, which was important to her. Though “space” was a relative term when it came to the second-floor apartment. It was dingy, dusty, and in desperate need of airing out and a solid, three-day cleaning.
“I’m going downstairs, Opa!” Emma opened the door and threw a smile over her shoulder. “And I plan to come up here for surprise inspections. If I catch you off the couch, I’ll be forced to hire a nurse to sit with you and watch your every move.”
He shrugged and reached for his tea, “Evil woman, just like your grandmother, always after me about something. Now go mind the store, and don’t forget about Peter.”
Emma gave him a thumbs-up, closed the door, and headed downstairs. Two flights…no elevator, of course.
The bookstore was larger than most with a reading room where Grandfather hosted frequent author signings and the occasional celebrity author. The front door opened into a space with a few tables displaying current bestselling books as well as tourist books during the summer. Best of Hamptons, that kind of thing. Along the walls were tall shelves with fiction, all organized by author last name, all neat as a pin. Nothing out of place. It was the way her grandfather always ran this place.
Emma walked to the cash register and made a mental note to look into upgrading it. It was one of the original cash registers they’d used when the store opened. While it was an antique and a novelty, it was getting too old to be efficient.
Right before she flipped over the Open sign on the front door, Emma looked behind the counter for the stack of books for the yet-to-be-seen Peter Hoogstratten.
Her grandfather often told her about him: mid-thirties, attorney, parents lived in Belgium. Her grandfather loved tell her he and Peter could talk for hours about how different life was here compared to Europe. Peter seemed to be a good friend to her grandfather, and Opa obviously hoped to fix her up with the eligible bachelor.
chapter 5
Emma was in the back when the bell above the entry door chimed.
Ah, my first customer! Emma hurried out to the counter and spotted a man with his back to her, studying a table of books. At first glance she could tell he was well put together. He wore a very expensive suit, with the glint of a pricey watch that would probably finance six months of rent for her smallish apartment in Manhattan.
“May I help you?” she asked. When he turned, her heart skipped. No, leapt.
He was, in a word, beautiful. Tall—she guessed maybe six foot four—with gleaming, dark hair raked away from his face and eyes the color of the sea. He had an air that swirled around him. Even from this distance she could sense it. Arrogance, maybe? She saw a lot of it in her line of work.
He took a few long strides over to her, and she realized his air wasn’t arrogant, but almost aristocratic. With that, Emma realized she must look like a bag lady. She had been moving boxes around in the back. To keep her hair out of her face, she pulled her shoulder-length dark red curls into a loose ponytail. She was sweaty and dusty from the heat of the back room and her manual labor. At one point, she wiped her brow with a dirty hand and then wiped it on her crisp white shirt. Emma was painfully aware of every smudge, smear, and drop of sweat.
The Adonis smiled, and when he did, she could have sworn she heard angels sing.
“Hello,” he said, his accent unmistakable, his tone not quite friendly, almost formal. “I’m Peter Hoogstratten, and you must be Emma.” He held out his hand to her, but Emma just stared at it, feeling slightly dumbstruck. Okay, a lot dumbstruck. She’d been around a lot of celebrities, and many smoking hot men, but this man was in a league all his own. Simply forming a coherent reply required a monumental act of sheer will.
Peter smiled again and nudged his hand toward her. The air was hot and thick between them, and her girl parts started to perk up.
She pulled herself out of her slight stupor long enough to grasp his hand, and when she did, she was almost overwhelmed by simultaneous, conflicting urges to either throw herself into his arms, weeping and clinging as though her very life depended on it…or climb him like a tree, kissing every inch on the way up.
Then there it was. That blasted dream. A shuttershot of the palace, the one she always saw in the dream. Why the hell was she thinking about it now?
Snap out of it, she thought. She needed to respond, not just stand there looking like a homeless person who’d wandered in off the streets and didn’t understand English.
“Y-yes, I’m Emma. I’m sorry. It’s only…it’s my first day…a-and—” She indicated her rumpled, stained housekeeping clothes with a sweep of her hand. And you’re so bloody hot, I want to strip you naked.
Peter kept hold of her hand, which wasn’t helping her hormones any. “I know, I’m so sorry. I heard about Marcel. Is he going to be all right?”
The tone of his voice went from distant and formal to warm when he spoke of her grandfather.
“Yes,” she felt breathless, as though she’d been running at top speed for miles, which of course she hadn’t. Pull it together, Em, she scolded. She noticed him observing her, and she pulled back her hand and tugged at her blouse. There was a glint of something in his eye, a slight superiority, perhaps? She had a hard time placing it, but, regardless, his look made her painfully aware of how she must appear to him. Then she tried to convince herself she didn’t care.
Emma trotted out her best publicist face, the one she used when people far richer than she was were trying to intimidate her, and, lifting her chin, she said, “Yes, he’ll be fine. He’s upstairs resting.”
“I came by to pick up some books, but if it’s okay, I would like to visit with him.”
Emma held onto her composure. “I’m sure he would love it. Do you know the way? It’s just upstairs.”
He nodded and smiled again. Damn, he had a wonderful smile, even if maybe he was arrogant and self-important. “I do. I won’t tire him; I just want to say hi.”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you,” she managed, and then watched while Peter, clearly more familiar with the store than she thought, walked to the back and upstairs. She could hear the thunk and pause of him taking the stairs two at a time. Then she thought of her soon-to-be-apartment, and for a moment she imagined him coming to visit her. She’d be home of course, wa
iting for him (forever, if need be), and she’d be naked and he’d come into her bedroom and…
Ding!
Her phone sounded off again, damn it. Gah. Another text from bad-boy-Rob. More sexting. Christ, was that a picture of his…? Holy cow. She hit delete and tossed the phone across the counter.
It was only nine a.m., but she needed a drink. Or someone to slap some sense into her. The last thing she needed was to be fantasizing about the hottie her grandfather knew who popped in here to buy books. She’d just gotten out of a relationship and needed breathing space, and even more important, she needed to focus on her grandfather’s needs. Right?
Sure. Of course. Then she remembered those eyes, the ones that seemed to look into her soul. And something else she couldn’t quite place. Something almost shockingly familiar about him that rattled her to her core. Emma reached across the counter, grabbed her phone, and dialed.
“Em, how is Marcel?” It was Peyton. If anyone could rein her in, it was her cousin.
“He’s fine—I mean better—I mean, he’s home from the hospital.”
“Emma, you okay?” Nothing got past Peyton.
“Yeah, I-I’m fine.” Emma lifted the books Peter had come for, fumbled, and they thudded to the ground. Several hardcovers. Noisy damned books.
“What was that?”
“Just books. So, look, I met this guy.”
Christ, what was she, twelve? I met this guy. Really? No, she didn’t meet anyone. Adonis came in to get books and visit her grandfather. She looked like she’d fallen into a pile of dust bunnies. End of fairy tale.
“Ooooh, do tell. Who is he?”
“No one. I’m sorry, Peyton, I shouldn’t have called. It’s only…”
Peyton, also gifted, knew exactly where this was headed, “Did you read him?”
“No, of course not. Okay, I tried not to, but there was this glow around him. I don’t know if it was a past life thing or me having a brain hemorrhage because he is so handsome.”
“Wow, he’s got you rattled, Em. That’s hard to do.”
Peyton was right; it was hard to rattle her. A lifetime of crazy parents and crazier celebs had given her a pretty tough shell.
“I don’t know why I called,” Emma said quietly.
“Of course you do. He’s the one, isn’t he?”
“I-I don’t know. I mean it’s not just that my reaction is so odd. There’s something else about him. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You need to check in with this,” Peyton said, referring to a simple meditation Peyton taught her to help identify if what she was “seeing” was real and also what it might mean. It was a powerful technique, which much to Peyton’s chagrin, Emma rarely used.
Emma shook her head, “No, I can’t. I’m done.”
Emma could almost feel her cousin smiling through the phone, “So you’ve said.”
. . .
While Peter walked up the stairs, he had a hard time shaking off the feeling he experienced the moment he saw Emma. Electric, but with an added element. An odd but powerful pull toward her, this granddaughter of his good friend. At the fringes of the feeling was a familiarity, an “I’ve known you before” kind of feeling. But since they had never met to his knowledge, it didn’t make sense.
He brushed the crackling, sparking swirl of emotions aside, because now was probably the worst time to even consider getting involved with a woman. Worst time ever. But then, given how complex his life was, there never was a good time, which was why he’d been single for so long.
He nudged the door open. Marcel never locked his door, even though Peter had urged him to more than once.
“Peter!” When Marcel spotted his friend, he tried to stand, but Peter held up a hand.
“No, stay seated, my friend!” Peter took a few long strides and was beside him, then sat down on the couch and took the older man’s hand. “You look well,” he said.
Marcel shook his head, “That’s what I keep telling everyone. I should be downstairs with Emmeline, working in my shop.”
“Emmeline?”
Marcel waved a hand, “It’s her full name, but everyone calls her Emma.” Marcel paused for a moment. “She’s a lovely girl, Peter.”
The younger man winked and patted Marcel’s leg. “Nice try, but you know my life is difficult, and I wouldn’t want to involve her in my Gordian Knot of conflicts and obligations.”
“She’s tough, but she dates idiots,” Marcel huffed, and Peter tried to suppress a grin.
“Idiots?” he prodded, trying his best not to seem overly interested. He knew Marcel would be unstoppable if he had even an inkling of Peter’s interest.
Marcel nodded. “Total idiots. She needs a nice young man.” Marcel’s grin widened.
“I came here to see how you were doing, my friend, not to make plans to date your granddaughter.”
“Two birds, son. Isn’t that what you young folk call multi-tasking?” Marcel winked.
Peter thought of her again, and surprisingly it warmed him, and his heartbeat sped up slightly. But he pushed the thought of her aside, or tried to, so he could concentrate on his friend.
. . .
An hour had gone by since Peter went upstairs. Emma spent the time cleaning up (mostly herself), and helping the handful of booklovers who stopped in to buy a book or three. The shop was as busy as she expected. Now the summer season was ramping up, and she was glad she’d made the decision to leave her regular life and come out here to help. Though she knew her grandfather loved the work, an entire day in the bookshop was getting to be too much for him.
Emma was waving good-bye to the last customer when she heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs. Strong, purposeful steps, and long legs. She shoved the image of his legs (and body) out of her mind and straightened her shirt. She looked a bit better than she had before, and she tried to compose herself by taking a deep breath before…
“Marcel looks well,” Peter said behind her.
Emma turned…and there went her composure.
“He does, but he still needs his rest,” she said more sternly than she’d intended.
He walked around the counter to face her, leaned on it, looked her straight in the eye, and smiled again. “Marcel mentioned how protective you are of him.”
Emma reached a nervous hand up and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s all I’ve got,” her voice wobbled. It was true. Her grandfather was her true father.
He reached a hand out, hesitated, frowning, and then touched her arm carefully. “Will you have coffee with me?” he asked softly.
Emma looked down at his hand touching her arm, and her heart fluttered. She lifted her eyes up to meet his. Before she could stop herself, she heard a “yes” come out of her mouth, when she felt she should ask him: Do you always get your way?
“This evening, after you close? I know a great place,” Peter bowed slightly when she handed him his books with a nod. “I’ll call you on the bookstore telephone line later.”
. . .
What the hell am I doing?
Peter strode swiftly down the street, negotiating with himself, promising that this was just coffee. Just coffee.
He spotted his sleek black BMW, got in, and fired up the engine. Then he sat there staring off into space.
Unfortunately, he had a sinking feeling coffee with Emma would never be “just coffee.” He drove away, reminding himself what a mistake this was. No woman in her right mind would want to be a part of his life.
Most days he wished he could become a different person and resign from his life altogether, but he couldn’t. It was a duty which took precedence over everything else.
chapter 6
After Peter left, it took only thirty seconds before Emma began scolding herself for agreeing to meet him for coffee. There were simply too many excellent re
asons not to do it.
For starters, she didn’t need the trouble another relationship would likely cause, because they were all more trouble than they were worth. Also, he seemed maybe somewhat spoiled, like a rich brat always used to getting his way. His attire was a big warning that he was almost certainly the type of person she needed to stay far away from.
She trudged upstairs to her grandfather’s apartment, determined to cancel the coffee meeting. She needed Peter’s cell number, though, and her grandfather was sure to have it. She tapped on his apartment and quietly opened the door in case he was napping.
Marcel was wide awake on the couch reading. Of course he was reading. In almost every memory of her grandfather, he was holding a book. It was no wonder he loved his bookstore so much.
“Opa, do you have a minute?”
“For you, Emmeline, all the time. I had a nice visit with Peter. He seems very taken with you,” Marcel added with a twinkle in his eye.
Emma licked her lips, “Right, about that. I need his phone number. We, um, he, um, asked me to coffee, and now I’ve had a chance to consider it. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Marcel put his book down and removed his reading glasses, “Emma, why on earth wouldn’t you want to have coffee with the man? Peter is quite a catch. Did I ever tell you I fought with his father in World War II?”
This wasn’t going well at all. Her grandfather had practically married them off already, and had probably started a list of ideal names for his grandchildren. Emma fumbled with her sleeve, “No, uh, you never told me that. Anyway, I-I need to cancel. I’m sure he’s lovely but I have too much going on right now.”
Marcel blinked, “It’s simply coffee, my dear.”
That’s how it always starts. Coffee. Then the next thing you know you’re dumping him in the middle of a film festival and having photographs of body parts texted to you.
A Royal Affair Series: Book 1, 2, and 3: A paranormal, time travel, royal romance Page 2
