by Tracy Wolff
It feels more than okay, if I’m being honest. It feels right—as right as taunting him into climbing that fence did. As right as the kiss we just shared did. As right as few things in my life ever have.
Which is a thought I’m not going to touch. Not now, maybe not ever considering whatever bizarre relationship we’re starting comes time-stamped with an expiration date, even if I don’t yet know what that date is.
Whenever Gorgeous Garrett can convince the King that he’s trustworthy and deserves the throne, I guess. Which, for my own sanity, I really hope is sooner rather than later.
“You can still take it back,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind.
“I don’t want to take it back,” I answer. It’s not a lie—or at least not much of one. Then, as silence stretches between us, I demand, “What happens now?”
“Now, I call Jacob back and make him a happy, happy man. After I speak to him, I’ll hand the phone over to you, whereby he will give you an absurdly long list of dos and don’ts that you can mostly ignore.”
“Mostly?”
“I mean, no nudity in the town square is almost always a good motto when you’re a royal and eight thousand cameras are trained on you at any given moment. But, hey. If you disagree, I say have at it.”
“I’m pretty sure me parading around naked for the paps would do little to convince your father of your renewed trustworthiness.”
He grins, waggling his eyebrows a couple of times. “Yeah, but it might be worth it anyway. Besides, you totally underestimate my father’s love of beautiful women.” He pauses for a second, looking horrified. “Shit, that sounded way creepier than I intended it to.”
“Let’s not ever mention it again,” I tell him with a laugh. “And thrilling as a conversation with Jacob sounds—I do so love being mansplained to—I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes. And since that obviously isn’t going to happen, I need to—”
“Wait. Why isn’t it going to happen?”
I look at him like he’s an idiot. “Have you seen the end of my driveway? Or do those blacked-out windows you’re always hiding behind work both ways, Marie Antoinette?”
“The woman had a point. The world would be a much better place if everyone had cake to eat.” I love that he gets my sense of humor, love even more that his head isn’t so far up his princely ass that he can’t make fun of himself—or take a joke when I do it.
“But seriously,” he continues as his smile fades. “I really am sorry about this whole mess. Where do you need to go?”
“I have a photo shoot scheduled with the clothes I bought over the last few days. It’s been arranged for two weeks, but the last thing I want is to try to break through a line of rabid paparazzi to get there.”
“Where is the photo shoot supposed to be?”
I tell him the name of the hotel I chose. I picked it because it has gorgeous grounds, its own personal lake, and a number of public rooms that are just stunning. And once they granted us access to all of it for a very reasonable price, I had to snap it up.
“We can get you there,” Garrett tells me as he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
“We?”
“My security detail. And yours.”
“My what?”
“I took the liberty of hiring a couple of guards for you, just until the shock of us dating dies down a little. They should be here in about half an hour, but I’m sure my detail can get us through this mess. I’ll have your guys meet us at the hotel.”
“You hired me bodyguards?” I ask again. I probably sound like an idiot, but I want to make sure that I’m not misunderstanding anything. “When exactly did you do that?”
“This morning, as soon as I heard what was going on and realized you were under siege.”
“But that’s before I agreed to help you out.”
He shoots me a disgusted look. “I got you into this mess. You don’t actually think I would just leave you to get yourself out of it without help, do you? Whether you want to follow the plan my brother and the palace PR people cooked up or not doesn’t affect what I’ll do to help you navigate this thing.”
None of his response is phrased like a question and I decide it would be better for everyone if I don’t contradict him. After all, it’s not Prince Charming’s fault that every man in my life before him was a frog. How is he supposed to know that his brand of chivalry is completely foreign to me?
“Let me get my shoes and my computer,” I tell him instead. Because it’s easier and less personal, and that’s pretty much my modus operandi when it comes to anything that isn’t business. And because business comes first. Always.
Less than ten minutes later, Garrett’s security has cleared a path for us at the bottom of his driveway and we are on our way. But as Bastian turns down first one street and then another, I look behind us and see that we’ve pretty much got our own motorcade going at this point, only it’s made up of paps and photographers instead of government officials.
“What are we going to do when we get to the hotel?” I wonder out loud. “The areas we’re going to use are all public access if you’re a guest.” And considering how big this story has gotten already, I’m pretty sure none of the reporters on our tails has any problem renting a room at the Valarian if it means getting access to Garrett…and me.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that.”
I’m about to ask what he means when the SUV makes an abrupt left turn, straight into one of the only parking garages in the village. It’s only three stories high and I’ve never had to use it, as Tournemire isn’t exactly a happening place in the off-season. The gate is open when we make the turn and we cruise straight in.
If this is Garrett’s big move, I can’t help wondering what will keep the other cars from following us into the garage. But as I turn to look behind us, I watch the gate slam closed. Seconds later, a black SUV slams to a halt right in front of the gate. Two men climb out and position themselves on either side of the SUV—I assume to make sure no one sneaks by on foot.
We speed up to the second floor of the garage—it’s still roofed, so the helicopters following us can’t see what’s going on. Not that I even know if something is going on. I just figure we’re not in here for the hell of it.
Sure enough, four black SUVs—all identical to the one we’re in—are waiting for us. “Come on,” Garrett tells me as he grabs my hand and pulls me out of the car after him.
To my surprise, we don’t climb in one of the other SUVs, though. Instead, we slide into the back of an olive-green Range Rover—still with blacked-out windows. I watch, a little numb, as numerous bodyguards empty the wardrobe bags from the trunk of our SUV into the trunk of the Range Rover.
Then, we wait.
The other SUVs take off for the exit, including the one that we were in. Garrett’s security detail stays with that one instead of coming with us, so as we wait, he introduces me to the two bodyguards in the front seat of the Range Rover. Turns out Claude and Philippe are part of Garrett’s backup detail, the one that only gets called out in situations like this—or when he’s at a major public event. Which doesn’t explain why they’re dressed like American tourists, but I decide not to ask.
They seem nice enough, but the last thing I want to do is start any kind of conversation when I’m this tense. I take a few breaths, even manage to unclench my hands. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to relax right now. Partly because the pap thing has freaked me out from the second I woke up this morning and this whole charade is only making it worse, and partly because the more crazy shit we have to do, the later I’m going to be to my photo shoot.
I can only imagine what the model I hired must be thinking. Not to mention the people who work for me. I’ve always been the one who demands punctuality and no bullshit on shoots—it distracts from business and that I won’t tolerate—and ye
t here I am, bringing all the bullshit. All. The. Bullshit.
I start to text the photographer again—to give him an updated ETA—but the truth is I don’t know what that ETA would be. And when I ask, Garrett shakes his head like it’s anybody’s guess.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
I nod, because what else am I going to do? I agreed to this and I’ll see it through. But shit, I am so not okay right now.
Garrett must see it, because he wraps his arm around my shoulders and tugs me closer. I start to resist, out of principle if nothing else, but the truth is, I could use the comfort. Normally I’m a stand-on-my-own-two-feet kind of girl—it comes from having a mom who never could stand on hers—but I’m totally out of my element here. Besides, Garrett smells really good and if I have to sit here freaking out for God only knows how long, I should at least get the reward of being able to sniff him.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, my phone rings. And—speak of the devil—it’s my mom. For the fifth time since this whole debacle began. I didn’t answer her other calls, but I know eventually I’m going to have to talk to her, even though we’re not close. Not yet, though. Not when everything is still so new, so raw.
I swipe to reject the call, then lean a little more fully into Garrett. I don’t know what it is about him that comforts me so much, but right now I don’t have the energy to fight it.
Twenty minutes later we finally get the all-clear I didn’t know we were waiting for, and Claude starts up the Range Rover. “If all goes as planned, we should be at the Valarian in under ten minutes,” he says as he pulls out of the parking spot.
Thank freaking God. If we had to wait much longer, my head might actually explode. And not just because I’m paying the photographer and models by the hour.
When we get to the hotel, it’s almost empty—which is exactly what I was hoping for when I chose it. A luxury ski lodge during the winter, it’s pretty much a ghost town during the summer. Which suits my purposes perfectly.
I’d come here yesterday morning and picked out everywhere I wanted to shoot, then forwarded that info to Carlos, my photographer. I’d wanted to start in the outdoor fire-pit area and as I rush toward it—carrying two heavy wardrobe bags while Garrett and his bodyguards follow behind me carrying the others—I’m praying that he did as I asked when I texted him, which was set up for the shoot instead of waiting for me.
Turns out he did. When I finally burst through the hotel’s side doors and onto the patio, he’s got his camera glued to his face as he takes photo after photo of one of the models. Marina, I think her name is. The other one is lounging on the circular sofa surrounding one of the fire pits, feet up and head tilted back like she’s napping. But her hair is done and she’s in full makeup, so I’m pretty much ecstatic.
The next few hours pass in a blur as we whip through outfit after outfit. This isn’t high-fashion photography, this is catalog, and while I work hard to make sure each shot has some ambiance and artistry, we still have a lot of clothes to get through before calling it a day.
I expect Garrett to leave once the monotony of the shoot gets to him, but he stays the whole time. Out of my way, and mostly out of sight of any of the sparse hotel guests, but he stays nonetheless. Every couple of hours he brings me a drink—water or mint tea or once, a cappuccino just as I felt my energy flagging—and twice he’s also shown up with snacks.
It’s the strangest feeling, to have him here looking after me while I look after everyone else. It’s my job to make sure the models are hydrated, my job to make sure everything on set goes exactly as it should. But never before have I had someone here to make sure that I’m taken care of too.
It’s odd, and also strangely addictive. More than once today I’ve had to remind myself not to get used to this. That Garrett and I are just using each other to achieve mutually beneficial goals. And while, yes, we have abso-freaking-lutely amazing chemistry between us, that doesn’t mean much either.
I mean, we’re talking about Gorgeous Garrett here. His Royal Hotness. He has chemistry with everyone.
I’m exhausted by the time the shoot finally wraps. I spent most of the night after Garrett left working on sorting and categorizing the clothes from yesterday’s estate sale, and the fact that I only got about two hours of sleep is definitely catching up to me. I want nothing more than to go back to my cottage and sleep for twelve hours straight.
But considering I’ve just struck this bargain with Garrett—and haven’t let him tell me any of the very persistent Jacob’s rules for public behavior—I figure sleep is pretty much a pipe dream right now. Then again, I owe him. If he hadn’t shown up this morning, no way would any of today been possible. I’d have huge traffic on a rapidly emptying website, which is a long-term recipe for disaster. Bad enough if the new visitors can’t find anything to order, but if my regular clients have to go somewhere else? There’s no telling if they’ll ever come back.
Once I’ve paid Carlos and his models—and have repacked all the clothes—Garrett and his security detail start carting them back to the SUV for me. I start to pick up one of the heavy wardrobe bags too, but Garrett all but rips it out of my hands.
“Walk with me to the car,” he says, heavy wardrobe bag over his shoulder. “You can rest there while we get everything else.”
“I can help—”
“You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror lately, because if you knew what you looked like right now, you wouldn’t volunteer to carry so much as a water bottle.” He reaches for my briefcase while he speaks, slipping the strap off my shoulder and onto his.
“Wow, we’re through the honeymoon stage and onto the ‘you look like ass’ stage already, huh? That was quick.” I make a show of checking my watch. “Wasn’t it only eighty-two hours ago that we first met?”
He rolls his eyes, then gently hip-checks me in an effort to propel me toward the front of the hotel and the Range Rover. I could protest again, could put up more of a fight, but I’m so tired. Maybe it won’t kill me to let him do this one more thing for me. I mean, since he’s here. And he wants to.
We make it out the front of the hotel without a hassle, and it’s not until I see the SUV sitting by itself, with no one but Bastian around to guard it, that I finally let myself relax. I’m not sure how they’ve done it, especially since we were hanging out in the public portions of a hotel for the last several hours, but Garrett’s people have managed to keep the press and the paparazzi away—not just from us, but from the car as well.
I slide into the back of the car without another thought. Once there, I rest my head against the back of the seat. Close my eyes. And breathe a huge sigh of relief that the hard part of the day is finally over.
Chapter 15
Garrett
I really hate to wake her.
Lola was asleep before I even managed to climb back in the car, legs pulled under her and cheek resting on her hand. I’d like to say she looks peaceful, but the truth is she looks exhausted. Completely and totally drained.
It makes me feel like a total asshole, especially since I’m at least partially responsible for the maelstrom she’s been caught in over the last sixteen hours. More like totally responsible, but since I don’t know what else she’s been dealing with, I’ll pretend it’s not all my fault…for a little while anyway.
Still, the guilt is real and it is harsh. So harsh that in the end I decide not to wake her after all. Instead, I slide out of the car, then walk around to her side. I grab her briefcase and rummage through it for the keys.
Once I find them, I hand them off to Bryce with a nod toward the front door. He nods back before bounding up the steps. I click off her seatbelt, then slide her into my arms before kicking the door shut.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I tell him as he holds the front door open for me. Then I’m carrying Lola down the very short hall to what I assume is
her bedroom.
It’s as big a disaster as the living room was last night, but I’m pretty confident the mess in here is her stuff versus stuff for Va Voom Vintage, considering at least two of the piles of clothing on the floor include clothes I’ve already seen her in. It’s an interesting side note to her personality, one I’ll have to think about later considering how ruthlessly organized she was at the photo shoot today.
Right now, I settle for kicking the pile closest to the bed out of the way, awkwardly bending down to smooth out the crumpled-up covers as I do. Lola stirs at the jerky movements, twisting in my arms until her arms are around me and her face is buried in my neck.
“It’s okay,” I murmur as I rub a soothing hand over her hair. She presses closer, and I’m shocked at the wave of tenderness that goes through me at the feel of her. It’s as unexpected as it is unfamiliar.
I mean, sure, I know that I’m grateful she’s decided to go along with this plan even though it messes up her life.
I know that I’m intrigued—fascinated, really—by her no-holds-barred approach to life.
And God knows, I want her—I’ve wanted her since the moment I set eyes on her at the lake, and the two times we’ve kissed since then have only made that desire burn hotter and brighter.
I’m more than okay with all of those feelings, will even go so far as to say I’m pleased by them since it’s been so long since I’ve been intrigued by anything or anyone. But this creeping tenderness? This softness I feel when I look down at her? It’s something else entirely, something I was certain the abduction had knocked out of me forever. The fact that I feel it for Lola confuses me and makes me cautious. I don’t know how I feel about it, and I sure as shit don’t know what I want to do about it.
