The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  “He’s gotten some flack; don’t think he’s gotten off easy,” Harrison says.

  “I suppose you would know more than I do.”

  “I do,” he says, adjusting himself in the seat. He seems so uncomfortable, I almost feel bad.

  “So, how long have you been doing this? I mean, your job. For the duke and duchess?”

  “I’ve been working for Eddie for six years,” he says. With his stiff posture and the way his mouth is pressed firmly closed, I know he doesn’t want to talk about anything to do with him. But that’s all the more reason to make him talk. He’s my prisoner in this car for a reason. I don’t have a problem going off island to do an errand—it’s good for your mental health to get off this rock. But a chance to actually have quality time, one-to-one, with the mysterious British bodyguard? You can bet I won’t pass that up, and I’m not going to let this opportunity go to waste.

  “So, tell me, how did you get the job? Did you see an ad in the classifieds or . . . ?”

  He glances at me sharply, as if I’m serious, and I quickly have to clarify, “I’m joking. But seriously . . . how does one become a royal bodyguard?”

  Silence fills the car. Well, that’s not true: the sound of the raggedy engine fills the car, but my question has caused him to clam up, and there’s tension between us. Sometimes I really wish I could know what he’s thinking and why just asking simple questions seems to piss him off so much. Perhaps he’s not even allowed to talk about it.

  I hadn’t considered that, and I’m about to tell him to forget it when he clears his throat.

  “I met Eddie in the army,” he says. He leans back against the seat, his focus out the window at the passing houses nestled in the trees, lightly drumming his fingers on his left knee. “We became fast friends. After he left, I stayed on. Got injured, my leg. Had to leave. Eddie and I were still in touch; he was adamant that I come work for him. I told him I had no experience in being a PPO, but he didn’t care. He said he wanted someone he could trust. So I went, and I learned how to protect him. I’ve never looked back.”

  So Harrison was in the British Army. I am so not surprised.

  “Is that when you got your tattoo?” I ask.

  He turns to look at me, frowning as he shifts in his seat. “How do you know I have a tattoo?”

  Against my better judgment, I take my hand off the wheel and reach out, tugging at the sharp end of his white collared shirt. “Sometimes you can see it.”

  “Hands on the wheel,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and placing my hand back there. “Eyes on the road.”

  I laugh, even though my skin is practically buzzing from where he touched me. His hands are warm. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to risk my life to ogle you.”

  He grunts.

  “So, your tattoo,” I press.

  A long moment passes. “I got my tattoos a very long time ago. Before the army.”

  Tattoos. Plural. Another snippet of information. I’m unsure how to lead the conversation, how to keep him talking. I’m gobbling it all up like candy.

  “How many do you have?”

  He shrugs. “Ten, eleven. I’d have to think.” His voice is clipped in a way that tells me he’s not about to think on it.

  “Do they all mean something?”

  “I take it you don’t have any tattoos,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t. Nothing against them, I just . . . not sure what I would want mine to say. So the one near your collarbone, what is that?”

  “A raven.”

  “For what?”

  “ ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allan Poe.”

  Interesting. “When did you get it?”

  “When I was young and fucked up,” he says. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve heard him use the F-word, because the ferocity behind it catches me off guard.

  I’m not sure I want to keep bugging him. I press my lips together and concentrate on the road as it winds through town, heading to the Fulford Ferry Terminal.

  After a few minutes pass, I say, “You really don’t like to talk about yourself.”

  He snorts softly. “You’re very astute.”

  “Why is that?”

  A sigh escapes his lips as he begins tapping his fingers on his knee again. “I don’t know. Why is it that you like to talk about yourself?”

  “I don’t like to talk about myself,” I protest.

  Another soft chuckle. “Right. That’s why within minutes of meeting you I knew you were a schoolteacher, knew that your mother had several neurological conditions, knew that you like to read romance novels. Furthermore, you told me about your past relationship.”

  “You asked!”

  “Yes, and you answered. Not right away, but you eventually did.”

  “Believe me, I’m not an open book.”

  He glances at me. “I didn’t say you were. I just said you talk to me.”

  “Is that so bad? Me talking to you?”

  “Not even a little,” he says.

  Hmmm. Well.

  “I’m not an open book,” I repeat, quieter this time. “I guess I just . . . Look, I don’t have many friends on this island. I keep to myself. I like it that way. Things in my life . . . they’re complicated. My past, my present, it’s far from perfect; it’s just this evolving mess, a wave that I can’t get in front of. It’s . . . sometimes harder to open up to the people you know, the people you call friends, because the judgment can hurt. But you . . . a stranger. The judgment doesn’t hurt as bad. Maybe I tell you things because there’s nothing at stake.”

  But the moment I say those words, I know they’re not true.

  Because believe it or not, there is something at stake now.

  I like Harrison. It’s why he’s in this car. It’s why I’m trying to learn as much about him as I can. I like him, and beyond that, I don’t fear his judgment. I’m not sure why that is.

  “You still think of me as a stranger?” he asks. The drumming of his fingers has paused, and there’s this weight to his tone.

  “Not anymore,” I admit. “Though I can’t quite call you a friend either.”

  “What can you call me?”

  I take my eyes off the road for a moment to look at him. My reflection in his sunglasses is distorted and quizzical. Kind of how I feel.

  “Someone I would like to get to know better,” I tell him, feeling strangely vulnerable. “And on your terms. If you don’t want to talk about yourself, you don’t have to talk about yourself. I can fill in the silence.”

  “Or we could just sit in silence.”

  I can’t tell if that’s his way of getting me to shut up, that he’s tired of hearing from me. “Of course,” I tell him.

  Here’s the thing about me: I hate silences. Not the ones that I have between me and my mother, nor the blessed silence of quiet time at school, but the silence between two people that feels fraught with awkwardness. It happens all the time to me, the fact that I have to just keep blabbering to fill the space, to the point sometimes where I don’t realize I’m talking over people and dragging the conversation where it shouldn’t go.

  This silence with Harrison is no better. I’m so acutely aware of every movement he makes, every sound, from the way he scratches his stubble to his fingers drumming on his leg. His smell. Try as I might, it’s delicious and intoxicating and seems to get stronger by the minute. There’s something so unbearable about all this that it almost makes me want to pull over, put down the windows, do something.

  “So why did you move here?” Harrison asks suddenly.

  I nearly jump in my seat.

  He goes on. “I recall you telling Monica that you moved here from Victoria. That’s where we’re headed right now, isn’t it?”

  It can be confusing. There’s Vancouver, which is the biggest city in
British Columbia and part of the mainland. Then there’s Vancouver Island, which is huge (larger than Belgium). That’s where Victoria, the capital, is. Then there’s Salt Spring, which is part of the Southern Gulf Islands, nestled right up against it at the bottom. Between us and the mainland is the Georgia Strait. So we’re taking a ferry from one island to another, Belgium-size island.

  I nod. “I moved here for work. To be honest, since I’m kind of in charge of my mother, I thought it would be a better place for her. Victoria is lovely, but it’s still a city, and I wanted someplace quiet and peaceful.”

  Harrison grimaces. “I guess it’s been anything but that lately.”

  “Not really. But I suppose a little change never hurt anyone.”

  “And your father? I remember you saying he left when you were a teenager.”

  I swallow thickly and nod. It doesn’t necessarily hurt to talk about it, but it’s not my favorite subject. “He did. I was fourteen.”

  “Amicable divorce?”

  I laugh bitterly. “No. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said he skipped out. Because that’s what he did. Just straight up one day didn’t want to deal with me or my mother anymore. She was too much for him, always so dependent and paranoid. In some ways I don’t blame him, but he took a vow for better or for worse, and when she got worse, he decided to leave us. I mean, he knew when he married her what she was like. My mother has always battled with her mental issues. Her own parents were abusive; I don’t even know them, never met them. So it wasn’t like my dad didn’t know what he was getting into.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It is what it is.”

  “Sisters, brothers?”

  “Only child. So taking care of my mother became my responsibility. You can imagine that after that, she took a turn for the worse. Meanwhile, my dad is now remarried and lives in Toronto. My stepmother, his new wife, had kids from a previous marriage, so he’s just busy being a father to them and not to me. Whatever. I’m over it.”

  I can feel Harrison’s eyes on me from behind his sunglasses. “Not an easy thing to get over.”

  He’s called my bluff. Obviously I’m not over it. All the therapy sessions I’ve had, and I’m still not over it.

  The scenery along the road changes from the dark, towering hemlock and fir to open fields and vineyards. The sky widens above us, this saturated blue, as the car coasts down the hill past olive groves and pastures dotted with sheep. This is probably my favorite part of the island.

  I roll the window down and breathe in the air, wind messing with my hair. I grin, press my foot to the gas, and the car zips down faster. It feels like I’m flying.

  When we finally get to the bottom, zooming past the turnoff to the local brewery, I glance over at Harrison. He’s staring at me.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says after a moment.

  We get to the ferry terminal just in the nick of time. They don’t leave every hour and I wasn’t sure we’d make this one, but we manage to roll onto the ferry a minute before it’s due to leave.

  This ferry is small with an open car deck. There’s nowhere really to go except a small lounge area and some outside upper decks, but that’s okay since it’s only a thirty-five-minute sailing.

  “Want to take a walk?” I ask him once we’re parked and the ship starts to pull away.

  “Yes,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. He manages to unfold his large frame from the car and get out.

  I get out from my side, and we work our way through the lanes of cars, the ferry packed at this time of year, and then head to the upper deck. We stop by the railing and stare out at the harbor as the ferry chugs along, passing immaculate, secluded houses with ocean views and tiny scenic islands that make up the thirty-five-minute passage.

  The wind messes up my hair, making it swirl around my face, but I don’t care. I close my eyes and breathe in the fresh, salty air.

  Then I feel Harrison step closer to me.

  His fingers brush against my cheeks, gently pushing my hair back behind my ears until I can see again.

  And all I see is him.

  “You looked like you needed some help,” he says. He says it so simply, it’s like he has no idea that his touch unleashed a kaleidoscope of butterflies inside me.

  “Hey!” a sharp, obnoxious voice yells, shattering the fragile moment between us.

  I turn to see some heavyset, thirtysomething guy with a camera approaching me, trucker cap on backward. “You’re that girl!”

  I stare at him, my heart racing because he’s coming up pretty loud and pretty fast, and I have no idea who this man is.

  Harrison spares no time. In a flash, he’s putting his frame in front of me, one hand reaching back, signaling for me to stay behind him.

  “Back off,” Harrison growls at the man.

  “She’s the girl! She’s one of the royals.”

  Despite the situation, I can’t help but laugh. “I’m a royal? You must be blind.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Harrison says to me over his shoulder.

  “Let her talk,” the guy says. “I’ve seen the pictures, she’s everywhere with them. As are you.”

  “I’m their personal protection officer,” Harrison answers. His words are calm and cold. A warning.

  “So then why are you with her? Obviously she’s a royal. I just want a picture, just a picture and a word.”

  “If you even try to take a photograph, I will take that camera and throw it over the edge.”

  “And then I’ll call the police.”

  “The police that are entrusted with the same job I have? Go right ahead. You’ll find out that they aren’t on your side.”

  “Miss, please, I just want a word.”

  I see the man peering around Harrison, raising up his camera.

  Harrison steps forward, snatching the camera from the guy’s hand and then holding it up high in the air, aiming it toward the water that’s rushing past the ferry.

  “I warned you,” Harrison says.

  The man lets out a squeal that has the whole ferry looking our way. He attempts to jump up to get the camera, but Harrison’s height and bulk are big enough obstacles, and all Harrison has to do is stick his palm straight out, keeping the man at arm’s length.

  “You can’t do this to me! I have a right to make a living.”

  “And I have a right to protect the ones I’m sworn to protect,” he says, and with those words, Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” comes blaring into my head, making me feel dizzy.

  “Now,” Harrison continues, oblivious to the scenes from The Bodyguard that are flashing through my brain, “I’ll give you the camera back if you promise to turn around and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”

  I crane my neck around Harrison and see the man glance at me, bitterness and defeat clouding his features. He’s lost.

  Finally he steps back and grumbles, “Fine.”

  Harrison takes a moment before lowering his arm and handing him back his camera. “Now, politely, do fuck off.”

  The man slinks away past the rows of seats and down the stairs to the main deck. Harrison’s head turns to follow him, and I can feel the intensity in his expression. Maybe that’s why he wears sunglasses all the time. Otherwise he’d cause people to burst into flames.

  “I . . . I can’t believe you did that,” I stammer. It’s only now that I realize how hard my heart has been pounding. I lean against the railing, my grip tightening on it.

  “Why not?” Harrison asks, fixing his focus on me, one brow quirked up. “You think I won’t protect you?”

  “It’s not your job.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve now made it my job.” He tilts his head, examining me. “Do you have a problem with that?”


  Do I have a problem with this man protecting me? Hell no.

  I shake my head. “No.” I give him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

  “As I said, it’s my job,” he says dismissively. “Shall we go back to the car?”

  I nod. I hate that this has now become my reality, whether I like it or not. But I’m grateful to have him.

  And, well, if we’re being honest here, it’s more than just being grateful.

  I’m swooning over him. Just a bit. Just for that.

  Nothing else.

  I swear.

  Eleven

  The drive from the ferry terminal at Swartz Bay to the Costco outside Victoria is about an hour with traffic, which meant plenty of silent driving. That is, until Harrison reached over and turned on the classic rock station, satisfied with Black Sabbath riffing “War Pigs.”

  “I didn’t peg you for the heavy metal type,” I tell him.

  “What kind of music do you think I listen to?” he asks, sitting back in his seat, his fingers drumming along the edge of the open window.

  “I don’t know. What do soulless people listen to? Dave Matthews Band?”

  He turns his head to look at me, and I feel his glare beneath his sunglasses. “I would rather stick broken glass in my ears,” he says firmly.

  Whoa. Okay, so definitely not a DMB fan.

  “What music do you listen to?” he asks after a moment.

  I place my hand on my chest. “You’re . . . you’re asking questions . . . about me?”

  His mouth moves into a firm line before he says, “I’m always asking you questions.”

  “Ha! No, sir, you don’t. Maybe you do in your head, but that mouth of yours never opens to speak.”

  “I’m speaking right now.”

  “I know. It’s shocking.”

  “So?”

  I shrug. “Music? I like all kinds. Except country. I will take that glass you have in your ears and jab it in mine if I hear any sort of twang accompanied by some dude singing about his lost dog. I mean, why are you singing about it? Go out and put some Lost Dog posters on the telephone poles or something.”