Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 2

Two

WINTER

E xtra oxygen is pumped into the gym so I can maximize my workout with clean, fresh air. My trainer sent me a new set accompanied by his standard brand of encouragement. He’s more of a life coach, foisted upon me in my twenties by my parents to keep me in line. I’ve kept him around the last ten-plus years because he’s damn good at weight training too, an unexpected bonus. When he met me, he didn’t even ask about the dark nail polish I wear from time to time on my middle finger, right hand, or how often I use it to flip him off when he’s being especially cruel.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my black mesh shorts and I check it immediately. It’s a text from my mother, or rather, her assistant. Your demands are childish but actionable .

I pick up a pair of weights and get down to it, watching my form in the mirror, chewing on my mom’s cold words, and desperately wanting to spit them out .

Free weights are my favorite form of torture and the routine Stephen sent me is monstrous, the perfect pain to focus on. The simplicity combined with the agony of never-ending repetition feels like a damn good metaphor for my life. Smile for the camera, smile at the banquet, smile for crown and country—and never show how much it hurts.

The endorphin release along with my love of my hometown of Skagen with all its culture and beauty, is what’s kept me going since I was a kid. If my arms are strong enough to endure, if I can bench my weight and deadlift the equivalent of a horse, then I can survive anything.

Even another photo op with my fame-hungry family, or worse, their newest requirement of me: reality show heartthrob for the American juggernaut, Streamflix.

My pulse quickens just thinking about it, so I up my speed with the reps, relishing the sweat and mental clarity it brings.

God only knows who approached them with the idea in the first place. The only reason I’m entertaining it is because I love my people and supposedly they want to see more of me. My memories of my country are the only roots I’ve got, and everyone involved is convinced this will make the Danes happy. I’ve been told my lack of a love life is depressing for the country .

My middle finger twitches. Though my parents aren’t here yet to witness it, I flip off the mirror while still curling a dumbbell for good measure. Why is it that I must find a wife so publicly? Why can’t I win the Danes over in my own time, in my own way? Why does everything have to be pre-plotted and fake right down to the holiday photo we’ll be snapping today for press?

If my life wasn’t good, truly, and royally fucked up before, it is now.

“Excuse me Winter, you have a guest. Mr. Green is parking up top now.” Annie’s firm voice interrupts the surround sound I’ve got blasting admittedly emo music.

After lowering the volume, I press a button and speak through a monitor. “Send him down.” Then add, “Thanks, Annie. Has Lola had her lunch?”

My girl barks in the background and Annie shushes her. “Yes, grilled salmon, carrots, brown rice.”

Sweat rolls down my spine. “You’re one of a kind. We’d never make it without you.”

There’s no answer, and before I know it, there’s a knock at the gym door. “You’re also faster than you look,” I say when I open it to find Annie, five foot four, in an apron embroidered with Christmas holly, covered in flour and grimacing. How she made it from the kitchen all the way down here, I don’t want to know. It probably involves help from the elves and goblins she’s told me stories about since I was a kid.

“That dog eats better than I do,” she says.

“Is this about me not showing at dinner last night?”

Annie set the table with tapered candles and formal settings with all the cutlery for the photo shoot today, and she wanted to take it for a spin last night. She loves fancy things and anything to do with Christmas. Now that the holidays are upon us, she’s already added fresh greenery with fat black bows around Vikingstrong, she’s baking, and she’s ordered more decorations than I know what to do with from late-night TV.

Half the time I’m snoring in a chair next to her.

She sniffs. “You’re not looking forward to the photo, I know, so I’m making Friekadeller tonight.”

The mention of classic Danish meatballs makes my stomach rumble. “I promise I’ll be there. And not because it’s my favorite. I am sorry I didn’t come down last night, I . . .” I let my words drift for a moment. “What they’re asking of me, this ridiculous, very public, and very American dating show . . .”

She nods. “You’ll do fine, if you choose to. It would be good for you to find someone. And don’t work yourself too hard.” She nods toward all the machines behind me.

“I won’t. ”

“And don’t forget to wash up.”

“I won’t,” I say, already losing my patience.

“And don’t forget?—”

“Annie,” I groan, letting my head fall back. “I’m starting to feel as if I’m back in Skagen with a butler and security breathing down my neck.”

“Psh. You complain too much, and if you got serious about looking for someone else to eat your dinners with, you could be whining at her instead of me.” My housekeeper is more of a mother than the woman who birthed me ever was and she’s not afraid to put me in my place. She’s after me to find a wife for completely different reasons than my self-serving parents.

“I want you to be cared for, and not just by me,” she says, an argument I’ve heard many times over a cup of Earl Grey.

I prop my hands on my hips and stare down at her. “And you think I’ll find the right woman on an American TV show? Galivanting about, throwing sweet nothings around like a deranged love-puppet?”

Eyeing my nail polish she says, “Stranger things have happened. And call your cousin, Elias has resorted to emailing me to get to you.”

Annie never gives into my pity parties and I scowl. She might be right. But my entire childhood was wear this, say that, be here by this time and don’t forget to’s. I’m not looking for anyone or anything to answer to.

Moments later, Logan Green’s smirk reflects in the mirrors as he enters, and I slowly finish hammer curling. “Just in time. Spot me?” I nod toward a bench press in the middle of the room.

He grunts as I drop onto the padded seat. “Nice to see you, too, buddy. Did you stock your bar? I saw a keg of Guinness on my way in that was never there before.”

Settled with my back on the bench, hands braced on the bar, I wince as I test the weight I’ve upped to today. “I know it’s your favorite, and after the last party I threw I’d rather install another draft pull than watch your ass sip water all night.”

“Makes sense. Your lower level functions like a nightclub.”

My dungeon parties are epic, but Logan is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met. And every time it’s, I’ll have a Guinness or nothing . “What’s got you crawling out of your log cabin before noon today?”

“You know why I’m here. Boggs is out of town with Frannie, Holiday had to open the bait shop, Wagner and Jack are moving new furniture into Revival, and that leaves little ‘ol me.”

John Boggs, Ben Holiday, Jack, and Wagner make up our men’s group in our small lake town. It’s complete with a lake committee that reports Spirit Lake news like a knitting circle, busy-body shopkeepers on Main Street, and gossip-hungry school moms who constantly jog Stateline just waiting to fuel town rivalries between Clover, California, and Novel, Nevada.

“Spot me?” I ask again, knowing I’ve only got to wear him down.

He leans over my weight bench and smirks. “I don’t train for free.” Damn grumpy smirker. “And I gotta remind you, working out is not therapy.”

“Chatting over a beer after is?” I ask.

He ignores me. “John’s worried about you.”

“John’s head over ass in love and shopping for antiques right now. He’s got better things to worry about. I need you. Other than Stephan, who’s on holiday, you’re the best in the business.”

Stephan would quit if he heard me tell the truth: Logan is the best physical fitness guru in the state, probably the country, but he refuses to lean into marketing and social media to exploit it, which I admire. He’s got a degree in sports medicine, psychology, and something in bio-science I can never name.

“You think I came over here to train your spoiled ass?” he asks, but places his hands on the bar and helps me start my reps anyway .

“I know why you’re here,” I say, grunting as I lower the weight and then push it back up.

Why did I up my weight again?

“You ready for today? You’re seeing your parents, right? The lake committee is going to have a fit, they always do when the royals are in town.”

Oh yeah, that’s why.

“I made my choice. Between leaving everything I love here to live in a royal cage now, or buying myself some time and playing their game, I chose time. I need more time to figure things out.”

Logan continues to spot me. “You sure? That’s an awfully big ask on their part.”

“Hell, it’s the ask of a lifetime. I thought they were kidding for weeks. It wasn’t until they started forwarding contracts for me to review that I realized they’re serious.”

I dig deep and push for the last rep, my chest and arms screaming, but that’s what I wanted. The bar clangs back in place and I sit up, reaching for a chilled towel infused with lavender that Annie keeps ready for me.

“Have you officially agreed?”

I wipe my face and inhale the calming lavender. “Nothing’s signed yet, but they’ll be here in about thirty minutes to snap a photo for the annual card. ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Vikingstrong.’ What a crock,” I spit.

When we sold the land to the state of California generations ago, we should have thrown in this old castle instead of donating the first floor as a museum. But it has been my refuge, and for that, I’m grateful. “They’re expecting an answer. But?—”

“But—”

“I have a request, and they’ve been made aware. So really, the ball’s in their court. They deliver and I’m on board.”

“Are you trying to draw this out like a Disney villain? What’s the request? What could make you agree to a reality show?” Logan follows me out of the gym and down a wide hall leading to a steam shower and sauna that are calling my name. Too bad there’s not time to soak in the hot tub today. “This is everything you hate: the spotlight, the fame. Isn’t that why you left Denmark?” he calls from the hall as I jump in the shower.

By the time I’m washed and dressed in a t-shirt and a pullover that is not going to impress my parents, Logan has heard my plan. The part where I agreed to hear them out if they adhered to my demands. Today, I find out if Anker, the Crown’s PR, is going to relinquish control.

“Your mind is a scary place, but I’m not following the devious plot I know you’re hatching.” We both stomp up the stairs to the main floor of the house which is commonly referred to as a castle, but is really more rustic chalet. My bare feet smack against the smooth wood treads, his steel-toed boots the size of compact cars following close behind. “What’s in it for you? Dumb it down.”

Logan is not dumb. He’s quite astute, he just doesn’t like people to know. “I’m asking them to put their muscle where their mouth is—no,” I snap my fingers. “It’s money. Put their money where their mouth is, right? Or is it put your money where your muscles are?” I flex for show.

He ignores my obsession with American slang and gives me a look that says, am I supposed to be following all of this?

I roll my eyes dramatically and lead him through the main kitchen, with high hundred-year-old beams and soapstone countertops, into the dining room. This past summer, our best friend fell for a woman with a sister. A sister in PR. A sister who used my name to pull off a harebrained stunt at a charity baseball game. This is payback.

“I have them looking into Cat Bloomfield. Fran’s sister, Cat.”

“Now, why would you do that?”

Light catches on a silver spoon on the dining table covered in berry red linens with china settings passed down from my ancestors.

I can still see her, speaking into the ears of the representatives at the charity pitch baseball game last summer. She was so charming, so beautiful, so engaging. They nodded eagerly, she laughed and laughed. Before I could wonder what the beguiling woman was doing to enchant them, her ass was being escorted onto the field. Her friend was with her, and now I know of course, they were stalling the game on purpose. And wouldn’t you know, she used my name to get that job done. Told them she worked for me and I’d cleared her making a special announcement on my behalf.

Her dark hair was shiny in the sun that day, but I saw her for exactly what she was, nothing but another climber, a snake like Anker. Using me to pave her way.

“She’s a self-absorbed, fame-seeking weasel who used my name , and told them she was my assistant , to get on the field for Boggs’ game. Well, it’s time to pay the piper.”

“You actually used that one right,” he laughs.

“Good to know.”

Logan wanders the smallish room that doesn’t quite accommodate his stature. You’d think an old Danish castle nestled in the forest of California over a hundred years ago, built to be a respite for the royal family, would be stuffy and cold, but this place was built to be cozy and welcoming.

“You need to let that shit go, man,” he says calmly. “That game was a whirlwind. We were all there, we knew you were donating to the Children’s Hospital when they double-checked the pronunciation of your name for the announcement.”

Annie comes bustling in with boxes full of Patty’s Pastries, the best you can get on Main Street. “What’s all this?” I ask.

“Your parents’ people requested that your people , me , provide props for the photo to make it appear as if you’re enjoying breakfast,” she responds, on task and giving me no attention. “But they’re not getting my snegl. That dough takes hours to rise.”

“Edible props?” Logan asks, rubbing his stomach like he’s ready to eat everything in sight.

Annie’s known him, all the guys, for years and she can’t say no to any of us. “Oh go ahead, but keep the plates clean and pretty for the photo. You need a napkin? You use your shirt.” She gestures to his hunter-green t-shirt and he shrugs in easy agreement.

At least I’ve got these two as a buffer today between me and the people I should love most in the world but sadly, I fear them as if I were still a little boy in Denmark. Annie pats my arm, staying quiet and continuing to bustle around the room.

The warmth of her reassuring hand stays with me as I barrel on about how much I hate Cat Bloomfield. “She lied about working for me to get on the field, to advance her own image and open doors, and I loathe people who use, who take, who think they’re entitled to step on whomever to get to the top.”

“And you feel she stepped on you?” It’s at least something to think about other than my parents, and I can’t help myself, the woman is still under my skin.

“Didn’t she? You were there. She used my name. She had no right.”

“But it didn’t really hurt you. What’s the big deal?” He pulls on his suspenders, a habbit of his, and holds my stare.

“What’s the big deal?” I yell about two octaves higher than my natural tone. All those childhood memories of being pushed and prodded by dignitaries who wanted a photo of me to get them in the papers or an invitation to a party come flooding back with full force.

Never again.

He holds up his hands while holding his ground. “Listen, I’m always gonna shoot you straight.”

“You think I’m overreacting?” I complain, fully expecting him to say no and explain himself.

“I do.”

I clutch my heart, half serious, half deflecting with humor. “I can’t believe you’d say that to me.”

“Winter, man, come on?—”

I push my hands through my hair, combing it away from my face so I can think clearly. “No, she made a deal with the devil and now she’s going to see exactly what that entails.”

“It’s that serious to you? You’re going full on ‘deal with the devil’?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He’s trying to talk sense, be reasonable. I get that. I really do. Still, I’m not the grumpy, gentle giant with a heart made of sage and kumbayas like he is.

I’m royally pissed at Cat Bloomfield. At everyone in my life who’s taken advantage of me, and today she’s at the top of that list.

The front door bell rings out with a loud gong fitting for a home built for royalty. It only pisses me off more. But while my anger builds, something else inside pulls at my gut, making me feel almost sick to my stomach.

There was a time when I was small and weak, a time when I still lived in Denmark that I’ll never shake, when I let my family use me. As the only heir to the Danish throne, everyone used me, and not just for the benefit of the country I love. It was all for themselves, all political, all greed and entitlement. I was never a son to them, I was a thing. A jewel in the crown. But I’m glad for it. Because that memory only serves to keep me from slipping.

My parents enter the room. Queen Mary and King Frederik. I often call him Freddy and he hates it.

Annie welcomes them, offers tea, and when they decline a steady stream of people, including Anker, follow through the door all speaking in hushed voices about imagery, light, and placement for the royal Christmas card that will come out looking like they have for the past twenty-plus years.

“Is that what you’ve chosen to wear?” my mom asks, stoic and calm, her hair in a twist. “Anker, is this going to work?”

He smiles from across the table, a fig leaf in his hand that Annie had already placed painfully precisely. “We can make it work.”

“Perhaps I need a personal assistant to dress me,” I suggest, laying the groundwork .

“Did you read over the Streamflix contract?” my father demands, taking a seat at the head of the table. Both my parents are wearing their usual combination of black, navy, and tweed.

No time for pleasantries, per usual.

“A little. Did Anker receive my request?” I will not work with this man, I won’t even speak to him. He’s somehow convinced my parents that this is a good idea, how, we’ll never know. But I’ll not let him near me again.

“Your communication was forwarded appropriately,” Anker responds from the end of the table.

My father blusters, “Your demands are outside anything the Crown has allowed. We have Anker to manage the brand, and we’ve let you play small-town-boy long enough. It’s time for you to get on board with what you owe this family.”

I lower my voice and level with my dad. “I will not work with Anker. He has no place in my private business. I made you an offer. If it’s so important for me to participate in this ridiculous publicity stunt that tells me two things: The Crown is in much more trouble as a brand than I thought, and Anker has sold you a load of horseshit. If he’s in, I’m out.”

My father considers me for a long moment, seeming to weigh the truth of my words as we ignore the continuous flash of the camera. Finally, he nods and turns back to the photographer, fake smile plastered on his face once more. “We read your request, and spoke to the agency ourselves. They’ll agree to your terms,” he relents.

I can’t quite believe it worked.

“Anker, is this Streamflix deal really so important?” my mom asks.

“Yes.” Dad answers for him. “If that’s what it takes to get him to settle down.” He eyes me directly as he continues, “Allyn something or other, and her protégé Catherine Bloomfield will be in the meeting with Streamflix tomorrow.”

“Anker?” my mother demands again.

“This show will reinvigorate the romance of the Crown,” Anker replies smoothly. “It will boost our people’s morale and lighten the somewhat dark image of the prince.”

The dark image of the prince.

What they mean is, the image of a kid who was never naturally equipped to deal with the world of the Crown. A kid who never got the hang of giving speeches and shaking hands. A kid who just wanted life to be quiet.

The man who never once showed me kindness as a child turns his beady eyes on me and nods in agreement. “Backing out of the deal now would be bad form. No telling how Streamflix would handle it. Could be very bad press for the Crown. My original reasoning for the show holds true, however without my guidance during filming, there’s no telling what we’ll get out of him.” He’s sold them a bill of goods, so much so that he can’t back out now even if I’ve out-maneuvered him from the deal himself.

“Frederik?” my mother asks. “Perhaps we can give him more time?”

“The meeting is tomorrow. I’ll expect everyone in attendance. Anker, you’re dismissed from the project.”

A saccharine smile arcs across my face, and the camera flashes again.