Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 8

Eight

CAT

A production schedule for the day slips under my door as I’m stepping out of a steamy cranberry-infused shower. I scoff at the irony of resorting to paper communication since most of us have relinquished our phones as I dab lavender oil behind my ears.

In the extensive welcome section of our brief, it says Royal Hearts will stream live on select days with a rerun aired during primetime each night. The show will conclude roughly eight weeks from now. The location is TBD, though they’re floating two ideas in parentheses: at the top of the mountain with a heart set aflame, and a sleigh ride with a just married sign and old-fashioned cans tied to the back (the prince driving the sleigh).

“Of course, he can drive a sleigh,” I murmur to my four-poster bed, tossing the schedule on a nearby desk with a mirror so it also functions as a vanity.

After a blow-dry, I tame my short hair with a few loose curls and tuck a lock behind my ear. Rose tones, deep berry reds, and emerald greens make up the fluffy plaid feather duvet I slept like a baby in last night, the fire crackling in my grate as it slowly burned out.

I want to jump right back in that bed and stay here forever instead of facing whatever this day holds for me.

Boxwood wreaths and bows adorn every window in the room, and the thick carpet tickles my toes. Even the bathroom is in the holiday spirit with a pine and berry centerpiece on the marble counter. A deep clawfoot tub I plan to soak in tonight after a no doubt gruesome first day working with Winter Larsen, is decked out with a thick slab of polished, raw-edge wood and a gingerbread sugar scrub.

I could certainly get used to this.

Once I’m dressed in jeans and a thin sweater with a black belt bag that leaves my hands free for working on set, I decide to grab breakfast in the cozy dining room I noticed yesterday off the bar, The Nook.

Candy Cane, an instrumental I recognize from The Nutcracker, is filtering through the hallway as I pass lodge employees lugging life-size nutcrackers by the necks, and when I round the corner and step onto the landing to head downstairs, I’m gobsmacked.

As my eyes roam the Christmas chaos below, I reach for my phone so I can send a picture to Frannie and Willow, but then I remember, I don’t have my phone. Which is a real shame because they’d both love this wonderland.

Below, the long bar is littered with red poinsettia in sparkling pots. Six-foot Santas fill almost every corner, and there’s a pine tree in the center of the room that rivals the one outside. As I make my way downstairs, swaths of garland wrap the banister, flocked with white and tied up with velvet ribbons and rustic bells. Employees buzz and run from every visible corner of the lobby. They holler for nails as wreaths are hung above windows, pulling more and more decorations out of the boxes littering the inn floor as if rabbits from a magician’s hat.

“Excuse me, miss,” a dashing young bellhop says. He tips his Little Star Lodge bellman cap as if he’s been plucked straight from a movie set, skirting around me to be on his merry way. Marco’s going to love getting a shot of him for B-roll.

At the bottom of the stairs, I step over a box filled with glittery snowflakes the size of my palm, and walk down the length of the bar watching my reflection in the mirrored backsplash. All my black clashes with the bright motif, but my Christmas red lips match perfectly.

A hostess smiles from the arched entry to The Nook. “Good morning, Ms. Bloomfield. Sleep well?” A charming sprig of mistletoe hangs over her head, and she’s grinning so big, I almost expect her to kiss me.

One would think, from my exterior, sure, and from my dedication to my job no matter the holiday, that I’m a Grinch. I am not. I adore this time of year, I’m just not always good at showing it. “Yes, perfect. One please.” I work to push my lips into a warm smile.

“Glad to hear it. Breakfast menu? Coffee?”

“Yes, and yes.” I tuck a chunk of hair behind my ear. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on.”

“I’ll put you in our coziest little corner. No one will find you.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

She does just that, and I settle into a stuffed chair by a frosted window that faces the same direction as my bedroom window. Outside the mountains are topped with snow and skiers are flying down like ants in a hurry. The tree is fully decorated, sparkling with charming ornaments, and at least one hundred feet tall.

A cup of coffee magically appears in front of me in a clay mug, and a silver pitcher lands on the table.

“What’ll it be?” He’s tall, gangly, surly, and probably mid-twenties wearing a slightly wrinkled white button-down and black tie, a hint of a tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. He’s got a notebook folded in half in his back pocket, and a pencil behind his ear.

I look up. “I haven’t seen a menu, yet.”

“It’s riddled with typos,” he huffs, and begins to rattle off a list via memory. “Waffles, omelets, scalloped eggs—though I would not recommend—a Benedict that will make you feel as if you’ve died and gone to Middle-earth, an assortment of juices?—”

I raise my hand to stop him. Seems I’ve met another human who values time and has a slight attitude problem, like me. “You had me at Benedict. Black coffee is fine. And thanks . . .”

“Liam.”

“Thanks, Liam.”

He nods, then adds, “You working on that reality show they’re filming here?”

“What gave me away?”

“The jacket.” He nods at the leather jacket draped over the back of my chair. “And all the black. Christmas sweaters are the staple around here this time of year. We don’t see a lot of black leather biker jackets. Also, you’re holding letterhead with the word Streamflix emblazoned across the top in a font so large I could read it from the kitchen.”

“I’m Cat.” I stick out my hand.

“Okay.” He walks away muttering to himself about Hollywood and I think I hear the words reality show, hacks, and real art.

Breakfast in the snug little corner with the best eggs Benedict I’ve ever had and scant conversation with Liam is exactly what I needed to mentally prepare for my first day as Winter Larsen’s PR, PA, and all-around lackey on the set of Royal Hearts . God. That show title makes me want to puke a little. It’s so pompous. Entitled. Tone deaf. It’s so Winter Larsen.

But we do what we must. All night I sweat through the loss of my cell before crashing into the deepest sleep of my life. I never realized how many times I checked my phone until I reached for it every other minute last night, and it wasn’t there. And when I started to feel physically ill from the withdrawal, I realized, I have a problem—in addition to a nervous tummy.

Allyn was right, I might have needed this change of pace so I don’t burn out. This is step one, and I flip through my show schedule to see what’s ahead. Today, Winter is scheduled to shoot B-roll for the opening credits of the show, and in the afternoon, we’ll shoot his ‘get to know the prince’ interview.

B-roll will involve sweeping panoramas of Winter with the mountains and the lake in the background, and a lot of skin, I’m sure. Selling his face won’t be hard, he is a stunning man, like a perfume ad where the model’s eyes are so piercing you believe he might leap off the page. He’s got that certain something that makes you either want to be him or be with him. No, making viewers fall in love with him is the least of my worries. But I shudder to think of the hoops he’s going to make me jump through.

“Here’s your check,” Liam says. “Twenty percent gratuity included.”

Fair enough.

I look up. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be?—”

“You need a to-go coffee?” he demands.

“No. Are you a writer, by chance?”

His face brightens. “Screenplays. How did you?—”

I motion to his back pocket. “The notebook, the mumbling about Hollywood sellouts, Tolkien references, the blue blockers resting on your head . . .”

“Ah.” He scratches at the arm of the glasses resting behind an ear. I think I’ve earned a little respect. He clocked me, and I clocked him right back.

“Listen, I’ll keep you in mind if we need extras.”

“I’m not an actor,” he scoffs.

“Believe me, writers have done more with less to break in.”

“Are you?” He gestures at me as if we’re comrades.

“No, no. I work in PR, which means I’ve seen it all. I could always, you know, make an introduction. I don’t know much about the writing side, but Streamflix is a ladder and you gotta start somewhere, right?”

“That would be,” he hesitates, a writer searching for words, “really solid of you. Thanks.”

“I’ll be in touch.” I toss a few extra bills on the table because I believe in supporting struggling artists, and gather my things. Liam gives me a salute and walks away, a hushed yes ! falling from his lips. And that makes me grin.

After extricating myself from the charming holiday hoopla happening inside the lodge, I step outside into a brisk, sunny fall day where workers on ladders are hanging strings of lights from the rooftops. Mountains crowd the little lodge, surrounding it on three sides with ski runs and lifts in motion. A handful of production crew, equipment, and a van are ready and waiting on the circle drive. Today’s shoot is off-site at the castle in Paradise Bay on Spirit Lake, down the mountain in Clover.

“How long’s the ride?” I ask a man firing up the van. Equipment is loaded in the back and an assortment of production people hop inside. Marco comes out of the lodge, an overflowing box in his hands, and nods at him.

“Less than ten minutes. Gets a little bumpy at the end of town when we go through the pass.”

Marco slaps me on the back. “Ready Ms. Bloomfield?”

“Call me Cat.”

He winks. “Will do. Ready for day one? I brought some things you might need for today.”

That was nice. “What sort of things? I’ve got a few essentials from working on content shoots that I’ve learned come in handy over the years.” I pat my little black fanny pack.

“Oh, but these are reality show essentials. Mainly, oil. You’d be surprised how often we need it. And blotting tissue, for when there’s oil we don’t want showing on camera. A few other things.”

“So, it’s all about the oil? ”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you.” I load most of the things in my bag and zip it tight.

“Today, we convince everyone to fall in love with Prince Charming. It’s vital fans adore him. They’ll chop up the B-roll of Winter living daily life and mix it with his first big interview. That’ll run as advertising for most of the season. We have to get this right. Part of selling this show is selling?—”

“The pretty man. Got it. I’m uh, a fan of some of these shows. I get how it works.”

“Good. You keep him happy, keep him all polished up and shiny—good shiny.”

“Got it.” I nod.

“Did you know I used to work on The Bachelor ?”

“Um, no?” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to pump up his ego right now and pretend I know who he is when I don’t. But Marco doesn’t come off like a standard industry guy, maybe one of the good ones. “We usually get them all on a teeth whitening regimen, but I think he’s good in that department.”

His teeth are perfect, and it’s oddly maddening.

I rub my temples, I’m still tired. Guess I need a few more nights of deep sleep in my four-poster feather bed. I’m already looking forward to snuggling in with a Christmas movie.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive,” Marco adds, picking up on my exhaustion already. Definitely one of the good ones. “I got in a few years ago because I was one of the Kardashian’s stylists—can’t say which, NDA and all—but I did my job well, kept my client happy, met the right people, and here I am.”

“I’ll remember that when I’m shining his boots. I heard the crew is thin on set and they were caked in mud yesterday, assuming that’s my job now. If we work the whole equestrian, Prince William on a polo field angel— and we should because honestly, he’s nailing it on his own— we’ll need shiny boots.”

“That’s the angle. Will he comply? I couldn’t quite tell if he’s on board. In the meeting yesterday, it was cold on my end of the table. The royal Danes, his immediate family at least, aren’t exactly known for warmth.”

“Oh, he’ll love it. Trust me. He likes the spotlight.”

“You know him? Personally, I mean?”

No? Kind of? “We’re acquainted, but believe me, that doesn’t mean he’s going to take it easy on me.”

Marco barks a laugh as the van shifts gears and the back doors slide closed. “Oh honey, you don’t want to know what I did to claw my way to the top. The amount of salads I had to shake for that family and how many wigs I brushed out.”

I smile at him, the comradery of having to attend to rich, powerful, and beautiful people brewing between us. At least I’ve got the director on my side, keeping Mr. Pretty Man happy is not going to be easy, I know that for sure. Because Winter Larsen has already promised to make my life a living hell.

We pull up in a circle drive ten minutes later. A sign tells us this is public parking for Paradise Bay, and while the van is being unpacked, I take in the view. Ombre water shines in the sun as far as my eyes can see, and the castle sits in the center of a crescent beach. The parking lot is carved into a hill, and I lean over the edge of a rock wall to look down on Vikingstrong.

I’ve seen it before, looked it up, of course, and my sister told me about it. But it’s an entirely different monster when you see it in person: all turrets and stone, Juliet balconies, and soldered windowpanes. There are workers on ladders here, too, decking the halls with holiday wreaths on every window.

We all truck down the winding hill because other than a tiny lift we found in the woods that takes a code to operate, there’s no other way to get there. The crew, including me, hand-carry boom mics, cameras, tubs full of tools, and trunks full of wardrobe options.

My eyes travel up expansive stone walls and steepled rooftops after we drop our supplies on the soft sand of the crescent-shaped beach. It’s a public beach but it’s not tourist season for Spirit Lake, dusted with clouds in the sky and brusque breeze, only a few onlookers stare wondering what the hell this army dressed mostly in black is doing.

We look like a band of thieves in broad daylight.

The structure is made mostly of smooth stone, three stories high with a turret on each side. Giant dragon heads, carved intricately with scrolling necks, delicate scales, and cold eyes. Mouths open breathing fire over the entry, crossing at the necks.

A stunned laugh escapes me as I make my way to the doorstep. Of course, of course, it’s an enigmatic castle that’s as welcoming and rustic as a lakeside chalet. I knew this. Winter is a Danish prince. This is information I’ve already processed. But for some reason, the weight of it hasn’t sunk in until this very moment. My hand travels the iron handle of the door, warm to the touch by the sun even in the almost winter chill.

Before I can knock or ring a bell, the door pulls open, out of my grasp, and he’s there. Standing in riding pants and a white t-shirt, a black helmet under one arm, messy hair standing in all directions on his head, and barefoot. There’s a crest on the pocket of his shirt, a dragon breathing fire with a scrolling L.

“Bloom. You’re a sight to see on my doorstep this morning.” One corner of his mouth tips up as his eyes assess me head to toe.

Unceremoniously, I drop the fat microphone cord coiled around my shoulder. The thing weighs a ton. “You’re a real prince,” I gush, my words floating in the air between us.

Dammit! Cat, don’t inflate his ego with your awe. Reel it in!

He looks down at his feet, then drags his gaze up. “You got me.”

“I mean,” I reach for words that will erase the wonder in my voice, “do you have any idea what we had to do to haul equipment down here? But you just had to shoot at home, I suppose.”

“This wasn’t my—” he starts to protest, but I won’t hear it.

“Spare me,” I say, and look up to see two carved dragon heads curled to meet each other in architectural detail in the rafters, almost as if they’re kissing. “I still don’t understand how we got here. Why do you demand I be involved? I could be happily living my normal life right now with my roommate who I feel really bad about leaving, and my office, and my phone.”

I’m embarrassed, and I’m annoyed: with his laziness, with my situation, and the fact I’m tethered to him for the duration of this show, probably longer if my sister ends up marrying his best friend. I yearn to run screaming for the mountaintops.

I eye him while waiting for an answer. Leaving Winter Larsen hanging would be a pleasure.

His jaw ticks as he bites down, and I don’t think he’s going to respond, but he surprises me and says, “This isn’t my idea of a good time, either.”

“You’re the center of attention. This is all for you,” I gesture behind me. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. You signed on to this show for a reason.”

“Yes, despite loathing being in any kind of spotlight, I did.”

That gives me pause. He does live as quietly as he possibly can, off the grid and away from it all. He hides out here in this castle that almost no one knows about unless they stumble upon it while hiking or visiting the beach.

“Cat got your tongue?” he chides, tossing his helmet onto a chair inside.

“Pompous, coddled, little prince,” I growl, to remind myself exactly what he is.

“Do me a favor, as my assistant,” he looks over my shoulder at the crew on the beach, “and try to keep my audience at a minimum. I . . . I get a bit uneasy with a camera on me.”

“Who would have thought you’d have stage fright?” I scoff.

“More like PTSD,” he says under his breath.

“But you’re always so,” I wave my arms around grandly, “big. You have a big personality.” When I search his face for calculation, for any kind of joke or taunt, all I see is genuine fear. He’s not looking forward to today. I sober. “I’ll do what I can, but you orchestrated this circus. You made your bed and now you’ve got to lie in it. Might teach you a lesson about messing with people as if they’re mere playthings.”

His jaw ticks as his lips form a hard line. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, moving to close the door in my face, but he hesitates. “Wait, first I want a green smoothie from Smooth Operators. My buddy Ben Holiday recently opened it and they’re running a two-for-one special.”

“Green smoothies are my favor?—”

“Make sure you bring the extra back for Annie. And you might want to find a cooler and some ice to tote them in, I don’t want a lukewarm smoothie. It’s in Novel, by Mr. Bear’s Toys. You’ll find it.” He nods to the mountain I’ll have to climb to get to the van. “Extra greens in mine, Annie is allergic to lemon.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, already reaching for my phone wondering if I can call it in but I don’t have a phone!

“I know, right? It’s the damnedest thing. Can’t even have a lemon in the house. If she looks at the color yellow, I swear her throat swells up.”

My eyes meet his and I hold in every single detail about how far I want him to shove it. “As you wish, pretty man,” I seethe.

“And Bloom,” he adds.

But I’m staring up the hill. I’ll have to borrow the keys to the van, find this damn smoothie place in a town I’m unfamiliar with, and hustle back down here to get him dressed and ready to shoot.

Do they have Walmarts in this area? Where am I going to find a mini-cooler?

“What?” I grit back without turning to face him.

“Don’t make me wait too long.”

I make him speak to my back. Whatever game we’re playing, it’s point one Larsen, counterpoint, Bloom.