Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 9

Nine

WINTER

W hen Cat returns with my smoothie that I know good and well was a pain in the ass for her to procure, she’s sweating. But she is toting a cooler with the tag still attached from Holiday Bait, Boat, and Tackle and I’m impressed, despite my trying not to be.

Serves her right. She deserves it. Not only is this payback for the stunt she pulled months ago, but she’s a pill. A flippant, judgy, stuck-up pill. She must be obsessed with herself to post the way she does on social media, to bask in strangers fawning over her with likes and comments. Last night when I got back to my apartment above the main floor of the castle, I fell into my laptop and searched Catherine Bloomfield.

Yes, I signed a contract to stay offline for the duration of the show. They can sue me if they find out. And anyway, I’m stealthy, I’m not stupid enough to leave any sort of footprint.

The recent comments on her posts are enough to make me want to jump in the lake—the way they fawn over her. Her bio boasts of career accomplishments with Brand Hub, and highlights a family business with pictures of her in baggy shorts and band t-shirts in a warehouse filled with toys and games. There are pictures of her as a teen in braces with her parents, a tag gun in her hand, and a few with her sister next to her on rollerblades. Frannie grins ear to ear while Cat’s got her hands perched on her hips, a get this over with look on her face.

Her followers love her. They trip over themselves complimenting her, and yes, there are so many men in addition to a bunch of small businesses who cheer her on when she posts about local mom-and-pops—probably charging them an arm and a leg.

It doesn’t matter to me what she does in her free time, but this sort of glutton for fame is exactly what I hate. It’s the exact opposite of who I am and what I want—I ran from it the second I could leave Skagen, and enrolled myself in school here. I met the dudes, my band of brothers who saved me, and never looked back.

“They’re ready for you,” Annie says as she moves through the kitchen. She’s making a grocery list, one for my personal kitchen upstairs and one for the main kitchen with things she uses.

Annie’s the only reason I’ve been able to live this life away from the monarchy and my parents. When I begged to leave Denmark as a kid, they said no. When I kicked up a royal fuss and made headlines with absolutely horrific behavior, they sent me to the castle in California with Annie, under the guise of American liaison. I’m supposed to show up for the tours now and then, and when I do, I mostly enjoy it, but something about putting on a show for oglers makes my stomach turn. My family still owns the castle, built to be a grand but rustic lakeside mountain retreat, but we donated the land and the main floor to the state long ago as a historical landmark. Hence, I reluctantly live like Quasimodo.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

“Thanks.” I drain the last of my smoothie dry and toss the cup in the bin .

Cat’s cheeks were glistening when she delivered it, tendrils of hair falling into her face. Brown eyes blazing with heat and loathing, for me.

Exactly how I want it. My plan is working perfectly.

I make my way down the front lawn onto the beach. The day has turned sunny and if I were betting, one of the last we’re going to see for a while. Winter is coming and while it’s semi-mild on the lake, up on the mountain copious snow will fall and temperatures will drastically drop.

I hope she freezes her ass off in that flimsy leather jacket she’s wearing.

“No, no, no, no,” Marco says as I approach him. There’s a camera set up on a gimbal, I’m guessing, to follow me on a walk down the beach.

What a cliché. “Marco, good morning.”

“Why aren’t you in wardrobe?” He stomps a dad-sneakered foot.

I shrug and yawn. “No one’s told me anything about wardrobe. Isn’t that my peon’s job?”

“Cat!” Marco bellows. The entire crew pauses to watch Cat cross the beach to meet us. Marco speaks softly instead of ripping into her and everyone gets back to whatever they were doing. Nice guy. “Why is Mr. Larsen not in wardrobe?”

“Got it right here.” She pulls a pair of jeans from her shoulder.

“I’m not wearing those.”

“ But this is wardrobe ,” they both say in unison.

I eye them and almost ask if they’d planned to double-team me. “I don’t do denim.”

“But I spent an hour poring over options with the stylists. I picked these specifically for the wash and slightly frayed edges, and the button fly.” Her eyes jolt to my crotch when she says fly, and her cheeks turn berry red.

“But are frayed edges the image we want to project?” I muse, rubbing my chin. “What does a button fly say about me?”

Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. It’s fun getting under her skin.

“Fine, would you like me to bring back some different options?” She is determined.

Yes, exactly right Bloom. I am here to make your job absolutely and delightfully impossible. True, denim isn’t high on my list, though I would wear it, but it’s so much more fun making trouble for her.

Marco surprises us both when he pipes up. “The fitted khakis are a nod to nineties, preppy-boy-chic, anyway.” I look down at myself. Is that what I look like? I throw on breeches and my riding gear most mornings and think nothing of it. “But lose the shirt.”

“Are you okay with that?” Cat asks. Her words are tight, forced, but I have to award her points for doing her job and asking her client what they’re comfortable with.

“Fine with me.”

Marco turns to Cat. “Oil him up, and . . .” he surveys me head to toe like a cut of Wagyu on a restaurant cart, “roll the pants at the ankle. Slouch them down on the hips.”

I gesture at my hips. “They are slouched, I rode for three hours this morning.”

“ More ,” Marco says, “Show a little boxer. Cat, you’ve got options?”

“I’ve got three different waistband options. We were prepared for the ‘model in a designer label’ angle.”

I have no idea what that means, but the word ‘model’ can’t be too bad.

Marco nods. “That, or you can always default to plaid. The unofficial theme of this whole production is plaid . You’ve got five.”

Time to argue. “Seriously? I’ll look like an imbecile.” Cat sniffs, looking away to hide a smirk. “Do you have a problem?” I ask, any points for her professionalism lost.

Try me, Bloom.

“Wardrobe can’t fix the problem I have,” she says under her breath and a tiny part of me, deep down, balks. It really bothers me when people don’t like me. Hell. I guess I’ll have to deal with her loathing me since I’ve sworn to make her life miserable.

Marco takes control of the uncomfortable silence between us. “We need the shirt off. The sun is still shining and there’s a winter warning coming in for all of next week. This is our last chance to get the shirtless beach footage, and we need the shirtless beach footage . ”

“We can’t, you know, go for snuggly sweater footage? In Danish culture there’s a term we use called hygge ?—”

“Could you get any more high maintenance?” Cat asks, tipping her chin up as if she’s got better things to do. “You said you were fine with it.”

Truth be told, I’m fucking freezing already in bare feet and short sleeves, though the sun is warming my skin and Logan’s always telling me I need to get out of the gym and more vitamin D.

“Let me enunciate a little more clearly,” Marco says, clearing his voice. “Shirt-less.”

“You heard him,” Cat says, pulling a bottle of golden oil from a bag wrapped around her hips. It almost looks obscene in her hand, like something she’d pull from her nightstand, but I squash that ridiculous thought real quick.

“Must I?” I groan, rubbing my forearms to try and build up some heat first.

“Skin sells. Hand over the Hanes.”

She juts a demanding hand in my direction and despite my best efforts, a laugh escapes me. “You’re certainly eager.”

When in Rome. I pull at the neck of my shirt and toss it over her shoulder on top of the offending jeans. And yeah, she can’t take her eyes off me.

I flex, just a little, and when my pecs jump, she jumps.

Interesting.

“Here,” she launches the oil at me and I catch it easily, “put your own oil on. ”

I launch it right back at her and she catches it, but barely. “And do your job for you?”

“Are you trying to make my life hell on this job, because we’re two hours in and you’re nailing it.”

All I do is smile because yes, she’s getting a taste of what she’s in for. “Aw, you’re not going to quit, are you?”

“I would never give you the satisfaction, or risk Brand Hub’s future, or my own. I’m not doing this here,” she grits out, looking around as her cheeks turn crimson.

Rubbing me down with body oil is apparently abhorrent to her. It’s not like I want her hands on me either. The crew continues with their tasks on the beach, but more than a few sets of eyes cut our way and I instantly tense up.

“We’re rolling on set. Mics are hot,” Marco yells, tromping through the sand and stepping over piles of equipment.

A tall Black man with a mohawk hoists a camera to his shoulder and it tracks my way. My mouth goes dry and I swallow, remembering all the cameras in my face as a kid and how much it made me wish I could disappear.

S o we’re doing this , my glance says when I meet Cat’s eyes again. I take a deep breath and let it out long and slow through my nose. As much as I’ve geared up for this, it’s going to take a toll. Doing the royal song and dance always does.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Her change in tone, from cold to concerned, puts me on guard. What is she playing at? “Being served like a meal to the camera has never been my favorite part of the job. Not as a kid, and not now.”

She looks right, looks left, surveying our audience of production crew who aren’t outright staring at me, but clocking my movements nonetheless through downshifted gazes. “Follow me, please ,” she says, her voice low.

It’s the unexpected concern on her face that keeps me from fighting her. Instead, I follow her to the edge of a clearing to some tall pines off the side of Vikingstrong. The camera is still trained on me but keeps its distance. Must have a damn good lens; it gives a false sense of privacy that I know isn’t there.

“What are we doing?” I huff.

“I’m getting you ready without an audience.” She drops to her knees and looks up at me. “Okay?”

I tense and look down, suddenly bewildered. “Okay.”

With the lightest touch, she gently rolls up the hem of one of my pant legs. It’s unnerving to have her kneeling before me, as is the chill I feel when she moves to roll up the other pant leg, grazing my ankle with her fingertips.

“Ouch,” she mutters, shifting her weight from one knee to another. Sticks and rocks are scattered throughout the borders of the forest, not the best place to stop and kneel for a while.

“You alright?” Her concern must be contagious.

She huffs a laugh. “If you were hoping to make me miserable, you’ve more than succeeded.”

“You don’t need to do this.” The words slip from my mouth unbidden as my hand almost automatically reaches out to help her up.

It has nothing to do with her, s pecifically . I don’t want to be the cause of anyone experiencing actual pain, no matter what they’ve done to me.

“I’m fine.” She leans back on her heels, rubbing a little at her knees and assessing her handiwork. “Being a royal kid . . . Not easy, I take it?”

“Not my cup of cream, no.” She snorts a laugh. “What?”

“Cup of cream? I’ve only heard the saying ‘cup of tea’.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think they’re even, but are we going for even?” she muses while eyeing my pant legs, mostly to herself.

Thank God I have nice feet. I almost can’t take her scrutiny of my ankles.

“They’re good.” I shift in the brush, causing her fingers to graze my skin again. I’m ready to get back to the beach and get this over with.

“No, I think one’s a little higher.” Back on her knees, wincing, she reaches out but lets out a, hey ! when I grasp her under both arms and haul her to her feet.

She wobbles, and I grip her by the elbows until she finds her footing. “They’re fine,” I say again, firmer. “I didn’t realize you were such a perfectionist.”

I want her to grovel. I want her to pay for the stunt she pulled a few months ago, but not on her knees. Watching her in even the slightest pain feels wrong and uncomfortable, even though I couldn’t say why.

Our eyes pin together. What are you doing? she asks with her gaze.

I have no fucking clue.

“I like to get things right,” she says slowly, pulling from the grasp I have on her.

Surprisingly, she didn’t protest my touch this time. It must be because she’s clearly going to have to get over the no touching rule—because, oil.

She zeroes in on my chest, assessing what she sees up close and personal. I can smell her, all berries and lavender mixed with the pine trees around us. And I know exactly what she’s going to ask. “What does that say?”

“Nothing.” I gulp and look past her shoulder at the camera on the beach.

“What language is it? Not English.”

I cover the tattoo with a hand over my ribcage under my left pec, feeling very conspicuous while inches from her with no shirt. “Danish. Let’s get this over with, Bloom.”

Her head snaps up to meet my gaze, and there’s a bit of hurt in her eyes. I’ve seen nothing but fierceness from this woman since the night we met in a nightclub months ago. There was attraction then, of course, but the flippant dance club kind that immediately dissolved once I got to know her. After she used me to get what she wanted.

“Fine.” She opens the bottle of oil and pours a generous amount into her palms. “Hold this,” she says, handing the bottle to me.

Uncertain where to start, she hesitates, and I suck in a breath. Why the fuck does her hesitation make me nervous?

Rubbing her hands together, her eyes traverse my body slowly. My shoulders, my chest, down one arm and up the other. I’m not sure if she’s drawing this out on purpose or doesn’t know where to start. Her gaze roams until she stops on my stomach, then slides down to my waist where my pants already sit low from riding in them all morning, a hint of red plaid boxers peeking out.

“Well, I think wardrobe is fine.” She’s still reluctant to begin her task, hands covered in oil. My chest moves rapidly, the anticipation speeding up my breathing as I gulp for air.

I’m afraid she’s going to notice.

I take her by the wrist, unable to wait any longer. “Start here,” I rasp, then place her palm right over the words wrapped around my ribcage in ink, the mantra I’ve repeated every night when I can’t bear to wake up and begin another day—trapped.

Her palm is warm, small, and fitted against my side in such a way, I can’t stop staring at it. An electric current races straight down my center.

She gasps, looking everywhere but at my face.

What the fuck is happening?

She moves and I flinch, gritting my teeth and rolling my eyes skyward while she drags her hand tentatively down my side, then more confidently up my stomach, and over my shoulders.

I stretch my neck long like Lola does when she really wants a pet, allowing her as much space as she needs until sure enough, her fingertips float all the way to my jaw.

She pauses and I hold my breath, covered in slick oil and standing barefoot in the woods .

Gripping my jaw, her eyes seem to ask a thousand questions when she forces me to look at her. She’s struggling for control right now, but she also has no idea where to go next.

“Jesus, Bloom,” I say on an exhale, grabbing her other wrist.

She looks down when I unfurl her fisted fingers and place her other palm on my stomach. My muscles flex and jump but not because I mean to show off this time—it’s my body reacting to her touch.

Out of my control and unsteady.

With both her hands on me now, unmoving, she’s a rabbit caught on a winding lake road. Paralyzed with no idea which way to go. I’ve never seen this woman unsure, and nowhere near timid. She’s usually hollering at me, calling me ‘pretty man,’ and threatening me.

Finally, her gaze shifts, and I can tell she’s back to herself. Back in control when she moves around my body, dragging both her hands across my delts, and down my spine to distribute the oil and make me nice and shiny for showtime.

“I need more,” she whispers, her breath warm on my shoulder blades, my own chest still heaving as I suck in breath after breath.

After another pour, she doesn’t hesitate, dropping her hands to my shoulders and massaging the oil deep into my traps where I carry a lot of tension.

It feels so good, and I moan a little despite myself while trying to focus on the massive tree trunk in front of me. And old polo stats. And my family creed, written by my forefathers that I was made to memorize at five years old to recite at royal functions.

This cannot be turning me on.

She cannot be affecting me like this.

But it is, and she is . Intentionally, I think .

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t taunt me. Instead, she increases the pressure, kneading into knots of tension I exercise vigorously to abate. I’m softening, leaning into her touch. I’m fucking melting, and if I could stop it, I don’t even know that I would .

When she’s finished with my back, she steps around me again.

“Oops,” she says, much more in control of herself now. That makes one of us. “Missed a spot.” Her hands glide up my front again, feather soft over my pecs, my collarbones, and up my neck. She holds my jaw in place again with her thumbs. A ghost of a smile on her lips. “Perfect.”

“Excuse me?” I husk, my chest still pumping as her gaze holds mine. Anxiety builds in my stomach, and I don’t know what’s happening.

What is she saying, exactly? She likes what she sees? Does she actually like something about me?

“All done, pretty man.” Both her hands land against my pecs with a loud smack that sounds like a crack of lightning echoing off the trees.

“Dammit, Bloom, that hurt,” I yelp, rubbing at red welts on my skin.

She laughs the whole way back to the beach, where the camera waits for me by the water.