Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 11

Eleven

CAT

O n Sunday, Little Star Lodge is quiet. The crew lazily stretches out in pajamas and hoodies around the bar listening to Marco’s three-hour pump-up speech for the first date on Royal Hearts . Darcy struggles with sorting ornaments at her desk while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas! on her laptop.

I sit off to the side with a cup of tea while stylists are assigned to get Winter’s wardrobe confirmed and delivered to me for each date. Robbie gets instructions to follow Winter’s every move, and I’m named the official liaison between Streamflix and Winter. We all pack it in early and with no phone and no doom scrolling, I sleep like a stone in a very fluffy bed.

Today, Little Star Lodge bellmen are back bright-eyed and bushy tailed for Monday morning, all wearing their caps knocked at an angle. Decorating has resumed, and they’re in glitter mode, sparkle exploding from every corner the eye can spy. They seem poised to break out into song and dance any minute. I wouldn’t put it past Darcy.

Liam takes my breakfast order at The Nook and has some very tart words to say about the skinny, sparkly tie with a grinning snowman he has to wear for the season. Along with my breakfast, he gives me some pages of a script he’s writing. I promised to pass it on to a crew member on Streamflix’s team who currently has a Hallmark movie deal and an agent. He’s a determined kid, and I love him for it, so I swear to beg her for notes and give her his contact information.

“Cat, wait!” I’m headed out the door but double back to the front desk when Darcy calls out.

Holding my bagel in my mouth, I wrap my belt bag filled with oil, lip balm, dental floss, hand sanitizer, a small sewing kit, and a handful of Sharpies that always come in handy around my waist. During yesterday’s meeting, we reviewed the promo footage from the beach and Marco doubled down on oil being the secret to any dating show. Make them shiny whenever possible.

He’s not wrong. The way the light played against Winter’s skin on camera, shadows cutting deep under each defined muscle, was something out of one of Willow’s romance novels. So, I refilled the bottle and came prepared. I don’t expect him to be shirtless on a date making cookies in a bakehouse, but then again with this brand of content, you never know.

Not that I’m looking forward to applying it again, despite a body that must be earned with a rigorous gym schedule, because I’m not—definitely not—looking forward to that.

The whole encounter with Winter in the trees was so awkward, so unnerving, that my hands were shaking the entire time. I hate that he noticed. It doesn’t matter how built the man is, how he must torture his body day in and day out to achieve the cuts in his physique, the defined curves, and the hardened Adonis belt that forms a V dipping below his waistband, his personality is a dumpster fire of cocky entitlement.

And that’s not hot no matter how you dress it up.

“Cat, I’ve got something for you,” Darcy shouts again.

“Coming,” I mumble through my bagel.

“I hid it and now I can’t find it,” she says when I reach the front desk.

Her laptop is tucked discreetly on a low shelf behind her, playing a movie. Today it’s Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan yukking it up in a bookstore, and I give myself a moment to watch.

“Cat, we’re loading in five!” Robbie’s voice carries from the front door, and I catch a glimpse of his blue mohawk walking out the double doors.

“I’m in a hurry,” I mumble through cranberry cream cheese, leaning across the front desk to see the movie better.

“Sorry, it’s my ADHD. I had it two seconds ago but then I got distracted by the glitter pens.”

“Can I get it later? It’s our first full week on set and my mind is already in work mode.”

“You’ve got mail,” she says cheerily, clusters of jingle bells dangling from her ears.

“I know,” I nod at her laptop, “I love that movie. I watch it every year around the holidays, too. Why don’t they make movies like that anymore?” The pine scented candle on her desk only adds to the nostalgia and I breathe deep, thinking of bouquets of sharpened pencils, and stores with holiday trim in the windows.

“That’s not what I mean.” She rummages through a small pile of mail behind her adorned with pretty holiday stamps. “Well, yes, you caught me. Mornings are usually slow so I sneak in movies while I do office work, but here,” she turns back with something in her hand, “you literally have mail.”

Oh. Maybe from my sister?

She’s supposed to be back from a buying trip for the motel she’s opening any day now. I’m pretty sure it’s an engagement moon because I helped pick out the ring. The fact I love her boyfriend and I get to spend Christmas with her is the best present I could ask for. My sister is turning into Joanna Gaines, but I hope she doesn’t have a hundred kids. I’m not cut out to be the charming aunt of ten. I fear too many sticky fingers and no personal space.

“Thanks,” I say, finishing off my bagel and taking the creamy, heavy envelope Darcy hands me. It’s got my name written in the most scrolly, rolly red calligraphy. “Did Santa send this himself?”

“No, but I am supposed to show you something else.”

“Wha—” she rounds the desk and grips my elbow. “Darcy, I’m gonna be late.” Why does she look so excited?

“Come with me.” Her eyes light with mischief.

We walk out the doors and into the sunny, but notably colder morning. I rub my palms together and blow as I take in the mountains capped white with snow. “It’s cold today.”

“This is nothing. You’re going to need a bigger coat. Didn’t you bring a ski jacket?”

“Er, no. I was in a hurry when I left.”

She drags me down the circle drive, past ornate statues of reindeer grazing on the lawn that sparkle with twinkle lights when the sun goes down. We come to a stop under the archway of Little Star Lodge at the end of the cobblestone street. Further down, the road turns a bit more rocky before you go through the pass. A tight squeeze between gargantuan mountains spits you out into two tiny towns below, smashed against each other on the state line of Nevada and California.

“Just a little further,” she says with a skip in her step as we round a few trees and come to a small clearing. The sound of skittering animals is faint as pine needles under our feet crunch, and a view of untouched mountains stretches far and wide. It’s breathtaking. “Here we are. ”

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket. I really need to find some gloves. “What am I looking at?”

Little flurries of snow I hadn’t noticed before are dancing around something that looks like?—

“Your new mailbox.”

A pretty wooden house stands before me, painted white with a red front door, black shutters bookending all the windows. It’s got dormers popping up across the roofline each adorned with tiny wreaths and bows. Easily the size of a community mailbox for an apartment building, or maybe one of those Little Free Libraries Willow loves to troll neighborhoods in the Bay looking for.

“It looks like it could hold all of Santa’s mail.” I eye the substantial mount it’s on, two posts dug deep into the ground with what looks like fresh dirt. “Why did you bring me to see this, albeit charming, mailbox, Darcy?” I check my watch and glance at the running Streamflix van at the top of the hill. It’s filling with crew.

“It’s from Winter.”

“Excuse me? From Winter? For who? Whom?” I stutter, then take a breath to calm a pulse that has suddenly decided to sprint. “For what?”

Darcy pulls on the roof of the house and it creaks open on large brass hinges. The inside is huge and empty.

No, not empty . There’s another thick cream envelope inside with my name on it.

I glance back up the cobblestone drive, exhaust spewing from the van while Marco stands outside, tapping a toe. “I don’t understand, and I need to get going?—”

Tearing open the first envelope from Winter because I want to know what I’m walking into here, I find exactly what I expected: a laundry list of requests, albeit in nice handwriting and I do see the word please, but who knows what’s in the second one?

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” she holds her hands up in response to my short tone. I’m late, and now I’m jealous of her fingerless gloves. Those would be so handy if I still had a phone to peck at. “He said you needed a way to communicate.”

I snatch the second envelope from the box and open it. “And this is his solution?”

Bloom,

Perhaps the art of letter writing isn’t dead?

Winter

“I think it’s kinda romantic. Laurie did this in Little Women . I watch that every winter, too.”

“You would fit in well with my friends.” I slam the box shut and start marching back up the mountain, stuffing both creamy envelopes into my nonexistent pockets.

What is Winter trying to accomplish with this? I stop in my tracks: has he seen Little Women? I don’t have time to psychoanalyze what that means. I have to get to work.

Clearly, this little stunt is supposed to appear charming, to appear thoughtful, but I know that sort of thing isn’t in his DNA. So, what? Is he making fun of me? Is it a joke?

Darcy tries to keep up with my pace. “What sister do you identify with most? I’m a Meg. Definitely, a Meg.” She rolls her eyes but smiles. “You’re a Jo, I think. Which version have you seen?” She trots alongside me, ready to make a case for a classic novel that I do, in fact, love to watch in every film adaptation in existence every holiday season.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m an Amy,” I say, my boots crunching harder into the snow as I stomp. “Tell him no thanks. I’ll do messages at the desk and that’s it.”

“But, but,” she stammers.

“I don’t do letters. I don’t do silly little stunts meant to mess with my head.” Nope. Whatever he’s planning, I am not taking the bait .

“But it’s romantic! ” You’d think I’d told her I don’t breathe air, the way she’s looking at me.

“I don’t do romantic, Darcy.”

“We’re starting big,” Marco’s jazz hands and general energy is enviable. “Big set, big, sweeping, romantic dates, all the vibes— until one of them starts to click.” The crew and I are getting a talking-to before the contestants arrive, and I hold back vomit just thinking about a woman falling for Winter.

Best of luck, she’s gonna need it.

“I thought this was a live stream?” I ask, still not understanding the need for a ‘set’.

“It is, but we’ll open every shot with a specific date, then we’ll follow them for the duration after. We air three days a week, and can cut from time to time. They’ll swap in sponsored ads, then right back to live streaming. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.” I salute him.

“Where’s our mark?” Robbie asks.

“Here, behind the counter. The pots and pans in the background give a real working kitchen look.”

It’s because we’re in a real working kitchen, the bakery of Little Star Lodge. There are a few checkered tables and a pass-through window for ski-up orders. It’s at the bottom of the first lift and opens every morning at the crack of dawn with hot peppermint mocha coffee, strudel, and egg sandwiches wrapped in foil for early bird shredders.

If I thought I was freezing at the base of the mountain this morning, I’m a Popsicle up here.

“What are we doing about the staff?” I ask as bakers and servers buzz around the small kitchen all wearing striped red aprons and cheerful, if not a bit sleepy, expressions .

I scoot a little closer to a hot oven behind me to keep warm and inhale the cardamom and cinnamon in the air.

“They’re in the shot. We’ve already gotten approval from the lodge.”

The worktable is littered with shiny silver cookie cutters, piles of pre-made sugar dough, and bowls of icing, sprinkles, and edible glitter.

“Where do you want me?” Winter saunters through the front door, kicking his boots on the rug to knock off the snow. These boots are ankle-high and trimmed in fur. If I saw another man wearing boots like these, I’d think he looked ridiculous. Pretty boys, the ones who care more about their hair than I do, are not my type. And that is Winter Larsen. His hair is styled perfectly into a rolling wave that clearly took effort, with caramel streaks running through his sandy blonde locks. Not my type at all.

Except if I’m being honest, those boots, his fitted pants bunching slightly at the ankle, and the thin cashmere sweater stretching across his toned chest somehow work.

Until I see his hands.

“What are you wearing?” Marco asks. I’m guessing he sees what I see.

“Cozy mountain gear,” Winter replies without hesitation, as if we’re dense and wouldn’t know a sweater from swim trunks.

Ass. He’s being obtuse on purpose. “But what’s on your fingernails?” Marco presses.

“Did you paint your nails?” I say with a raised eyebrow, speaking only to him. This is not part of the preppy prince image the styling team is going for.

He shrugs. “I was feeling a little blue, Bloom.”

“Get him in wardrobe,” Marco says. “Most of it’s fine, but we need some plaid. And, sorry Winter, but lose the blue nail polish. Doesn’t track with the image we’re going for. More Prince William, less Prince Harry. ”

His jaw ticks and I can tell he’s struggling to maintain his carefree expression. “Have you all turned on my man, Harry?”

Dear God, is he friends with every famous Harry on the planet? When all this is over please let me never forget that my job was once gofering for this idiot. I’ve stooped as low as I intend to ever go.

“Come with me,” I groan.

Winter waggles his eyebrows toward Marco as if to say what’s his problem, like we’re in this together, as he follows me down a tiny hallway.