Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 12

Twelve

CAT

I spin to face him outside the all-gender bathroom. “Seriously, blue nails?” He smiles, devil may care, but looks away. “You’ve been briefed by Streamflix, you know what’s expected of you.

My words are curt, but this is how I work. Yes, I try to be a bit softer with clients who need it, like the Rushmores, but Winter does not need coddling.

“What’s wrong with a man expressing his feminine side?” His gaze finally swings back from an intense study of the all-gender bathroom sign to meet mine.

God, the bravado rolling off him could seduce someone in seconds if they didn’t know what a jerk he is. But there’s something underneath it that he doesn’t want me to see, a vulnerability to his words and actions.

“It’s unexpected, I’ll give you that.” There. That’s playing nice .

His smile falters and he bites his lip. “Do we have to remove it?”

Whatever he’s trying to hide, his facade is slipping. He’s nervous, and something inside me can appreciate the position he’s in and how terrifying it must be. He’s already mentioned he doesn’t like cameras.

But I shrug. This is the job we both signed up for. “You heard Marco. It’s not the image we’re going for.”

He takes my comment as sarcasm, which in this case, it wasn’t. “Give me those then, if I’m so repugnant to you.” He pulls a plaid vest and scarf off my shoulder that I selected from wardrobe specifically to highlight the intense blue in his eyes.

His shift from arrogant to wounded throws me.

“Winter, wait.” I can’t say I’m sorry, because I have no idea what’s going on here. “Is this all about blue nail polish? Do we need to find a more private place to shoot? Are you,” I hedge because I’m not sure how honest he’ll be with me. Probably not at all. “Are you that nervous about filming?”

“No.” His eyes drop to his boots.

That was a yes. It’s odd watching a confident man unravel before my very eyes and before I let any emotion in, I remind myself he’s the reason I’m here, carrying his boots and gofering his breakfast. And now I need to find nail polish remover on the top of a mountain.

Still, I stupidly feel sorry for him despite the fact he thinks I’m someone who uses people. Someone who doesn’t care. Maybe it’s time he realizes how wrong he is.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Is the polish like, what, a crutch or something?”

“If you must know, it’s a visual reminder. Helps me focus. I’ve been doing little things like this since I was a kid, when I had to make a public appearance.”

I’ve seen pictures on the internet of him as a kid. A sandy-blonde-haired boy yawning and earning glares from his mother, sitting on his grandmother’s knee in a velvet coat, stopping to tie his shoe in a parade on the streets of Denmark.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be dismissive about it. I’m sure Marco didn’t either.”

“You could have fooled me. We can’t mess with the brand, now can we?”

“What do you expect?” I throw my arms out wide. “You signed up for this to torture me with lists of demands hidden in secret mailboxes in the middle of a snowy mountain.”

“The mailbox is whimsical. Some might even say,” he pauses and I swear, if he says romantic— “helpful.”

I can’t even think about the mailbox right now as he gazes at me, waiting.

“What?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the energy rolling off him. I thought he was all cocky confidence but, he’s more tumultuous than that, deeper than that. Seems I might have misjudged him— a little — just like he’s wrong about who I am.

“I didn’t do this,” he wiggles his big hands with long fingers tipped in blue in front of my face, “to make your life difficult this morning. It’s my way of dealing with being an object. First, I was a son who had a duty. Now I’m on a reality show to find a wife because the Crown’s aggressively selfish team thinks my country hates me.”

Blindly, I sink into those intense blue eyes and try to make sense of the words that tumbled so freely from his lips. “That was a lot of personal information.”

“I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions lately, Cat. I thought I could handle this and play the game my way.”

“What’s changed?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know.” He leans back against the door. “And last night, this was my distraction.” He runs a hand through hair that has darkened since he was a boy in those pictures, now with more golden caramel streaks. A muscle in his neck flexes. “I guess I didn’t realize how real this was going to be.”

I lift my chin and square my shoulders. I’ve got to pull him out of this spiral, we’re filming in minutes. “I think I can help—at least with the nail polish. Getting women to fall in love with you? That’s all you.”

“You don’t believe I can make someone fall in love with me, yet your reputation depends on it.”

“If it elevates Brand Hub and gets you out of my hair once and for all, I’ll help you any way I can.”

“What about long after the show, when your sister’s married to my best friend?” he tries.

“Then I’ll be more than kind to your wife because I know what she deals with every day.”

He chuckles, mostly to himself. “Now that sounds like team spirit. And just think,” he stands tall and looks down at me, “what would you be doing without me right now? Dancing for your fans?”

“Nope, you don’t get to judge me.” I start down the hall to look for some acetone as quickly as possible in a bakehouse full of hot chocolate and frosting.

“Cat, wait.” I hate that I stop and turn around.

“What now?” I groan.

“Despite the fact you’re trying to help your clients, I think you’ve got a lot more to offer than selling your soul for fame on the internet. You’re commanding, charismatic, and,” he shrugs, “people seem to like you.”

His words hit me in the face and roll down my body like I’ve taken a strong drug. He’s wrong, of course—fame has nothing to do with it—even if it did, to each their own. And his delivery is one of those double-edged compliments that hurt as much as help. If I could drop off the face of the internet and still do my job, I would.

But his praise, the part where he thinks highly of me, wraps around me like a warm glove. I hate that his opinion of me, given so freely and honestly, affects me the way it does .

My feet move of their own accord and I march right up to him, my heart pumping hard. He pushes his shoulders back, standing tall, matching my energy.

“Of course, that’s what you think, but it’s not about fame.” Why do I care to set him straight? “ You take one look at me, you stalk me on socials—don’t deny it—and you’ve got me pegged. But let me tell you,” I reach behind him and open the door to the restroom. It’s a single, and thankfully no one’s in there, “You’re wrong.”

“What are you doing?” he balks but lets me push him a few steps back toward the door.

“I’m coming in there to peel that polish off your fingers. We’re out of time and on top of a mountain.”

“I’ll do it,” he says.

I grab his wrist and hold up his hand. “With what nails? You’ve bitten them down to the quick.” That gives us both pause. There’s a truth here. The nail polish and nail biting are physical signs of stress and anxiety.

His lips form a firm line, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Winter, it’s going to be okay.” My heart goes out to him while my head is at war with what I know of him. He may come off cocky and confident on the outside, and he may think he’s got me all figured out, but I think he’s as confused as the rest of us.

“Is it?” he asks, with no hint of sarcasm. An honest question.

“Yes,” I say. “Get in there.” When he doesn’t move I add, “March.”

“God, you’re so, so fucking—” he says, letting me push him back even more so I can follow him in.

“So fucking what?” I ask over my shoulder while adjusting the tap to warm and pumping a generous amount of peppermint hand soap into my hand.

“ Det er et helvede !” He slams the door.

But in a short time, I’ve become accustomed to his moods and I think he’s as humored as he is angered in this moment. “Get dressed.” I nod for him to put the vest and scarf on while I wait for the water to warm. “I’ve scrubbed a thousand temporary tattoos, stray marker, and ballpoint pen off my sister. This is going to be right up my alley. Push up your sleeves.”

“You are full of surprises, Bloom.”

A knock sounds on the bathroom door.

Winter opens it roughly, his features blazing with indignation.

Robbie appears in the doorway, camera on his shoulder. “Marco said to tell you, English only,” he says directly to Winter.

“What?”

“You used Danish.”

“How do you know?” He seems genuinely surprised and it wipes more of the tension away for both of us. We’ve been caught sparring, speaking totally unprofessionally to each other.

“Cat’s already mic’d.”

Oh no, I forgot. Who knows how much they heard? “You did,” I offer. “You said something that wasn’t English two seconds ago. And the second mic packs are turned on they’re recording.”

“Tell Marco, apologies. I didn’t realize I was doing it. It comes out every now and again.”

Robbie merely nods and goes on his way.

“Winter,” I soften my voice when he closes the door quietly, “let me do this, and then you can meet us in the kitchen.” I can deal with his eccentricities like any other difficult client. “Hands, please.”

He pushes up his sleeves and drops his hands to rest on top of mine in the sink.

Our shoulders press together in the tiny bathroom and we glance up at our reflection in the mirror. I tense, smelling clove and citrus and a bit of smoke on him. I wonder if he’s got a penchant for burning candles.

He turns his head toward mine, breath hot on the shell of my ear. “Is this what you wanted?”

Unable to tear my eyes away from him in the mirror, I watch his reflection, taking stock of his strong jawline and the vulnerable twist to his lips.

“You know this isn’t what I meant.” The moment turns intimite, how do we keep finding ourselves in these tight-knit situations?

“But is it okay?” It’s a whisper, and the room shrinks while my stomach bottoms out. He presses his shoulder more firmly into mine, standing at my side, and that seems to help him relax as he releases a long breath.

Is it okay? I hurt his feelings earlier, feelings I didn’t know he had. And I feel like a jerk taking his polish off if it is his way of dealing with anxiety. Despite wishing I didn’t feel this connection with him, I want to give him a little comfort in return.

“It’s fine.” The shiver running the length of my spine says otherwise. It’s fight or flight, a reaction to being in a small space with a man I thought I hated.

But now, I guess hate is too strong a word. I don’t like him, that’s for sure, but I don’t dislike him so much that I want to see him suffer. See him struggle with worry about what he’s signed up for. The show is a big deal. Anyone with a pulse would be nervous.

I take his fingers, letting the warm water wash over our hands, and gently peel at the thick blue polish. It comes off his large thumb easily in one smooth sheet, which is oddly satisfying.

“How many coats did you do?”

“Four.”

“Two, Winter. Two is the number.”

“Noted.”

“Why didn’t you want to be in your country? As a kid?” He slipped into Danish so easily, and without realizing it.

“It was hard being ignored all the time, and I was pissed.” More truths coming from him faster than I can process his honesty. It’s jarring compared to how we’ve interacted in the past, but not terrible.

“Pissed at . . . ”

“My parents, my lot in life, my voice in my head because I was alone all the goddamn time. I had to get out. I was suffocating under the weight of expectation, only to fail over and over and over. Alone. My parents only ever showed up to tell me I’d tied my tie wrong for the benefit, or made a sour face in the photos, or stumbled over a word in my speech. The criticism became paralyzing.”

My hands freeze when he leans more heavily into my shoulder, the full length of our arms now pressed together. He seems desperate for connection, for support, and that makes me epically sad for him.

Mentally, I shake myself from thinking about a poor little prince, all alone in a castle, and keep working all the polish off his nails. “That’s a lot.”

His proximity isn’t an advance or a challenge, it’s sadness, pouring from his body and raining down onto mine. I’m not even sure he knows what he’s doing, much like slipping into another language without meaning to.

He straightens, going still before pulling hands that have been polish-free for some time from mine. “You asked,” he says, defensively.

I turn into him, regretting the move instantly because he turns into me at the same time, dropping his hands against either side of the sink. I’m pinned in place with nowhere to hide.

He doesn’t step back and my chest presses against his. My heart goes from thumping to outright pounding in my ears when I look up into a pool of sad blue.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, a little disappointed with myself that his first thought was that I was judging him. “That’s a lot for a kid to deal with.”

“Thank you.”

I shrug and release a breath, “You’re welcome.”

His shoulders soften, his eyes searching mine with a question he won’t ask. Then he takes a step back, releasing me. “Personal space, remember?”

“I think we’re well past that.” I wiggle my fingers at him, bits of blue nail polish still clinging to my skin. He smiles, a real smile, and it feels like I’ve been given a gift.

“I’ll change, and be out in a minute. Ready to put on a show.”

“One more thing.” After drying my hands, I dig into my fanny pack and pull out one of my black permanent markers. “Give me your hand.”

He hesitates, patting his hands dry on his pants, then gives me his right hand. His palm is heavy in mine and I flip it over, noting calluses and veins that run up his strong forearm as I gently push his sleeve back up to expose the inside of his wrist.

I don’t think, I just draw. A tiny black heart.

“What’s this?” he asks, pulling his wrist away to inspect the drawing himself. It’s not perfect, uneven sides and all, but I colored it in and it’s a solid if not permanent tattoo on his skin.

“It’s not blue nail polish, but it’s something to ground you. If you get nervous, press that spot and remember why you’re doing this.”

“Why am I doing this?” he rasps without looking up, rubbing the little heart with the pad of his thumb.

“I have no idea.”

The bakehouse is busy when Winter strides out with his usual swagger back in place. The women of Royal Hearts are here in all their glory, after being primped and polished at the Lodge. They rode the ski lift up the mountain and look positively frozen, but no worse for the wear.

“Ladies,” I say, when I realize it’s up to me to give them the rundown, “we’ll have you line up here behind the counter. You’re making cookies with Winter today. It’s our first date so just be yourselves. Any questions?”

All five of them yawn and simultaneously shiver. A few reapply lip gloss. One is eyeing Robbie as if he’s a peppermint stick she wants to lick.

This should be interesting.

“Quiet on set!” Marco calls when we’ve got Winter at the counter, polish-less hands already working a snowball’s worth of dough with the women at his sides.

Every once in a while, he presses a thumb into the heart on his wrist.

“We’re getting a good mix of whimsy and rustic-chic vibes, you know, ski season and life on the mountain,” Marco says under his breath. “People are going to be into this for the holidays.”

The kitchen ignores us, a server sliding the passthrough window open and taking a hot chocolate order from a cute couple. This is a reality show but Marco seems determined to treat it like a storyboard.

Robbie swings by me along with a few other cameras in the room to get a good shot.

“Hey, Robbie?” I tap on his shoulder and he stops to listen while keeping his camera pointed at Winter. “If you’ve got any creative connections at Streamflix, I know a guy who’s looking to break in as a screenwriter.”

“That Liam guy? The waiter at The Nook?”

“You know him? I’m connecting him with that writer on the crew with the Hallmark deal, too.”

“I’ve noticed him, um, yeah. I’ll see what I can find out and let you know.”

“Thanks, Robbie. You’re a gem.”

“Do we have any direction for the contestants?” Marco drags an exasperated hand down his five o’clock-shadow. The cookie-making setup is epically boring. Winter looks asleep on his feet and no one is talking much .

Robbie shrugs. “We’ve been live for a few minutes now.”

Winter and the ladies are all standing around the table. “Should we start?” Winter asks.

“It’s not that kind of show!” Marco bellows. “We have started!”

Winter shrugs, looks at me. “Oh, I didn’t realize we’re on?—”

“Just . . . Rolling!” Marco says, dragging a hand down his face while clutching a clipboard for dear life.

It’s as if a switch is flipped in the women. They start pressing rolling pins across the counter, everyone leans in, and they gasp and giggle though no one has said a word yet.

“What’s happening,” I whisper, looking up at Robbie, his camera perched on his opposite shoulder now.

“Usually contestants on shows like this are hoping for second place. Aspiring actresses or models or entrepreneurs. You know that, right? This is kinda like an audition.”

“Seriously? Is that how it is for all the shows?” I mentally scan through the reality dating shows I’ve watched on the couch with Willow and Frannie over the years, from the corner of my eye while glued to my phone.

Robbie snorts. “I didn’t peg you as a romantic.”

“I’m not, but I’ve watched these shows, and some of the couples make it. Right?”

Winter chuffs a laugh in my direction, making eye contact with me while a blonde whispers in his ear. My chest gets all light and flippy. Was he listening? Why is he watching me, and not looking at the woman next to him?

“So, what brings you all to my little mountain oasis?” he asks the ladies, still looking directly at me instead of them. He sounds nothing like himself, or at least nothing like the guy I spoke at length with in the bathroom.

“I love cookies,” a brunette woman on his right purrs.

“Really?” Winter rolls a tiny ball of dough in his hands and holds it up to her glossy mouth .

She opens wide and he drops it on her tongue. “And you are?”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “I’m Mandy.”

“I’m Lexi H. Can we go have a chat somewhere a little more private?” The blonde woman on his left takes his arm and before Winter can respond, she’s pulled him toward the front door.

But another woman jumps in their path. “I’m Lexi A. from Alabama!”

Lexi H. ignores her, opening the door of the bakehouse and letting a gust of frigid mountain air blow through.

“Things seem to be moving fast, Lexi. I’m not sure I’m that kind of guy.” Winter laughs but allows himself to be manhandled out the door.

“Lexi H.,” she corrects. She’s wearing the most ridiculous blue furry boots that look like that abominable snowman in that old Christmas cartoon. What was that one called? When I look at her feet all I can see is that squirrely cobalt yeti face.

“Where does she think she’s going?” I hiss. “We’ve just started, no one’s even used a cookie cutter yet!”

“Follow them,” Marco whisper-yells, rushing by me and struggling with his coat.

We all follow Winter and Lexi H. outside to the ski lifts. “Wanna go up?” she asks, wrapping herself around him like a warm pretzel.

“Er. We don’t have skis,” Winter replies, glancing at Robbie and his camera.

“Yes, you do,” I pipe up, then shoot a horrified look at Marco and Robbie, I’m still mic’d and I don’t want a guest role on this show. But Marco nods vigorously and shoos me toward the skis and boots we ordered for Winter and all the contestants for exactly this purpose.

Mentally, I pat myself on the back for being prepared while ducking under the camera and waddling toward them in a sort of squat, tossing the boots at their feet .

“What are you doing, Bloom?” Winter asks, eyes wide and full of mirth.

“Staying out of the shot,” I hiss.

Winter’s gaze cuts to Robbie’s camera. “I don’t think so.”

“Whatever, just, put your boots on and grab your skis over there.” I point to a ski rack that’s mercifully empty except for Winter’s custom skis and a few pairs for the women.

“I’m a size eight.” Lexi H. frowns at her size nine rental boots, then shrugs. “Oh well, these’ll work.” She kicks off the yeti boots in a flourish.

I breathe a sigh of relief, I have an assortment of boots behind me in a bin and I’d guessed at her size in an effort to stay off camera. The thought of appearing in the organic shots as they were described to us is my worst nightmare and I’m trying my best to lay low.

Before I can say ‘elf on a shelf,’ we’re jumping on the lift and following these two nitwits who’ve popped on skis up the mountain.

“Keep your camera on them,” Marco shouts as he drops into the chair with me, and we’re whisked off our feet.

We let Robbie take the lift right after Winter and Lexi H. so he has the best shot of the prince on his first official date on Royal Hearts .

“What the hell is this woman’s angle?” I growl to Marco. I’d rather not be freezing my ass off on a lift right now, we were supposed to be in a cozy bakeshop all day.

“Way to be prepared with Winter’s skis, by the way,” Marco says.

“Thanks. Is she trying to get frostbite?” I ask, incredulous.

The girl didn’t stop to put a coat on. She’s wearing a hot pink turtleneck, a bright white puffer vest, and thin leggings.

“She’s trying to nab a crown,” Marco laughs as if I should know this. “Or maybe a spinoff show as runner-up. Either way, she’s already winning. They always go off script, always off set for a private chat .”

Marco rubs his palms together, grinning from ear to ear. I wonder if his hands are cold? Or if he’s hoping we’ve struck reality TV gold? Probably both.

But as I watch Winter, backed by snowy mountains, tall emerald green pine trees, and skiers flying down the mountain beneath us, I notice his body language looks off.

Instead of a cocky grin turned toward his impromptu date, instead of dropping an arm around the woman and chatting her up like I’d imagine he would, he’s gripping the bar in front of him and looking skyward. Not at the attractive woman next to him, not at all, as she continues to yammer and make eyes at the camera.