Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 14

Fourteen

CAT

W eak?

He doesn’t know me at all!

I throw my feather duvet off and sit up in the middle of the night.

Winter’s words are plaguing my mind like a trending sound you can’t escape—even though he backed off and apologized. Still, I can’t unhear him commenting on my personality so decidedly.

Cat Bloomfield is afraid of weakness.

Shit. He was wrong about me wanting fame and attention, but this rings true enough deep down. How did I let that show? That detail about me I keep hidden under layers of black—how did he see it?

He wears his weakness proudly. He’d probably prefer I didn’t know about his nail polish and vertigo, but he spoke about them openly, freely, and without embarrassment. It’s why I drew that silly heart on his wrist. I did it without thinking, hoping it would replace the polish and help him. Give him something to focus on.

He never stopped touching it, not for a moment throughout the entire day.

Fuzzy slippers are at the foot of my bed and I hastily stuff my feet into them as I wrap the Lodge’s soft robe around a silk cami and shorts.

Outside my door, the inn is fast asleep as my slippers sink into thickly carpeted stairs and my fingertips graze over garland with each step I take. Moonlight catches on tiny bulb ornaments sprinkled with glitter that are rough to the touch, but the thick velvet ribbons threaded through the greenery are smooth.

It’s hard to remember that Santas and nutcrackers dot every dark corner, and I almost scream twice stumbling into them. Unsure what I’m even looking for, I reach the lobby and spot The Nook. My nerves are all in a jumble, Winter’s words and the ghost-like memory of his hands in mine making it hard for me to settle. Maybe I can pop in for a nibble. This place is so homey, and Darcy has said many times to help myself, so I press through the swinging doors of the kitchen and beeline for the industrial-size refrigerator.

The counters are clean with glowing appliances in the dim room, and there’s a dish of cookies wrapped in cellophane as if waiting for me. I marvel at Darcy’s thoughtfulness while I paw through the fridge to find a jar of milk. After pouring into a Christmas tree mug, I take a bite, the sugar melting on my tongue. God, I miss Frannie. She loves eating cookies in the dark.

I make sure to clean up after myself before I leave, swiping up my crumbs and dumping them in the sink.

On my way back upstairs, I spot a glint of white outside. Then another, and another that pulls me right back downstairs and toward the front doors. Globs of fluffy white dance in front of the moon, floating like heavy chunks of glitter, hitting the ground and sticking already. It’s snowing, and I press my nose against the chilled glass, watching my breath make fog. My hand wraps around a chilled brass pull, I’m mesmerized by the sparkle in the dark sky. For a second, I think the door might be locked, but this is a hotel, people come and go at all hours of the night.

And that’s why I’m able to hold in yet another scream when I hear a voice. “You’re up late.”

“Oh, shit.” I clutch my throat as if the scream I’m swallowing might still pop out. “Liam! You scared me.”

“Sorry, but you looked so moony staring out at the snow, then it looked like you were going outside and you don’t have a coat and—” The concern on his face strikes me as odd and in stark contrast to his normal snark.

I think I might have made a friend. But why is everyone around here so concerned with my lack of snow gear?

“It’s okay. I just want to go out for a second. To taste a snowflake.” I sound silly, but I’ve grown up far closer to beaches than mountains most of my life. I want to feel the snow on my tongue. I’ve loved the magic and the smell of snow since I was a kid .

“I think I should give you this first,” he says, handing me a thick cream envelope.

I’m not surprised when I see it. I knew it was coming. As if I knew he was thinking about me, just like I’ve been thinking about him. But, that’s because we’re working so closely together, right? It has nothing to do with the fact that every time we speak to each other, someone seems to uncover a secret in the other.

“You’re being awfully nice.” I quirk a brow at him wondering if he’s buttering me up because I gave him an industry connection.

“You caught me at my witching hour. I’m much more at home alone in the dark with my laptop.” He points to the computer glowing in front of him. “I’m going over notes from that writer who crews for Streamflix, the one you connected me with.”

“She’s already read your work? And sent notes? Wow. You must be good.”

He sniffs, shifting as if he might open up but thinks twice. “Thanks. Almost makes working back-to-back shifts worth it. ”

No wonder he’s growly in the mornings at The Nook. I can respect someone hustling for their dream, though. Up all night, fueled by what could be . “I’ve asked Robbie, one of the cameramen, for some contacts to send your way, too. You’ll probably be famous before the show is over. If you are, reach out to Brand Hub. We’d love to do your PR.”

“Will do,” he smirks. “Robbie’s the guy with the mohawk?” If I’m not mistaken, a touch of pink dusts his cheeks.

“Yuuuup,” I say, drawing out the word to try and read his energy.

“Here,” he says, his voice going a little rough, “Take your mail.”

“It’s a little late for mail,” I grimace. Usually, I can keep my attitude under control better than this. Something tells me Liam gets it. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

The past few days have been long, and I’m starting to feel the weight of hustling for the past ten years culminating and pressing down on me like a dark shadow.

I glance back at the snow. Enough, already, my body seems to be saying through tense muscles and a need to breathe fresh air.

“He said, as soon as I see you, I had to give you the letter. And then he dropped a fat tip. So, don’t blame me. I’m in the middle of a compelling monologue from an untrustworthy narrator. Take it, I need to focus.”

“Ah. Love a good monologue. Carry on, you young Cameron Crowe.”

“You like Cameron Crowe? I live for him, ‘80s, ‘90s, I’ll take all of it.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

He’s already typing away, his features focused and lit by his screen, but one corner of his mouth twitches with the hint of a smile.

I tuck the envelope under my arm and tote it with me outside. The snow is falling thicker and faster now, flurries catching in my hair. It’s easy to admire the Lodge after walking a few feet out on the cobblestones, lit up by red and white lights glowing along the rafters and sprinkled with a fresh dusting of sugar snow.

Ignore the card under your arm, Cat. Ignore it.

But I can’t, it’s as good as burning a hole through my too-thin-for-this-weather robe.

I give in to temptation and rip the envelope open as wet slush begins to soak my slippers. Even though the scrolly, rolly script tells me exactly who it’s from, I’m shaking with anticipation.

A skeleton key falls at my feet and the card reads: Thank you for today. Check the mailbox. There’s a shoddily sketched black heart, colored in and slightly unbalanced, like the one I drew on his wrist. Winter.

“Are the theatrics truly necessary, pretty man?” I ask the stars above me as I bend to retrieve the heavy iron key.

Nice touch. What does he do all day? Where does he find the time to concoct elaborate schemes for his PA—his best friend’s soon-to-be-fiancé’s sister, and sworn enemy . . .

Don’t forget that last part.

What’s in the mailbox?

I weigh the key in my hand as I weigh the options. Another list of demands? His dirty laundry? A puppy?

The charming little mailbox, an uninvited link between Winter Larsen and me, sits unassuming and just off the road. It’s covered in an inch of snow. When the suspense is almost to the point of killing me, a thrill I find I kinda like, I twist a newly installed lock and lift the top.

But inside, there’s not another note. Not another cream envelope with a laundry list of to-do’s as I expected. Instead, the mailbox is full to the brim with another box. This one I recognize, the thick font encased in a black triangle.

Prada’s branding is iconic, classic, and timeless with a signature geometric shape. The box is large but relatively light. I pull it free, drop into a squat in the snow, and whip off the top.

Tissue paper flutters and my heart races. Excitement makes me laugh out loud as I paw through the wrapping.

But I’m quickly silenced while snowflakes cling to dark tendrils of hair falling into my eyes. Because this isn’t funny. Not at all.

Inside the box is a puffy, down-filled coat that goes all the way to my ankles. There’s a cream card tucked inside, another hand-drawn black heart, and the words, For you.

I shrug it on over my robe and wrap my arms around myself, engulfed by softness and warmth, all black, and all for me.