Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 15

Fifteen

CAT

“ W inter, hold up!”

Tonight’s date is a Friday night craft session at the bottom of the mountain in a vintage furniture store. The showrunner suggested wreath making when he spotted an ad for special holiday classes in the Spirit Lake newsletter stocked at the front desk of Little Star Lodge. Now I’m struggling to keep a box of Winter’s potential wardrobe options upright while following him down Main Street. It’s amazing how much beanies and faux fur vests weigh.

“Mics are hot,” Robbie says as we approach an actual line painted across the street, white letters proclaiming State Line in clear, approachable script that my sister has told me all about. We pass Mr. Bears Toys which is indeed next to Smooth Operators.

She thinks it’s magical, the ability to be in two places at once. I think it’s mere logistics as I step over the line into Clover without a second thought and trot after Winter as we continue down Main Street, passing a mint-green Victorian with a sign reading Town Hall Clover, Town Hall Novel. They share, how cute. This would be an adorably perfect location to shoot a small-town romcom. Hallmark should know about this place. Maybe Liam’s script would be a fit, wouldn’t surprise me if the grump had a heart of gold.

“Winter, hold up,” I shout again, running toward the furniture store called Revival.

It’s no longer snowing but the smell is still in the air. There’s a magical feel to Little Star Lodge for sure. I felt it the minute I crossed the threshold, like a relief of some sort. And as I clock passers-by sipping from cups that say Patty’s Spicy Nog and little kids in turkey hats riding on parents’ shoulders, I wonder if I’ve wandered into a Christmas movie myself. I swear I just saw someone walking a poodle dyed red and green on a candy cane leash.

“Keep up,” Winter hollers without looking back.

“Slow down,” I groan, watching his long legs eat up the sidewalk. We pass little shops with frosted windows. One reads Dazzle Paws—no doubt where the poodle got her holiday flair, and a little shop presumably responsible for the cups I’ve seen called Patty’s Pastries.

“Revival’s coming up on your right,” Robbie says, keeping up much better with Winter than I am.

“I know where it is,” Winter bites.

Who peed in his Cheerios this morning? He’s been avoiding me all day. I’ve even left a note in our mailbox but so far, no response.

Marco appears at my side and I swallow a yelp. I’m not nearly as jumpy as my sister is but he’s stealthy for an extrovert with a foghorn for a voice box.

“Where did you come from?” I gasp, eyeing the camera. Good, it’s trained back on Winter, he’s chatting up some townie outside Revival’s front door.

“I followed in my jeep. ”

“You got a jeep?” I raise an eyebrow at him, shifting the box to my opposite hip.

“Rented. Just wanted to feel like a local for a bit. How’s our prince?”

“Touchy, with an attitude that won’t quit.”

“Well, turn that frown upside down. Tonight’s date is important. Yesterday’s views were low.”

“You can tell that? Already?” We both shuffle to the side as a family of five passes us on the sidewalk eating caramel apples on a stick.

He nods. “Streamflix isn’t happy.” His boots are plaid with red laces as if he was dressed today by wardrobe, fully embracing the aesthetic. “Tell him to turn on the charm, would ya?”

Robbie’s camera is on us, the lens sweeping in our direction. It’s not that I mind being on camera, I do post videos of myself all the time, but it’s under my control when I do it. And it’s all for my clients.

No one cares about you on this show .

They’re here for him. Winter meets my eyes and comes to stand beside me. Robbie backs up to get us both in the shot.

“Now that you’re not running from me, got a minute?” I ask, meeting those deep blue eyes head-on. Then I turn to Marco, “I’ll handle it.”

“We need sweeping glances and grazing fingertips. We need sweet nothings and stolen touches. We need jingle bells, lots of fur, and I’m working on a spiked cider station from this place called Patty’s.”

Winter yawns next to us, who knows if he’s listening or whether he cares? My bet is he does not.

“I’ve got this, Marco. Don’t worry,” I say for Winter’s benefit. He needs to know I’m not going anywhere, so he may as well get on board.

“I think I like working with you, Bloomfield.”

“If you tell me I’ve got spunk, or a twinkle in my eye, or chutzpah, or whatever it is men used to say to women in the workplace, I’m going to kick you in the crotch.”

Winter glances at the sky and tries to hide a laugh. Definitely listening, and it’s all I can do not to elbow him in the chest.

“Is that what you think of me?” Marco deadpans. “But just so you know, in all that black,” he waves his hand around at my face, “the shades, the red lips, the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man . . .” He throws in a wink. “You do—have all that stuff, that I won’t dare mention.”

A gust of truly frigid air blows past us and I pull my jacket tight against my chest, I didn’t wear Winter’s gift today and I’m trying hard not to think about why.

“Don’t worry, this date will be must-see TV.” I look up at Winter, who’s edged closer and closer. He’s pushed up against my side now, his chest bracketing my shoulder, his puffer coat a thin barrier between us. But I no longer feel the wind, so that’s one benefit of him being incapable of staying out of my personal space. “Right, Winter?”

Despite being blocked from the cold, I shiver as he holds my gaze, waiting for a response, searching his face for an answer to my question. I’m not about to blink first.

Abruptly, he turns on his heel and strides through the door.

What was that?

Marco and I barrel in behind him and watch as he bumps fists with two men behind the cash wrap. The store is rustic, clean, and well organized even if it’s a bit cluttered. Generations of furniture are staged in little vignettes, Turkish rugs litter the floor, and vintage lamps glow in corners. There’s a hideous purple living room set smushed into a corner and I crinkle my nose in its direction.

After dropping the box of wardrobe on a table set up for production, I head to the cash wrap to make introductions. A pumpkin spice candle glows on dark wood next to a stack of business cards fanned out in a brass dish reading Revival , we’ve got the diamonds, you make them shine.

“Nice tagline,” I murmur.

“And who’s this?” The man asking has a substantial build to him, black skin, and a huge smile.

“Jack, this is Cathy Bloomfield.” Winter pins his lips together as if he’s about to burst into laughter and motions to me. If it’s possible, Jack’s smile grows bigger. “Cathy, this is my buddy Jack, two-time Super Bowl champ, and his husband, Wagner, the shop curmudgeon,” he finishes, barely keeping a straight face, gesturing to a tall white man wearing a tool belt and a grimace.

“Nobody calls me Cathy,” I say sweetly through my teeth.

My elbow meets Winter’s hard stomach and his buddies laugh.

“Bloomfield!” Jack booms, “Frannie’s sister, right? It’s an honor.” Jack takes my hand, his covered in huge gold rings, and shakes vigorously with his gentle paw.

The rings and the magnanimous smile trigger a memory. “You were the bachelor, at the club where my sister met John, right?”

“I’m going on break, honey.” Wagner cuts in before Jack can answer, he has a beard trimmed to perfection and cut at angles as sharp as his taciturn welcome.

“Camera shy,” Jack offers as an apology.

“Believe me, I get it,” I say.

Jack goes on. “And I’ve had to apologize for that night, a lot. Not my finest moment,” he rubs his jaw, “but I remember you, too.”

“It was your bachelor party. You looked like you were living it up appropriately.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. He was about ten sheets to the wind, if I remember correctly. “I’m not camera-ready, either,” he adds, patting at a meticulously maintained mini-Afro. I think he looks perfectly prepared to dazzle the camera, but I keep my mouth closed. “I’ll be in the back working on some inventory. You holler if you need help with anything. ”

“Thank you,” Marco says. “And thanks for opening your shop for us.”

“You’re welcome. The crafts are ready to go. You guys do your thing. Bro,” he directs his attention to Winter with a chagrined smile, “don’t be afraid to name-drop.” He slaps him on the shoulder.

“I got you, buddy,” Winter says easily, confident.

It’s time, I know this is my only chance to talk Winter into putting on a happy face for this date. It’s not his fault he got vertigo yesterday, but still, I need the guy to turn on the charm.

I pull him to the corner of the shop by the cuff of his coat and decide to kill him with kindness. Not my favorite approach by a long shot, but you gotta do what you gotta do, right?

“I’ve never seen you be so affable,” I say, trying my best to compliment the man even though it feels like crunching rocks with my teeth.

“Are we living in an Austen novel now? Affable?”

“I’m trying to be nice,” I grit. “Maybe I’m a little stiff, but I’ve been like that my whole life. I don’t know how to charm. It’s not in my nature and yes, I’m self-conscious about it, especially in my line of business.”

He slips out of his coat and hands it to me.

“I’m also trying to be nice, and not just for the show. Revival needs the exposure. This whole town can only exist if we get the word out,” Winter grumbles. “Most of the shop owners survive on tourism.” He’s so prickly today, way worse than yesterday even with the whole nail polish debacle. And now he’s worried about the town? Towns?

“Why would a prince from Denmark care about the tourism in these tiny towns?” I ask, keeping my eyes averted from his as I fidget with his coat. It smells like him.

“These tiny towns are my home. I love Denmark, but this place is my refuge. I want to give back, and selfishly, I want to preserve them so I’ve always got a safe place.”

Today his nails are clean and color-free, and for some reason, my heart constricts at the sight of them. He might have a clear strengthener on, but who am I to tell a man with phenomenal grooming habits he can’t treat his cuticles? The heart I drew on his wrist has been washed away. It makes me sad, though I can’t for the life of me think why.

It’s messing with my head, hearing him talk about his buddy with the small shop, and how he wants to help. A place that has saved him while I know he still loves his home country, too. That’s not the self-absorbed pretty man I know—and love to hate.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, stowing his coat with mine under a table. “Supporting a small business is a good thing.”

He’s watching my every move, I feel like I’m under a microscope when his eyes are on me. “Right, and I think you can be charming, at times,” he agrees and compliments me as if surprised to hear himself say it. “So, I’ll plug the store a little,” he rambles. Wait, is he nervous? “Drop the name a few times.”

I sort through a bin of microphone packs the crew has put out. “Listen, Winter. Ratings are down.”

“Already?” Exactly what I thought. “I guess a man afraid of heights and nearly vomiting on his date doesn’t make for good content?” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I swear, I’m usually better at this.”

I smile at him, but keep my lips zipped instead of hurling an insult at him because I think he’s being sincere.

“Well, you better give me my armor then.”

I glance up from cords I’m untangling with patience I don’t naturally have. “Your what?”

He pushes his sleeve up and extends his arm. “Go ahead,” he prompts, pointing to his wrist.

He wants me to draw another heart.

While holding his gaze, I drop the microphones, unzip my fanny pack and search for my permanent marker, then pull the cap off with my teeth.

I ask through the side of my mouth, “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

His wrist is warm and my fingertips tingle when I graze his skin, turning his heavy hand palm up in mine. I draw a small, slightly crooked heart, watching the ink bleed into his skin with satisfaction I don’t understand.

“Color it in,” he demands.

“I know, I know,” I murmur around the cap still in my mouth, focusing on my handiwork.

When I’m done I replace my marker and bring his wrist to my lips, and blow.

He swallows a cough, and takes a step closer, always watching me with those intense eyes. “Thank you.”

I like the feel of him. But I drop his hand the second I have the thought. “We need you to, uh, turn on the charm. You know, make viewers fall in love with you. As the prince, on the show. You know what I’m saying? Play the part . . .”

His features rearrange instantly. One moment he’s soft and sweet, the next his eyes are cold. “Yeah, Bloom. I know exactly what you’re saying. I’ve had a lifetime of what you’re saying.”

Ugh, why does that gut me?

“That’s what you signed up for, right? Why are you fighting it? I don’t understand why you’re not basking in the attention, rolling around in the adoration. These women want?—”

“These women know exactly what they want.” He looks directly into my eyes and the room falls away. The women who’ve just come through the door of Revival that he hasn’t even glanced at, the crew organizing crafts at a table near the cash wrap, it all dissolves into nothing.

All I can see are his eyes drilling down into mine. There’s so much more there than I ever realized. He looks sad— again.

“You want me to be that guy . I get it.” The hard set of his jaw and the thin line of his mouth make me want to press my fingertips to his lips or massage his shoulders again like in the woods. Anything to force him to relax.

“What’s with you today? Where’s your nothing bothers me swagger you usually throw around by the heaps?” I stammer, suddenly off my footing and confused by the turn in conversation. I thought I knew what he wanted, exactly why he was here, which was to make me miserable.

But now I’m so confused, I almost wish he’d start calling me Cathy again and demanding smoothies.

“Where’s your coat?” he spits back.

Is that what this mood is about?

“I’m wearing my coat.” I busy myself by getting back on task with the microphones, it’s a miracle Marco hasn’t come for us. “Didn’t you get my note?” I dropped my own hastily scribbled response this morning.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“ Thank you . That’s all it said.”

“That’s what you call, manners, pretty man.”

Finally, he looks away. And dammit if I don’t feel the loss. “But you’re not thankful because you’re not wearing it.”

I throw my hands out to my sides. What does he want? “You’ve declared war on me, you promised to make me quit this job—or worse, to fire me!”

Robbie, that ghost of a man, materializes near the cash wrap in the middle of the room. He’s got a bird’s eye view of everyone, crew setting out wreathes in a row, Marco on his cell phone, me and Winter in our corner struggling with microphones for way too long now.

“No reason to freeze your ass off.” My attention snaps back to Winter and I do my best to ignore the blinking red light on the camera.

God, I’ve got to get a grip.

“Is that supposed to make me swoon? A coat and a, I don’t hate you enough that I wish you dead from frostbite, but I do still plan to torture you daily while working as my PA?” I hold up my hand to stop him from interrupting me, “A job which, let me remind you, I’m wholly overqualified for and only doing because your fancy royal name is going to change the trajectory of my company!”

“That’s a lot to dissect, Bloom. I don’t even know where to start except to say, you’re awfully fired up about a coat. A simple gesture. It means nothing except don’t freeze your ass off. ”

Like I wanted it to mean something?

Ugh. He’s twisting my words and I decide to ignore him and do my job. I grab two mic packs and two cords I’ve untangled from knots, one for him, one I’m contractually obligated to wear because who knows why.

“Arms up,” I say.

He obeys, and I begin wrapping the mic pack around his torso, both of us ignoring the fact that the past two days we’ve shot, I’ve handed him the mic pack and let him put it on himself.

His ribs expand and contract in my hands. He’s so wide, all muscle, and so strong as he stands here letting me manhandle him.

“Is this important to you?” he suddenly asks.

“Are you asking about the show?”

“Yes.”

I don’t glance up to see if he’s watching as my hands brush the hard knots of his abs. “It’s my job, so yes. If you look good, I, and in turn Brand Hub, look good.”

I clip the mic pack to the waistband of his pants, sliding it down the divot in his back where his spine is concave. He shivers at my touch and I try to breathe through my mouth so I don’t smell his distinct clove and smoky matches man-smell.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Every time I touch him it affects me. And I think it affects him, too.

I’m not ready to talk about the coat he left in our mailbox. Is it supposed to make me like him? Has he realized he completely misjudged me, and he’s apologizing for declaring war between us? Because he’s not buying me off with a gift. Even though I loved it, I adore opening presents in general no matter the size or the value, and I wish I were wrapped up in it like a winter’s robe right now.

“Temps have dropped below freezing and they say snow is coming tonight,” he manages, his tone raspy. Is it hard for him to speak with my hands on him? Because it’s becoming harder and harder for me to focus on what he’s saying as my fingers glide over smooth, taunt skin. “If you had an emergency, if you got stuck outside, it could mean life or death, Bloom. You’re living on a mountain for the winter if you haven’t noticed. You’re not in the Bay area anymore, Toto.”

“Ha,” I laugh, more genuinely than I’d like. “You nailed that Wizard Of Oz quote.”

His lips twist and his eyes light up. “Thank you.”

He’s a handsome man, infuriatingly so. But he’s always been physically attractive, nothing there has changed, and none of it crossed my mind before the way it is now.

I shiver as I snake the cord of the little microphone up his middle, my hands pushing up the front of his shirt and over his pecs to clip to his collar.

His muscles respond, flexing under my fingertips. I want to touch more. “Wear the coat,” he says, his eyes moving all over my face.

“I have a coat.” I press my palms flat against his broad chest, I shouldn’t, but I do.

“You have a flimsy piece of leather. I give my horse more protection than that in this weather. Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” he demands.

When his voice drops low like that, and he speaks as if he’s more passionate about my warmth than anything else in the world, I cannot for the life of me ignore the way it affects me. Did he notice my shiver? In this warm, cozy antique store? Does he know it’s not because I’m cold, far from it, at this exact moment?

“We’re on camera right now,” I whisper. “We’ll talk about this later.”

On cue, Robbie takes two steps closer and Winter glances over his shoulder. “Is that a problem for you?” he asks, so low it’s a whisper I pray our mics can’t hear. “The camera? The public eye?”

Don’t look at his mouth!

“I don’t love it, and please don’t say you’re surprised.”

He nods, assessing me as my fingers fumble, taking way too long to clip the mic to his collar. His knuckles brush my hip. “You want me to win these women over? Flirt with them? Woo them?”

“That’s what you’re here for—” Reluctantly, I pull my hands away, mic in place. I’m quickly becoming way too familiar with touching him.

He gives me a funny look. “Not originally, but if that’s what you want, I can adjust my plans.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, looking up into his eyes, totally confused. He’s either a mastermind, a lunatic, or both—jury’s still out.

“Bloom, is that what you want?” He presses, inching closer until we’re boot to boot. Both hands graze my hips as if he’s dying to grip them.

“Yes.”

“Fine,” he huffs, “ your wish is my command .”

Is he throwing my words back at me? I said that sarcastically first, and why is everything so epically tense between us?

Head held high, he walks toward the group of contestants who are twittering around a table covered in butcher paper and glitter.