Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 16

Sixteen

CAT

T here are ten hot glue guns for the ten ladies who’ve all got their eyes glued to Winter. God help us. The whole scene is giving holiday, craft-girlie vibes but everyone’s out for their own sequins. The women shift their feet and take in the competition. I’m not sure any of them have formed feelings for him, how could they, we’ve only just begun. Nevertheless, they want him. He’s handsome, yes, epically so with a cut jaw, proud brow, and full lips, unfortunately for his ego. But the castle, which they’ve all asked to visit, and the crown, which apparently exists and they’ve all asked to see, is the prize they’re after, too.

I slip my mic pack around my waist and snake the cord up my shirt, trying to forget the feeling of his warm skin under my fingertips.

Marco opens his mouth and bellows, “Winter, ladies, let’s get crafting!” Then over his shoulder, with the sweetest smile, he shouts at a production assistant who’s wheeled in provisions for crew dinner while we film, “Can we get some goddamn Christmas music? Please?”

The guy freezes in place with the cart full of food and looks around. “He’s not talking to you,” I say, and the kid relaxes.

When did I become the nice guy on this set? Sloan would love to see me now. Everyone at Brand Hub would think I’m going soft. Maybe I am. Maybe I don’t mind being a little soft. Maybe, it’s not a weakness. These thoughts, brought on by sad-boy-eyes, cute little towns, and everyone’s obsession with plaid, no doubt.

“I got it,” Jack pops his head out. “I’ll put on a classics playlist. Thanks again for the promo, Winter. I’m working on the books back here and,” he makes a face, “it’s not pretty, man.”

“Jack, you’re on camera, too,” I hush him.

“Yeah but nobody’s watching me. They’re here for him,” he points at Winter in a half-zip pullover with a plaid collar poking out—wardrobe I didn’t have to fight too hard for, it’s all his.

Surprisingly, the prince takes direction well. I wonder if that extends to the bedroom . . .

What? No! Brain, I command you to banish those thoughts. It’s because he touches me so reverently, and I’m overworked, and watching single woman salivate over him—it’s in the air. It’s like an animalistic reaction to try and hunt him, too. Right? He’s too beautiful, too tall, his smile is too perfect, and this whole situation is too competitive for thoughts not to naturally move in that direction.

It means nothing, except I need to get a life off this set. I thought the problem was my phone, but maybe it’s me. Maybe I sink too much into work. Case in point: fantasizing about a man I hate only because I’ve been glued to him and am mistaking random touches for affection. Frannie will help. The second she’s in town we’re going out for a girl’s night.

“We’ve gotten our first few hits on the message boards,” Marco says, quietly shouldering up to me. “Winter Larsen is, quote, a dream in tight khaki pants. There are one hundred sixty-one comments on his pants alone so far. We should look into an endorsement deal with JCrew.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I’m mic’d.”

I know , he mouths back. Everyone’s got an agenda.

Winter is in full schmooze mode, handing out wreaths to his ladies and plugging in the glue guns, so I take a walk around the store and drop into a worn leather chair the color of pine needles, pulling a soft plaid blanket with tassels up to my nose. A glance over my shoulder tells me Winter has gone from melancholy to downright magnanimous. He’s just said something that has sent the women into bubbling laughter. He’s rolled up his sleeves and his forearms flex as he shows the camera his wreath. He’s glued on every bobble and bow, and loaded it with glitter. It’s so ugly that it’s adorable. His grin is sheepish, his eyes shine bright.

My stomach cramps and I look away, sinking further into my own grouchy mood. This is exactly what I wanted. I asked him to charm the camera. Why is it so annoying to watch?

I need to see my sister. That’s what’s wrong with me. She’ll help me get my head back in the game. Willow, too. I need to talk to my girls and then I need to focus on my job. This will all be over soon and I can go back to my real life.

“Ow!” a woman screams.

My head snaps toward the craft table but I can’t see around Robbie’s broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” another woman responds as I run to see if I can help, and I realize we’ve got a case of crafty sabotage.

Lexi H. is holding her glue gun with a pouty expression on her face. “I swear, I didn’t see you leaning in?—”

“How the hell do you accidentally glue gun someone’s boobs?” the other woman, Mandy, rages. Mandy is the brunette who got left in Lexi H.’s dust in the bakeshop yesterday.

Behind me now, his camera looming over my head, Robbie sucks in a breath looking honestly pained for the glued boobs.

“That’s gotta hurt,” I murmur .

“I’ll get a wet cloth.” Winter sprints through the back doors of the shop hollering for Jack and a First Aid kit as he goes.

I watch, wide-eyed as the two women start to passive-aggressively apologize to each other. “Marco, a little direction, please,” I yell.

He’s nose-deep in the dinner spread that’s finally ready, face currently turning white as he eyes the glue gun, thinking about lawsuits no doubt, a ham sandwich in his hand.

“Ladies, language—” I try, motioning with my eyes to the camera, wondering how far Streamflix’s language allowance goes.

Winter comes running back to the table causing them both to pull it together.

“Here, let me,” he says, dabbing a gob of wet paper towel over Mandy’s chest.

The camera zooms in on his hands and Marco gulps, coming to stand beside me and just outside the shot. “This is either great content, or we’re toast tomorrow,” he whispers.

“Oh God, it burns!” Mandy wails while the first pums-pums of Little Drummer Boy float through speakers by a crooning Bing Crosby.

“I’m trying to be gentle,” Winter says soft and concerned.

I look away, prop my hands on my hips, and glare at a moose on the wall. We couldn’t have written a script better: the damsel is in distress and here comes Prince Charming.

But why am I angry? It’s good to know he’s a kind, caring, gentle man under all that bravado. And smart-ass-ness. And stupid swagger. And?—

“Get it off, get the glue off!” Mandy moans.

Sure, hot glue on skin hurts but I can’t quite tell if she’s playing it up for the camera as well. She’s really drawing this out as she grips Winter’s arm and whimpers.

He gives her a concerned look and I put a hand over my nauseated stomach. I must be hungry. “It’s kinda stuck on there?— ”

“Get it off, please,” she pleads, holding his gaze, dropping her voice so that it’s all soft and lusty, batting her eyes.

Winter asses the problem protectively but also looks slightly uncomfortable, and I tuck all my hair behind my ears, needing to get it off my face because I’m burning up.

“Oh yeah, this is great content.” Marco bumps me on the shoulder as if we’re buddy cops about to catch the bad guys and win the day, but really, all I want to do is wake up from this nightmare.

“It’s okay, let me take care of everything,” Winter croons. He uses his pointer finger to push a strand of hair from her face ever so slowly, tracing down her jaw and tipping up her chin so she gets a good long look at all his caring.

Maybe they’re both in on this charade; I did tell Winter to up the swoon.

I consider stuffing the icky feeling in my stomach with my own ham sandwich. Maybe I need a snack, and maybe I need to get out of here.

“Should we do this somewhere a little more private?” Mandy’s voice turns sultry, no mistaking the huskiness in her tone.

“Let’s go find that first aid kit.” Robbie’s camera swings back to catch Winter lifting her effortlessly. She wraps her legs around him as he strides through the backroom doors, clinging to his neck.

“What are you doing?” Marco hisses to Robbie. “Follow them!” When my feet don’t move, he adds, “You too, Cat.” He double-takes when he sees I’ve put my sunnies on, trying desperately to hide.

Seriously, I’m trying to disappear.

The song overhead rings out with the first few notes of Jingle Bell Rock as we all file through the small shop door, squeezing into the tiny breakroom like breakfast sausage. Winter lays Mandy across the counter, her head nearly banging into the cabinets above, but she props her feet up so she can be laid out flat like a fish.

Jack, taking the scene in stride with zero questions, probably because he’s seen a lot on a football field, whips readers off his nose and jumps into action. “Here’s the first aid kit.” He pulls a white box from beneath a sink and hands it to Winter, patting his hair and smiling wide at Robbie’s camera. There’s a Holiday Hunks calendar pinned to the wall behind him. Mr. November is wearing an apron and nothing else, almost all the days for the month crossed out with a slash.

Winter raps his buddy on the back. “Thanks, Jack. Revival is such a nice place to shop, and good to know you’re prepared for any customer emergency.” He’s a damn good charmer, delivering the ridiculous line with the sincerity of a celebrity heartthrob.

“Glad to be of service, bro.” Jack salutes and makes for the door. “I’ll, uh, go see if the ladies need any help.”

Mandy arches her back like a centerfold laid across a beach and whimpers, effectively drawing Winter’s attention. “Does it still burn?” he asks.

“Yes,” she confesses all too eagerly.

“I’ll get a better angle,” Winter says, a bit more stiffly as Robbie’s camera presses insanely close. His face is paler than normal, and his hands shake a little as his focus returns to Mandy on the counter.

He’s playing the prince in shining armor to a T, absolute perfection. But now I realize, he truly hates it. Before opening the first aid kit, and only for a second, he presses his thumb into the black heart on his wrist.

A little more space in my chest opens up for Winter Larsen. Who knows why he agreed to this show—other than making my life miserable— and who knows what he hopes to gain? I don’t think it’s attention.

That’s when he looks at me, spotting me easily over his shoulder and to his right as if he knew exactly where I was the whole time.

It’s a small room. It means nothing.

I push my sunnies up my nose and hold my features still. He’s not getting a reaction out of me.

He smirks at me as I hide behind my sunglasses. Not the ‘isn’t this a funny turn of events’ kind of smirk, instead it’s the ‘ watch this’ kind of smirk.

“How is it now? Still burning?” He pushes the hair back from Mandy’s forehead again and leans over her.

“Yeah,” she breathes, her chest heaving even though the glue is gone, leaving angry red traces where it burned her skin.

“Do I have your permission to blow?”

No. I did not just hear that. I refuse to believe it.

I cross my arms and think bad thoughts all involving Winter Larsen. He’s taking this whole charade up a notch with that suggestive tone.

I don’t like it.

“Wh-what?” She stammers as her eyes turn to pools of pure lust.

“On the burn? Can I blow on it?”

“Please,” she gushes, her greedy little hummingbird lashes batting a mile a minute.

“They would have gorgeous babies,” Marco whispers in my ear as if reading my mind.

Robbie presses in from behind me again to get a better angle—how is he everywhere?

This is damn good TV, I’ll give them that. It’s an absolute spectacle. But I’m hot and sweaty, and I’m sick to my stomach. This yucky feeling has been coming on since we started filming and I’m about to crawl out of my skin with nowhere to go, nowhere to put the emotions dragging me down second by second.

I can’t move. I can’t make it stop because I’m sandwiched between the camera and Winter while he tends to his date with a chivalry most thought was dead. If he kisses her . . .

My vision turns to slow motion as he leans down ever so slowly and blows lightly across her chest. Goose bumps pop all over her skin and I swear to Prada, a blind man could see her press her thighs together, propped up over the tiny sink.

“This’ll do it. This is exactly what we needed.” Marco is smug now beside me, still munching on his ham sandwich. “This might be the first kiss on Royal Hearts ,” he says excitedly around the meat and cheese in his mouth.

“Dammit, Marco.” I glare at him. “This is a spectacle.”

“Yeah,” he grins and points with his sandwich as the canoodling couple carries on. “A good one.”

“Is there such a thing?” He’s right and I know it. The flirtation, the attraction, the sparks and will they, won’t they , happening right before my eyes is exactly what we needed, exactly what this show is all about.

“Whatever you said to him, it worked. He’s turned on the charm, I’ll say. Even I think it’s feeling a bit hot in here. Robbie, get closer.”

Robbie glares, pressing his lips together, probably hoping Marco will shush.

“You know what? I could use some air,” I spin on my heel, beeline through the store, and duck out the front door.

The cold air is refreshing, cooling my flushed cheeks and frantically beating heart as I brace my hands against my knees. What is wrong with me? I’ve never left a set during a shoot.

Dusk has fully turned to night and the entire street is lit up in multi-colored string lights. Brick buildings glow green, red, and blue. Blinking icicles hang from shop awnings and glittered snowflakes shine in windows. I stand there breathing hard until I start to shiver, apparently long enough to miss the remainder of the scene because by the time I head back in, the girls are streaming outside, and the crew is packing up .

Refusing to even look in Winter’s direction, I quickly grab my things.

Marco smiles brightly at me, clearly satisfied by all the drama that unfolded today. “You alright?”

But I have no words. All I can manage are two thumbs up and the fakest smile I’ve ever produced as I hightail it out the door. I just want to be anywhere but here.

Thank God it’s Friday and we don’t film on the weekends. I don’t have to see Marco, Winter, or Robbie’s camera again until Monday.

I reach for my phone as my boots slap against the pavement so I can at least call my sister, but my pocket is empty.