Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

CAT

“ W ell, well, well. Look what the abominable snowman dragged in,” Liam drawls, while folding silverware at the hostess station of The Nook. If it’s possible, they’ve added more Christmas decorations, and he’s wearing an elf’s hat.

“It’s like Santa’s workshop threw up in here,” I say.

“I love you,” Liam responds, giving me fake moony eyes while also gagging on said Christmas décor as if he’s a cat with a hairball. If he were straight and I wasn’t lusting over a prince I have no right to, we’d make a beautiful, sarcastic pair.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Big congrats are in order I hear, young screenwriter! ” I clap him on the back and the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” I narrow my eyes at him. He sobers. “I’ll never say that again.”

“Thank you,” I respond primly. “And you’re using Brand Hub for your PR.”

“Of course,” he confirms with a hand over his heart.

“What a charmer, this one,” Winter deadpans, casually coming to stand beside me and shaking Liam’s hand, because, well they’re sort of in business together now.

While the men do the gruff chit-chat thing, I look nervously around hoping I don’t catch a glimpse of Marco.

We tried to enter the lodge separately in case a camera was around. We both know we look awful. Me, still in Winter’s shirt because he threw my bloody sweater in the trash, deeming it unsalvageable. Him, with a five o’clock shadow he insisted on keeping and a little black heart on his wrist he insisted on me drawing after breakfast. My red heart is still on my wrist, too, maybe I can take a bubble bath without getting it wet.

Then I spot a blue mohawk. Shit.

“Where have you two been?” Robbie asks, trotting up to us with his camera on his shoulder. “Hey, Liam.” He nods and Liam’s ears go from berry pink to Santa red. Robbie’s grinning ear to ear at him and it seems like a real effort to stay on task and turn to me and Winter. “Marco’s pissed. Brace yourselves, he’s right behind me, and put these on.” He thrusts mic packs at both of us.

“I’ve already talked to him,” I say, then shove the mic packs back at him. “We’re not scheduled to shoot for another few hours.” And I need to change out of Winter’s shirt.

“Dammit, Cat!” Marco skids to a stop after bursting from an elevator off the side of the restaurant and barreling toward us on his short legs, led by an enormous puppy on a needlepoint leash adorned with snowflakes.

Winter drops to his knees and coos sweetly in the dog’s ear, giving pets and accepting sloppy kisses. “Who’s a good boy?” he purrs, “You are. We miss you, buddy. You look good in a bowtie, bro.” The bowtie matches the leash, of course.

“You got a dog?” I ask incredulously .

“Last one of Lola’s puppies that needed a forever home,” Winter says, scratching the dog behind its ears while nuzzling noses.

“How many deals can you possibly be making during the eight hours a day I’m not at your side?” I throw my arms out, but I’m not annoyed, not even close. I’m becoming more and more enamored with this man by the second, and my internal alarm bells are screaming.

“You better be filming,” Marco says to Robbie, pointing at Winter while he continues cooing at the puppy. Robbie flips a button on his camera.

A little part of me hates Marco for it, for trotting Winter out like a prize pony. But then I’d have to hate me for it, too, because I signed up to do the same damn thing. It’s become clear Winter is a whole person, with layers and thoughts and feelings, and this show is hurting him. It’s not where he should be, or what he should be doing. It can’t be over fast enough, for all of us.

As if he can feel me tensing beside him, Winter says, “Relax, Bloom. Pet the puppy. Isn’t he the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

Dropping into a crouch, I let my hand roam soft, fluffy fur. “A close second.” My stomach drops at my blatant flirting. The memory of the kiss we shared has been in my head since I woke up this morning. I can’t stop thinking about his mouth on mine, so possessive, so needy as if I was the only thing in the world he wanted.

Winter bumps my shoulder with a chuckle. “Noted.”

“How is this going to work in your apartment in L.A.?” I ask Marco. Are we all just assimilating and melting into this place like Stepford Wives?

“You never know. Maybe I’m over L.A.”

Oh my God.

We’re causing a scene in the middle of the cafe now as guests sip from fat, clay mugs stamped with the Little Star logo, all eyes trained on our odd quartet and the camera. They simultaneously reach for their cell phones. News has traveled fast that the show is filming here, and I’ve heard numerous people chatting about the latest episodes every morning in my own little nook at The Nook.

Winter stands, noticing we’ve got an audience, and takes a step closer to me as if he might be able to shield my body from onlookers and their cell phones.

“Why isn’t he mic’d? Cat, you are seriously dropping the ball. Don’t make me cut you from this production?—”

“Easy,” Winter commands, low and slow and directly at my producer. “Let’s take it down a notch, shall we? I’ll put on the mic.” He takes it from Robbie’s outstretched hand, then hands it to me.

“I don’t work for Streamflix, Marco.”

Winter doesn’t need my assistance, he knows exactly what to do with a mic pack at this point. Still, I snake the long cord with the clip-on microphone up his front, feeling every ridge and ab as I go, and attach it by memory when my fingertips reach his collar.

I slept on those abs last night.

He leans into me as I do it, and I want to wrap my arms around him. Tell him this is all going to be over soon, and then we can, we can . . .

I cut that thread of thought off—we can’t do anything . Last night’s kiss was a one-time thing, a total loss of control on my part and while I don’t regret it, I can’t let it happen again.

Patrons around us continue filming with phones propped against salt shakers and creamers, aimed in our direction, carrying on fake conversations as if we’re none the wiser.

“Sorry, Cat, it’s your ass on the line as much as mine,” Marco huffs. He stoops to pat his puppy on the head.

Maybe I need a cuddly pet? I did love listening to Lola snore all night. It was almost like a sound machine but more snuggly. She kept inching her way closer until she was covering my feet with her furry body .

“Watch your tone and your words when speaking to a lady.” My head snaps up. Winter Larsen is defending me. From a curse word? “At least, that’s what I was always taught,” he finishes, looking directly at the camera.

No passive-aggressive cursing at my PA allowed . His face and his words deliver the message clear as a jingle bell and I love him for it, even though I can out-curse a sailor when I want to.

I’ve been working my whole life. I’m not new to salty, strong, and demanding bosses— Allyn is one of the worst, in the best ways. But I don’t stop him because God help me, it feels luxurious. It’s like dropping a heavy tote bag after lugging it through multiple airports all day or being toted around merely because you’ve got a sore ankle. That is to say, sublime, cared for, and coddled in the most specific way.

Am I this hard up for affection, these days? Waiting for someone ballsy enough to take care of me even when I say I can take care of myself?

Clearly, yes.

Marco puts his hands up. “Apologies, all.” He glances at the camera and to his credit, looks authentically sheepish. “But the blogs and socials had a fit yesterday when we lost track of you. We had to fill the remaining hours with ads and that did not go over well with fans. The speculation, your fandom , has really kicked up a notch.” He motions around the room, case in point, as people continue to film, no longer hiding it.

“That’s all a misunderstanding, Marco. We had no idea we’d get snowed in overnight and not make it back to finish, um, Winter’s date.”

“All is not lost. Now that I’ve seen the dashing prince on a horse, I think we need to see him ride again, don’t you? But instead of galloping away from viewers, we film him on a date with a woman on the show, a contestant. ” He puts inflection in his last few words as a warning.

“Would make for great content,” I agree, but the thought makes me sick. I’ve got to get ahold of myself, I cannot have feelings for Winter Larsen, no matter how much I might want?—

Don’t finish that thought.

“We’ve got another week of group dates, a crown ceremony Friday night, then we’ll start next week with our first one on one—a romantic horseback ride through the mountains. This is where things get serious, Winter. We’ll be down to three hopeful women.”

My stomach turns at his words. This is all moving too fast. Friday’s ceremony kinda snuck up on me, and while I haven’t loved watching groups of women vie for Winter’s attention, I’m not sure I can stomach what will happen on one one-on-one dates. The kissing will start—I’m surprised it hasn’t already—then the groping, the doors closing while the camera fades to black but the microphones stay on a minute longer and all you can hear is . . .

Winter glances at me. “You okay? Your face turned green.”

“I’m fine.” My tone is not convincing.

Winter considers me a moment longer, then drags his gaze to Marco. “Nothing says romance like putting a novice rider on a four-hundred-pound animal on a snowy mountain trail.”

Marco ignores him. “The viewers will love it. You two painted quite the picture on that ride yesterday.”

A muscle in Winter’s jaw flexes as he shifts in snow boots, looking out the window at the mountains outside. He seems to be getting more and more put out by filming, and I don’t think he likes the idea of a one-on-one any more than I do.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” I hedge. “Not because I don’t want the storybook date to happen,” I rush on, and shit, I think everyone is on to me because all three men, even Robbie, give me looks of concern. “Nothing halts romance like falling off a horse. That’s all I’m saying!”

My pulse is racing and I touch two fingers to my neck. Can they see it? Because I am lying. While terrifying, falling off a horse and rolling through snow cradled in Winter’s arms is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. He took care of me. Before, during, and after the fall, I was his priority. It felt good to mean that much to someone.

Winter pulls his beanie off his head, the black one I gave him on the beach on our first day filming that he’s refused to give back, and runs a hand through his hair. “Fresh, soft powder is difficult for some horses to maneuver . . .” He drops his gaze to me and it’s full of longing, full of apologies he doesn’t need to give. This is what he signed up for, what we both signed up for. “It might not be the best idea.” His voice cracks.

Robbie moves around us, switching up his angle. Winter presses his thumb into his wrist and bites down.

Marco shakes his head. “But you rode with Cat yesterday. Viewers got an eyeful of the two of you, on one horse. Looked plenty safe to me.”

“It wasn’t,” Winter whispers, eyes on my throat. “It was reckless.”

I gulp at his words and stare at his mouth.

Marco looks back and forth between us, I know he’s reading the room, the tension. He clears his throat. “Two horses then. You’ll make it work. I know you will.”

“So, we’re headed back to Vikingstrong?” Winter asks, still holding my gaze and saying a thousand other things as a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Oh no,” Marco wags a finger in our face, and finally, the spell is broken. I glance at Robbie’s camera. “Don’t think you two are going to sneak away from us again.” He looks over his shoulder and winks at the camera for effect.

Without thinking, I turn away and press into Winter’s side so I can hide my face in his shoulder. His hand finds mine and our fingers lace together, hidden from the camera against my hip. How much of me did the audience see yesterday? The entire grocery store run? Us sneaking away on horseback with snow coming down as if we’d been shaken in a globe ?

“Call whoever you need to call,” Marco says, “and get the horses scheduled. After Friday’s cut, the first one-on-one will open with Winter and his love interest on horseback. The snow, the trees, the final three,” he waves a hand as if painting a picture. “I can smell the romance! The snow-mance !”

“I can’t wait,” Winter finally agrees. There’s no way out of this.

But his voice is thin, his heart isn’t in it. And neither is mine.

He pulls me close. I don’t even care what it all looks like on camera. A weak PA, a melancholy prince who isn’t nearly as bad as I thought he was. Two people who got into this for all the wrong reasons, and now we’re stuck—together, but not.