Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight

WINTER

L ater that evening, when I’ve got her snug in my passenger seat, she asks, “Why did we drive together?”

After my seven minutes in heaven with Cat—forget football, this is my new favorite American game—she went to get changed for dinner and I promised I’d be back to pick her up. An uncommunicated we’ll-deal-with-whatever-happened-between-us later.

“Because John invited me, and Fran invited you, and it made sense.”

“For you to go home, get cleaned up, drive back up the mountain in the opposite direction to pick me up, and then back down the mountain in snowy, uncertain road conditions, to Fran and John’s?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds advantageous,” I quip. “You’re going to have to let me take care of you a little, Bloom. It’s in my nature. ”

She crosses her arms and hugs her elbows, she’s wrestling with the idea. “And how did you come by an invite, and the birthday cake?”

“What cake?” I ask quizzically, looking this way and that in the car, everywhere but at the enormous cakebox in her lap. The smell of sugar mixing with the leather interior and Cat’s lavender scent proving to be an intoxicating combo.

“This cake,” she taps the top of the box, and I glance at her sideways, I could get used to her in my car. Like, on the regular. I’ll drive her everywhere she needs to go.

It’s decided, I’m a chauffeur now, for one very demanding woman.

“When I asked John if I could crash your birthday dinner,” I wink at her, “He was getting ready to call in the order—I guess Frannie’s given him a to-do list a mile long before the motel opens. So, I offered to sweet talk Patty for something custom?—”

She drops a hand to her chest and gasps, “Custom? You?”

“Shut up, I wanted you to have something special. Now deal with it,” I reach over the console and squeeze her thigh twice.

She knows exactly why I drove up the mountain, why I procured myself a dinner invite, why I took the liberty of ordering her a cake, and why I’ve discovered a penchant for writing love letters.

The jig is up—I’m infatuated with her. Obsessed. Besotted, and smitten as hell. My thumb taps nervously on the steering wheel just thinking about the hold she’s got on me and my gut reaction to take care of her..

“You sure are going to a lot of trouble for your PA,” she says, looking out the window in thought.

Yeah, there’s that. My PA. Not the Crown’s choice, and technically against the rules of production .

But I think, what’s best for me.

“I got to Patty’s before she closed early tonight. They’re calling for more bad weather, it’s the snowiest winter in decades. Which means road conditions might prevent us from making it back up the mountain to the lodge. You could be stuck with me, again,” I shrug and steal another glance at how she’s taking all this, “but I also might be saving your life. PA or not, it’s the right thing to do.”

“Even trade, then,” she smiles deviously in my direction, taking my concern for her safety better than I’d guessed she would.

“I think so.”

“I could stay with Fran and John?—”

“The new power couple? You want to cramp their style when they’ve just started living together, building a new business together, and he’s planning to propose any minute?”

She lifts her chin. “When is he going to do it already?”

“Boss has more patience than a rooster. He’ll bide his time till he’s good and ready. And it’s only because he’s probably got something very specific and thoughtful planned.”

“I don’t think roosters are known for their patience. You really need to work on your American sayings,” she laughs, nudging my leg with her hand, so I snag that hand and hold on. My thumb dips over the red heart I drew on her wrist today. “Did you shower with one hand?”

“Bath. I miss it when it washes off, so kind of yes.”

“Bloom,” I hesitate only because I’m not sure she’s ready for the conversation I’d like to have. It would start with me begging, more kisses in the closet, please . And probably end with, be mine, in whatever way you’re comfortable, but say you’re mine—not just while we hide it on the show, but after too.

She looks out the window before I can go on. “You respect him—John.”

“Am I supposed to be embarrassed?” That wasn’t implied in her words at all, but I still enjoy needling her when I can. “We shoot straight with each other, always have. I appreciate his honesty and his loyalty.”

“I feel the same about my sister and Willow. So,” she hesitates, nervously as I pull up John and Fran’s drive. Christmas lights string across the roofline and rafters of the big house, the fancy white kind. “Do you mind if we don’t tell them just yet what’s going on? With us?”

“They might have an inkling, Bloom.”

“I know, but it’s still new to us and we don’t have to confirm it. They can speculate all they want, but no PDA. No funny business while we’re there. That’s all I’m saying.” Her cheeks flush.

“We’ll tell them when we know what’s what.” I’m not ready to leave our little bubble, but I open the door. “Ready Freddy? It is Freddy, right?” I ask, hopping out of the car before she can answer, and making my way around to open her door.

“Yes, or spaghetti, but that might be a Bloomfield thing.” She takes my hand, and I pull her to me. “You’re going to struggle with no PDA, aren’t you, Winter?”

“Who, me?” I take the cake box and wrap my free arm around her so we can make our way up an icy drive.

She laughs, gesturing at the hand that’s snaked into the back pocket of her black jeans as we walk oh so slowly to a front door with a cherry red wreath covered in candy canes and pink-cheeked Santas.

I school my features intentionally blank, batting my eyes at her.

“Yes, you,” she says, her words silken and laced with innuendo.

Minding the ice so we don’t fall, I whisk us to the side of the entry before she can push the doorbell. My mouth falls hungrily to hers as if I haven’t eaten a bite in weeks. A wolfish sort of sound comes from my chest unbidden, and I’m thankful for my ability to balance a cake box while feeling her curves with my free hand.

This whole thing, us , is new and out of my control. I swear I didn’t see my insane attraction to her coming, and I have no power to stop it now. Nor do I want to.

“Winter?” The way she says my name is suddenly sweet, and it’s pleading, which makes my dick twitch and my heart pound .

“Yes?” My mouth is at her neck and I suck on the hollow under her jaw in that tender little spot she seems to like. When all she does is whimper, I breathe into the shell of her ear, “Cat got your tongue?”

“I hate it,” she moans, long and slow as my hand slides down the curve of her hip and slips between her denim-clad thighs, “when people say that.”

She can barely get the words out as she bites back at me, my neck, my chin, my bottom lip, as all her panting breath turns to little puffs of smoke on the cold air.

So I’m not the only one who still enjoys sparring. Good. I wouldn’t have her any other way.

“Apologies.” My fingers gently pop the buttons on her puffer coat, the black one that I gave her. The one that goes all the way to her ankles because it pains me to think of her being cold. She’s finally wearing it and maybe I’m insane, but that means something. To her. To me. To us.

I’ve let her in, and she’s letting me in a little, too.

She pushes her hands under my sweater, and I flinch. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

“You need mittens.”

“Mittens are for babies.”

“My baby needs a pair of nice, warm mittens,” I chastise playfully.

The woman giggles, and nothing has ever pleased me more.

“I love it when you laugh. When it’s me that makes you. Cat, I . . .” I trail off unsure how to finish my thought, tugging her sweater away and pushing my hand down the front of her jeans, over the slope of her belly, and quickly past the silk edge of her panties.

There’s a chair near the door and I dump the cake, carefully, then give her all my attention as I brace one hand above her head, the other sliding to her core. “Is this okay? ”

“Yeah, yes,” she responds quickly, her back arching as she presses into my hand. So wet. She’s been waiting for me, and I’ve been dying to touch her here since our time in the closet.

“You’re drenched, Bloom.” I slip two fingers inside her, there’s no time to waste and I fully intend to make her fall apart, relax, and moan my name before her birthday dinner.

“Winter, is there a camera out here?” she gasps, speaking into my mouth as I kiss her through her words, through her building orgasm that is happening even faster than I could have hoped.

For a second, I think of our blue-mohawked friend, but then I realize she’s talking about the house. “No, Boss is old school and this used to be his dad’s place. I doubt he’s thought of all that.” I find her clit with my thumb and rub slow circles, and she grips my arms tighter. My girl needs to get off. All she does is work. Well, now it’s time to play. “Know what?”

“What?” My fingers push and curl into her. She widens her stance a little as I apply more pressure to her clit with my thumb. Pick up speed.

“I’m pretty sure you officially don’t—” Her hands grip my neck.

“Don’t—oh—hate . . .” she trails off, her words coming high and breathy as she rocks against my hand. Her core tightens around my fingers and when she falls apart, I apply more pressure, pumping into her, kissing her, and panting right along with her as she falls apart.

“You don’t hate me anymore.” I finish the full sentence in her ear, holding her up against the wall, swirling my thumb as she comes down, milking every last drop of her orgasm from her body.

“Nooooope,” she says, long and lazy while her body shudders under my touch. “At this exact moment, I really, really like you.”

“Good.” I punctuate my point by slipping my fingers into my mouth and sucking them clean.

We both jump.

Frannie pulls the front door open, “I thought I heard a car—Oh!”

Cat’s cheeks are rosy on pale skin that somehow matches mine. She probably has some Scandinavian in her somewhere even though her sister is tan and brown as a berry from the sun even in December.

Shielding her in an unavoidably conspicuous way with my body, I give her time to button her jeans in a flash. She steps around me, picking up the cake box, her chest moving rapidly as she tries to control her breath. There’s visible pleasure and contentment written all over her face, and a little bit of sweat on her forehead even though we’re standing out in the cold.

I put that there. I did that to her, and I can’t help it, my chest puffs with pride.

“Hey, Frannie-Bananie!” she says, her voice ridiculously saccharine.

I only half try to cover up what Fran might have seen, pushing my hair back and attempting a natural stance, because I really don’t care if her sister knows what we were doing on her porch.

“Heeeey, Kitty Cat” Fran hugs Cat as she steps across the threshold. “What were you two doing out here? It’s freezing,” Fran says, eyeing me curiously over her sister’s puffy coat. As our eyes meet, I can’t tell if she’s playing along or honestly didn’t see that we were face-deep in each other’s necks, my hands all over her sister.

Cat has a mark above her clavicle, easily visible in her deep-V-neck sweater.

Shit. I’m going to have to make a mental note not to suck so hard. It would be helpful if I had my phone to make a real note. I have a feeling I’ll need it. The sooner I can be done with Royal Hearts the better.

“We were…” She works to find words.

“Fighting,” I supply smoothly, rolling back on my heels and holding the box waist-high with both hands. I am one hundred percent trying to hide a hard-on tenting my pants.

“Yeah, fighting,” Cat repeats, her cheeks redden even more.

“We fight. A lot,” I add for good measure, finally moving inside and closing the door.

Cat narrows her gaze on me as she hands Fran her coat.

“Riiight, I remember.” Frannie’s eyes are bopping back and forth between us, but she takes pity on our little charade and invites us in without pressing us more.

“Babe, are they here?” My best friend’s voice travels from the kitchen where I’m sure he’s hard at work in something appropriately wholesome like a kiss the cook apron.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say, sneaking up behind him while he’s stirring a pot, clapping him on the back. “Plan is in motion, but we’re playing it cool,” I whisper in his ear.

“Dude—Winter. You almost made me drop my ladle.” But he gives me a firm nod, he heard me.

“Heaven forbid. Damn, you domesticated him fast,” I say laughing and looking at the blonde who makes my best friend glow like a sparkler. I remember when John lived like a nomad, in sleeping bags, and his truck.

I was a fan of Frannie from the start. Boggs was gone for her almost the second they met, though she made the man work to get out of the friend zone, and I’ll take a little credit for encouraging him to woo her.

Fran beams with her own huge smile and hands wine to her sister and then to me. John claps me on the back, a little harder while laughing. “Sounds like you’re ready to let someone do the same for you. I gotta say, I didn’t see that coming.”

I choke on red wine and will my hand to stay steady. “Excuse me?”

Cat steps in quickly, “The show. You’re going to pick someone to marry, in two weeks. ”

We meet eyes over our wine glasses, and I gulp another large sip. “Right, the show,” I manage.

Cat checks the buttons on her jeans, but I think I’m the only one who notices. “Have you guys been watching?” Her question is all high and pitchy as if she’s afraid of the answer.

“Yeah, we gave in and caught a little here and there in the past few days.” Fran’s eyes tick-tock between the two of us. “Anything you need to tell me, Kitty-Cat?”

“No, not unless you want me to blow your Christmas present—” And that’s why she gets paid the big bucks—nice deflection, Bloom.

“Don’t you dare!” Fran squeals, taking the bait. Or maybe, she wants to drop the awkward subject as much as Fran does.

“Soup’s on in ten,” John announces from a gas range. “Make yourselves at home. Cat, it’s nice to have you here. I know Francesca’s happy not to be talking through a phone screen.”

He does a really bad job at winking, trying to hide the fact they spent a day shopping for rings a few months ago in the Bay Area. He’s an adorable jock and I do love him.

“So,” Fran says when we all sit down to a cozy table off the kitchen of their rustic home. “How are things going with you two?”

Cat freezes at my side, a spoonful of chili halfway to her mouth.

Easy, Bloom. I take a bite and answer, “She’s a great PA,” then give her a look. Relax, they don’t know anything.

“She’s a professional, that’s for sure.” Fran smiles at her sister. “She seriously took one for the team with this assignment, you know she usually manages a laundry list of clients. And relocating, living at Little Star for the holiday. Glad she’s here, though. Do you guys get a break from filming for Christmas?”

“We do, one week,” Cat pipes up.

“We do?” I had no idea and I gaze at her with a thousand ideas in my mind .

“You,” she points at me with her chili spoon, “should read your contracts.”

“So, we get a little downtime.” I raise my glass in her direction. “Nice. Merry Christmas to us.”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas to us,” she clinks her glass against mine. And there it is, a smile that says she’s thinking the same. We get a whole week to be together without cameras, without filming, without Marco constantly shouting at us.

“And how are you doing with all the ladies?” John chimes in, eating his chili, oblivious to the conversation Cat and I are having with our eyes.

Could your timing be worse, Boggs? My hand slips under the table to find Cat’s thigh. “Hey, I’m no womanizer, that’s more Holiday’s style.”

“That’s just what he wants us to believe, you and I both know he’s still hung up on Lucy Lark.”

Cat pipes up, looking at her sister. “Lucy Lark? Like, the fallen popstar, Lucy Lark?”

“Yup,” Fran pops her lips for emphasis. “Lives not far from Little Star Lodge, I hear. On the lower part of the mountain.”

“So she really is living off the grid like a homesteader? That’s the last I heard of her,” Cat muses.

“Holiday checks in on her, the guy who really likes flirting,” I say, glaring at my best friend. “They were Homecoming king and queen at Clover High.”

“Dude—I just meant, I bet you don’t hate a bunch of women vying for you. How am I in trouble for that?” he looks around the table.

“It’s surprisingly stressful if you must know. I don’t mind a crowd at the bar, or in town, but all those cameras pointing directly at me,” I say with a shiver.

Cat touches the heart on her wrist and sips her wine.

“And what’s the point,” I press. “None of these women are there for me, or to make any sort of real connection. ”

“Come on, that can’t be true. Some of those shows work, some of them have babies and second generations now,” Fran points out.

“True, but I promise you. Royal Hearts is not going to be one of them. One woman is trying to get a show on HGTV, one is launching a makeup line. I kid you not, she put lip gloss on me on one of our dates to get some product placement.”

“What did you do?” John laughs.

“I don’t mind trying new products. Everyone can benefit from soft lips.”

Cat chokes on a bite of chili. “Hot,” she says.

“Look, I applaud her hustle,” I go on, squeezing her leg and letting my fingers inch their way higher. I’ve had one small sample of her, and it wasn’t nearly enough. “I was totally fine with it, but a romantic connection is not in the cards.”

“I heard there’s cake!” Cat cuts in, awkwardly draining her wine, while her other hand squeezes mine under the table.

“That cake has been calling my name.” Fran jumps up and grabs the box on the counter. “Wedding cake is my favorite, but Patty makes amazing cakes and I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“I’ll help,” I offer, giving Cat a small smile. I’m pretty sure we both just passed a test we were wholly unprepared for. Though if I have it my way, after the show, we’ll tell them everything.

We leave Cat with a freshly filled wine glass and Fran gets plates, forks, and a knife. John pulls candles from a drawer.

This is the kind of thing I only ever saw on TV as a kid, never witnessed in real time. I went to some of the guys’ parties in high school, but by then it was always baseball fields with John, fishing with Ben, and a campout with Logan. Never this warm, cozy, family vibe in a kitchen with matches and frosting, dimming the lights and?—

“This can’t be right,” Fran tries to hide her words, speaking through the side of her mouth to me and John, but fails epically.

“What?” Cat asks.

“Nothing.” Fran and John reply too quickly .

Cat’s cake says, Happy Retirement Wanda written in gold icing across a cake shaped like a fat leather-bound book. “This is not what I ordered,” I say, stating the obvious.

“They gave you the wrong cake,” Fran groans. “Probably because they were closing early for the storm? Did Patty hand it to you herself?”

“It was crazy in there. I saw Mayor Troutwine get in a fight over the last cinnamon roll. Everyone was stocking up in case we can’t get out tomorrow.”

“Virgil Troutwine is on my last nerve. He’s all over me about the new signage at Thistle and Burr being against town colors policy,” Fran groans. “How was I supposed to know there’s a set of colors banned in Clover?”

“You guys, whatever it is, it’s fine,” Cat says from the table. But she likes nice things, pretty things, and this will not do.

“I bet poor Wanda got your cake,” Fran says. “Should we cut it and sing anyway?”

John tugs at the brim of his hat. “I heard about her retirement party. She still hasn’t found a buyer for the store, but she’s pooped. Ready to be done. Talking about closing the place and donating all the books. This cake definitely got mixed up.”

It’s important to me Cat has her own cake, something just for her. Hasn’t she told me her childhood was all about making do, taking care of Frannie, and helping out her parents where help was needed? And don’t I know plenty about ruined childhood memories? “We’ll go down there and swap them. It’s my fault. I should have checked.”

“I’ll go.” John pulls keys off the counter.

“Dude, do you see the snow coming down out there?” We all turn and watch out the sliding door as fat snow sparkling like glitter falls over the lake outside.

“Dude, have you seen my truck?” he retorts.

It’s true, his truck can eat up snow.

“Cat and I will go. I’ll feed her the cake with candles.” I swipe the box from Frannie’s hand. “I promise. We’ll be lucky if we make it back to Vikingstrong as is. We should get going.”

I trust my car. No reason to wait for the roads to get worse. And this means I get Cat all to myself with her birthday cake.

“My truck is as good as your G-Class.”

“Buddy,” I clap him on the shoulder. “Not a pissing contest. Yeah?”

My best friend grins at me. “If it was, I’d win. Drive safe.”