Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine

CAT

T he way he maneuvers through the snow into town is commendable. We pull up outside Wanda Crosby’s old bookstore shortly after promising Frannie we’d call when we got home safe. Tattered paperbacks are stacked in the window in the shape of a cheery Christmas tree with a bow at the top.

I guess I’m going home to Winter’s castle on the lake, again. With a birthday cake. And a man I find I want more than I’ve wanted any job, any title, or any present.

“Willow would love this,” I tell him as we make our way to a worn, green front door. Whatever the name once was has worn away on the glass, only Bookstore , remaining. She’d love the courier lettering, the fat plaid ribbon tied with bells around the handle that jingles when I twist.

Inside it’s like a little cottage made of paperback and leather- bound walls. Books line shelves floor to ceiling, stacked on every surface. There are even classic book covers painted on the ceiling tiles. If I were branding for book lovers, trying to sell coffee, bookmarks, stickers, journals, or anything cozy-bookworm-related, I’d build a brand that looked exactly like this.

A woman curled up in a green velvet chair by the window is reading, one leg tucked under the other, biting her nails as she turns pages and ignoring the store around her. Behind the cash wrap, there are more books, some behind a lock and glass. An elegant wooden ladder is attached to brass rails for easy access. If I had my phone, I’d take a picture and send it to Willow. This is the first time I’m genuinely sad I can’t do exactly that when I reach into the pocket of my coat on instinct and find it empty.

Winter and I slide into the crowd, stealth like the cake burglars we are—but we’re stealing for good of course. Shoppers mingle in cheery corners: some stoop to pursue half-off bins, others drag their fingers lovingly down spines on new-release shelves. The smell of spice and burning candles is all around us, the heavy scent of musty paper, too, and two young girls are sitting on the floor cross-legged with books in their laps, trading paperbacks back and forth as they chat. To the side, near a children’s corner, there’s a round table painted green with a Patty’s Pastries cake box, my birthday cake inside, presumably.

I shift Patty’s box containing the retirement cake in my arms. “What should we do? Swap them? That way no one has to know, and Patty’s saved from a bad review. It doesn’t look like they’ve gotten to the cake part of the party yet.”

Winter’s front is pressed close to my back. “Look at you, looking out for people you hardly know. You’re a real softy, Bloom.”

“I know Patty. We’re buds, we go way back,” I quip. “She gave me a rain check.”

“You’re assimilating into this town better than I thought you would. It sort of, sucks you in, doesn’t it? ”

“Maybe,” I shrug, then steady my hand when the box tips precariously.

“Look!” he shouts excitedly tugging at my elbow, shocking me but not drawing any attention. Pretty sure a bottle of champagne just popped, everyone drawing around Wanda, an old afghan draping her shoulders. These bookish types can really party when they want to—I’ve seen Willow literally swing from chandeliers, but you’d never guess it when she’s curled up in her cardigan and glasses with a novel.

“What?” I ask, confused by his excitement.

“Mittens! Black ones.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Swap that cake, Bloom,” he points to the table that is probably the next stop after the champagne toast. I need to do it now if we don’t want to explain ourselves. “And meet me over there.”

I do, slipping the box gently off the table and replacing mine in almost the same motion, like a magician pulling a tablecloth trick. Honestly, I’m a little impressed with myself.

When I meet Winter, triumphant and smiling ear to ear by a spinning rack of trinkets and toys, he swaps the cake box from my hands for a pair of knit mittens.

“They’re so cute.” My voice sounds foreign to even my ears, but I can’t help it. I’ve been awfully mushy lately. Almost sweet. Most of my colleagues back in the office at Brand Hub wouldn’t recognize me.

“Annie makes them.”

“Really? But they’re black. Annie is all nature colors, sage greens, Nordic blues, and burnt oranges that make me think of teatime, old lady buns, and purring kittens. Black doesn’t seem like her style.”

“You’ve branded Annie,” he says, twinkling eyes moving fast over my features, laughing at me but admirably, I think. “You’re good at your job.”

I shrug. “It’s how my mind works. ”

“Well, I’m wondering if maybe she made them with someone in mine? Perhaps, she’s been influenced.” His eyebrows wiggle.

“No, me?”

“Yeah, but she’s shy and probably lost the nerve to give them to you. I think she misses home, Danish people, Skagen. And there’s a pretty efficient entrepreneur hidden under all that yarn—she likes selling them here to earn her mad money , though I’d happily pay for anything she wants.”

“Good for her. A woman has to have something of her own, always. A smart woman told me that once—I love them.” They’re soft, light, and I can’t resist slipping them on.

“Of course, you like them because they’re black, but the little white hearts and snowflakes make them appropriately hygge .”

“That word.”

“It means cozy, soft, comfortable, and safe . . .” He trails off, unknowingly tapping into my innermost desires. Or maybe he knows he’s tempting me with something my life has always lacked. Something I’ve always yearned for but never knew how to access, much less to accept.

That all seems to be changing with him.

His hand grasps mine, and he presses against the little red heart on my wrist. “I want you to feel cozy and safe when you’re with me, Bloom. You’re so strong, and I adore that about you. It does things to me,” he raises one eyebrow this time, and I get the message. He likes it when I take care of him. “But I’d really like to be the person that gives you that feeling, too. We all need to feel cared for by someone.”

It’s so hard for me to accept his words, to accept what he wants to give me. But I try by responding as unguarded and grateful as I can. “I love them!” I yell, no longer caring that I’m excited over a pair of mittens in a little shop, in the middle of a lake town, in the middle of a blizzard. “A little hard, a little soft.”

I can be that, I’m beginning to realize. I can have weaknesses, and need others, and still be strong .

“I think this is the first time you’ve ever squealed—like a girl.”

“As opposed to?”

“Oh no, I’m not falling for that, boss lady. But I like your assessment, a little hard, a little soft. It’s the perfect description for my new favorite person.” He steps into me at the register, the party still going strong in the corner, the right cake unveiled and properly cheered for, and grasps my chin to tilt my head up. “But I’m not letting you off that easy. What about everything I said?”

“You do make me feel safe, Winter. You do.” I can admit it because it’s true, and he’s proven ten times over he’s someone I can trust. “I think it’s because you lean on me, you’re honest about your fears. It makes me feel like I can do the same, you know?”

“Maybe we could use each other to test our fears. You let me take care of you, just a little. I let you see all the ugly parts of me.” Soft lips dust mine and I grasp his arms with mittened hands. “I’m buying you the mittens, and then we’re going home to demolish that cake.”

Cared for, cozy, and falling fast.

I laugh when I stomp my boots on the mudroom rug at Vikingstrong, placing them next to Winter’s in a sweet little row. Lola’s leash hangs on a hook on the wall. God, I’m getting silly. It must be a trick of the eye, but our boots look right together. Like a pair. And I had an odd flash-forward, a vision, of me walking Lola around the lake in the summer. Maybe on my way to Boggs’ to say hi to Frannie and indulge in a margarita before five p.m.

Oh, no. This town, or this man, really is sucking me in. It’s magical what I feel for him, or insane, maybe a little bit of both.

We take our cake upstairs to Winter’s room and I plop it on the round table in the sitting area while he totes plates. He’s got a jug of milk under his arm, too. I’m sinking into this moment, this room— this man— with a purr like a cat who needs a scratch .

“Kitchen’s stocked. Let me know what you require, princess.”

I shake my head at him and almost choke on my scoff. “Nope, definitely do not call me that, ever again. Is that like, a line? I mean, I get it if it usually works on . . . women you’ve . . . you know.”

“Women I’ve . . . ?” Sparkling eyes watch me wrestle with our situation.

Fine, if he wants to watch me struggle, I’ll come out and ask him. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend, again?”

“Aside from the three women I’m currently dating?” His tone is mocking, a joke. Still, it stings.

“Right,” I force myself to smile and not make a big deal of it, not to let the jealousy that’s been brewing for weeks now show because I know he’s not interested in them. “Aside from them.” The cool, aloof, in-control Cat has left the building. I barely get the words out without my voice cracking.

Smooth, Bloomfield.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, Winter, it’s not.” It was, when I thought he was a royal ass, but now that I know him, I wonder why he’s all alone in this half castle, half museum.

He uses a sterling cake knife with a crystal handle to slice into a beautiful birthday cake. Of course, he has crystal serving utensils. “It’s not easy, dating in a small town while trying to maintain my privacy. You may have noticed that I don’t have security around twenty-four seven. I like to live as normal a life as possible. But that means keeping a low profile and aside from a few discreet . . . relationships, I’ve kept to myself.”

“Hmm.” Letting his words digest, I focus on the cake he hands me. The very custom cake he bought just for me. “I can’t believe you ordered this, by the way.”

“What’s wrong with it?” He intentionally plays dumb, scratching his temple and propping a hand on his hip.

I swipe some frosting and lick my fingertips. “It’s the Prada logo, but with my name instead of Prada. This screams Winter Larsen.”

“Damn. I thought it screamed Cat Bloomfield.”

I laugh. “It does.” Another swipe of frosting on my finger lands on my tongue, sky blue and sugar-sweet.

He shrugs. “You appreciate nice things, and I appreciate that about you. And, I thought it was punny .”

“You’re such a nerd, and I don’t think that’s how you make a pun,” I say. “Back to your lack of love interest?—”

“Why is the lady so obsessed with the gentleman’s dance card, I wonder?” I wait him out as he takes a bite of his cake, giving him time. Finally, he drops the act. “It was never a focus, a real relationship that was more than physically scratching an itch. But I do want something, serious . . . now, I think.”

Eyeing him and balancing my plate in my lap, I say, “I get it. I’ve never had the time, or the desire to invest in anything serious. Yes, I’ve loved, but you know what it got me.” I look up at him pointedly.

“A whole lot of unkept promises? Thwarted expectations?”

We agree on this, at least.

“Mhmm.” I nod, letting myself sink into thought without feeling the need to spin the truth. “The hard part of me,” I go on, “the tough part, the part that can’t be taken care of or let her guard down because that’s all I’ve ever known, can’t set herself up for the letdown. I’ve only ever known my parents saying they’d make it home for dinner, then call to say a meeting came up, or the toilet at their new office overflowed and can I please make my little sister some dinner, brush her teeth, and get her into bed?”

Winter nods vigorously. “I was so used to being alone that often,” he takes my empty plate and his, and stacks them on a tray on a dresser across the room, “whenever someone wanted more, I knew they’d realize I’m a lot more work than they bargained for, and I knew it would be over before it even started. So usually, I didn’t even try. Fuck, that didn’t sound nearly so terrible in my head.”

I snort through a mouth of buttercream, one last taste stolen from the cake box. “But you have Annie.”

“You think she’s responsible for all this?” He motions at himself, puffing up his chest, then chuckles under his breath and looks out the window at the snow-covered beach below, the lake unfrozen and still lapping at the shore. “No. It’s true. She’s the only person, other than the dudes, I trust. If you won’t take me up on my offer, I’ll just live here forever with my nanny. That’s not weird.”

What exactly is his offer? He wants me, yes, and I want him. But we still haven’t determined what happens after that. “I was doing just fine until you.”

The unknown is so scary, depending on someone is so out of my comfort zone, but I want to risk it with him.

There’s a peachy low light from the single lamp he turned on, and the fact that once again, I have nothing to sleep in floats unsaid around us. No way to brush my teeth—at least my breath will smell like sugar. I’m in his space again, with no idea where to go, if I should avert my eyes, if I can get away with snooping because I find myself inexplicably curious, or if I should let go of all of it.

Just be me.

“Bloom, you have nothing to worry about. What I’m feeling,” he rubs the base of his palm over his heart, “it’s all for you.”

What’s hanging in the air is the bed in the middle of the room. My cheeks heat when I glance at it, no more cake to hide behind, no more banter, we’re putting it all on the table. He clocks my gaze and raises a knowing brow.

The pleasure he pulled from my body in the closet, and only hours ago on a doorstep in the falling snow, is suddenly all I can think about.

And I want more .

Maybe we could use each other to test our fears. You let me take care of you, just a little. I let you see all the ugly parts of me.

“What’s happening in that mind right now?” He waves an extra fork that he’s plucked off the table at me in a circular motion.

I exhale, “Nothing.”

He cuts a bite of cake from the box and brings it to my lips. “Work?”

I take the bite, sliding my lips over the fork, letting the icing hit my tongue as he watches me smile. “Surprisingly, maybe for the first time in a long time, no,” I manage, licking my lips. “I think it’s this place.”

He drops the fork back into the box, sitting across from me, leaning on his elbows. “The rustic castle built for cozy indulgence and arrogant wealth that most only dream of? It has a way of romancing people, making them forget the real world. Work. Responsibility. Maybe this is what you needed, maybe you were meant to find yourself here all along. For generations, my family has come here over the summers to pretend just that.”

“Every summer?”

“Yeah, they came and went. I stayed.”

“So you don’t want it, the crown? Wouldn’t care if you woke up tomorrow morning and it was all gone?”

“Not one little bit. But I would miss Denmark, my people, and I’d hate to think they’d feel abandoned or like I didn’t want them. That’s a terrible feeling. I’ve been wrestling with how I can have it both ways. I don’t want the crown, Cat, but I do want my country.”

“Hmm,” is all I have to offer him. I’m not sure what this means for the show, or us, but I feel deeply for him and his difficult situation with his family.

“PJs?” he asks, looking more than ready to change the subject, even though I know he’d answer any question I asked him.

My heart skips a beat, heat spreading down my sternum. “Yes please,” I answer more quickly than I’d like and hope he doesn’t notice, but I know he does. Winter notices everything.

He moves around the room to the chest of drawers in the corner and pulls out a set of pajamas. He tosses me the top, then steals into the bathroom, letting the door snick closed behind him without a word.

I look down at the nightshirt. Large. Traditional. His. Plain blue cotton with buttons and white ticking stripes.

When he emerges I’ve done exactly as he silently commanded. “You only gave me the top.” My heart pounds in my ears, my clothes piled at my feet.

“Yes.” He stalks toward me in matching pajama bottoms with the drawstring loose, the waist slung low, and stops at the edge of the bed.

I meet him toe to toe, allowing myself the pleasure of admiring him up close in the soft light. His skin is soft to the touch, his chest hard with muscle, and his pecs jump as I run my hands down his front and to his waistband. My fingers play with the drawstrings. No cameras waiting to catch us.

Just him. Just me.

My fingers dust over the ink around his ribcage that I discovered on our first day shooting on the lake, that feels like a hundred years ago, and also as if only minutes have passed. This is the last time I’ll press him, if he wants to test each other’s fears, there’s no time like the present.

“What does it say?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” he murmurs, with eyes so sad I could take a swim in the blue.

“Winter,” I say softly, cupping his strong jaw dappled with scruff with my hands. “Of all the tattoos, of all the quotes?”

“It rings true enough.”

I run my fingers over his chest, and his pecs jump again as if my touch is electric. My journey continues down and around his ribcage as I inspect the script that wraps around his right side. “A formidable bear, a stately stag, sure. An elegant dragon breathing fire, that’s you. But this? It makes me hurt for you, for that little boy that wanted love and some attention.” It hurts because I recognize it so well.

I drag a finger over the ink in his skin, thinking how both of us grew up so lonely while surrounded by people and responsibility.

“You know,” he says, sniffing and using that beguiling tone I’ve noticed he saves for charming a crowd, “It’s meant to be funny.”

“But it’s not.” I can’t let him off that easily as I meet his eyes. “And you know it. Don’t wear one of your masks with me.”

“My masks?”

“You know, put on a show and hide your feelings. It’s clearly what you’re doing, and I don’t want you to do that with me. You said you’d let me see the ugly parts of you, but I don’t think they’re ugly Winter. I think you’re beautiful.”

“Cat.” His hand snakes over my shoulder and up my neck, gripping me as if he needs to hold me in place. “My family issues go deep. I’m well aware I use coping mechanisms to survive it. You, being one of them… I’ve spent my entire life in my head, and compartmentalizing is working. I am trying,” he exhales, “this damn show.”

He grasps my nape firmer, pulling my head back and a little to the right. “I can’t stand the cameras constantly hovering, getting in the way of what I really want. Do you want to do this?”

He cups my chin and exhales, waiting for me to speak.

“If you’re not interested in the women on the show, and they know your intentions are only to honor the contract, and you believe we can keep it hidden, then . . .”

“Then I can have you?” Both hands grip my hips.

“Don’t break me,” I whisper.

One sharp nod.

Our affair will be over when the show is over, we haven’t promised any more than that. But no one has ever looked at me with eyes quite so hungry, so needy, and so desperate as Winter Larsen. We’re already playing with fire, and if I were smart, I’d put a stop to it right now, but at the moment, everything fades out into skin, and touch, and racing hearts.

I can do this. We can do this.

“Your mind is working hard, baby, I can see it all over your pretty face. Are you sure, no more back and forth. Last chance, Bloom, I can have you?”