- -
- 100%
- +
“Nate?” Hank gazed at him quizzically.
After another swig of beer, he muttered, “Definitely, she’s out of my league.”
Holly stood at the base of the steps. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on Nate’s conversation with Hank, but it was hard not to hear the men. The house was small. Their voices carried.
Out of his league?
She supposed she could understand how Nate would think that. He wasn’t the first person, man or woman, who had acted as if she were made of priceless spun glass. A number of her childhood friends had become overly deferential and awkward around her once they had finally grasped her status as their future monarch. She recalled how isolated it had made her feel. How utterly lonely.
“That’s just the way it is,” her mother had told her matter-of-factly when she complained. “They treat you differently because you are different. You’re special, Hollyn.”
Holly hadn’t wanted to be “special.” She’d wanted friends. True friends who wouldn’t purposely lose at board games or let her pick the movie every time they got together. Friends who would confide their secrets. Friends in whom she could confide hers and not risk having her private thoughts written up in the tabloids. That had happened when she was fourteen. She’d complained about an argument with her mother, who’d felt Holly was too young to wear makeup. The headline in the Morenci Daily two days later read: “Queen and her teen nearly come to blows over mascara.”
Her mother had been livid. Holly had been crushed, and, hence forward, very, very careful.
After that, the closest she’d had to actual girlfriends were her cousins, Amelia and Emily. As the second and third in line for the throne behind Holly, they understood what it was like to be in the spotlight, photographed, quoted—or misquoted as the case may be—and constantly judged on their appearance and breeding as if they were entries in the Royal Kennel Club’s annual dog show.
Yet, even with Amelia and Emily, the older they grew, the more she sensed a distance and a separation between them. And, yes, she could admit now, she’d noticed a certain amount of envy and bitterness that while Holly would have a prime place in Morenci’s history books, their lives would be mere footnotes and largely forgotten.
Their emotional defection had hurt. But not as badly as overhearing Nate’s assessment of her. He made her sound shallow, spoiled.
Spending money she hadn’t earned?
As far as Holly was concerned, she was always “earning” her keep. Long ago, her life had ceased to be her own, if indeed it ever had been. She was public property. Her photograph was sold to the highest tabloid bidder, in addition to being plastered on everything from teacups, decorative plates and biscuit tins to T-shirts and tote bags that were then gobbled up by tourists.
She told herself the disappointment she felt about Nate’s assessment of her was because she had so hoped to feel “normal” here. She had hoped to be treated as she had been treated as a girl coming to the island with her grandmother: Accepted for who she was rather than the crown she would someday wear.
A small sigh escaped. She was being foolish.
At least Nate hadn’t told Hank the truth about her identity. If it meant letting the other man and the rest of the folks on the island think she was some snobby socialite eager for a taste of the simple life, so be it. Anonymity in itself was a gift. One that she hadn’t enjoyed in more than a decade.
The men came out of the kitchen, both of them stopping with almost comedic abruptness when they spied her. Nate looked guilty, his gaze cutting away a moment before returning to hers. No doubt, he was wondering how much she’d overheard.
Hank, however, was grinning broadly.
“Hey, there, miss. I see you’re none the worse for wear after your unexpected dip in the lake.” He elbowed Nate in the ribs.
Nate flushed. So did she. Holly hardly looked her best. She’d changed into dry clothes, but they were wrinkled from their time spent in her bag. And while she’d combed the tangles out of her hair, it was still wet. She’d remembered a blow dryer in her hasty packing job, but she hadn’t thought to bring an adapter. And, of course, she smelled of lake water.
She fiddled with the ends of her hair.
“I wanted to take a shower, but I’m afraid I couldn’t figure out how to work the faucet so that the spray would come out.”
“It’s finicky,” Nate said. “I should have thought to show you before coming downstairs.”
“That’s all right.”
“I can show you now.”
“Thank you. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what to do with my wet things.” She’d hung them over the shower curtain in the bathroom.
“I can toss them in the dryer.”
She nibbled the inside of her cheek. The pants and jacket were both made of linen. The blouse was silk. “I don’t suppose the island has a dry cleaners?”
Nate shook his head.
“The town on the mainland does,” Hank supplied. “It’s right next to the grocery store. I can take them with me when I fly back tomorrow and drop them off for you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t want to be a bother.” She added an appreciative smile.
“It’s no trouble. None at all,” he insisted.
This was exactly the sort of deferential treatment she was used to … and did not want. “I’ll think about it,” she answered diplomatically.
“Come on. I’ll show you how to work the shower,” Nate said, as if sensing her unease.
She followed him back up the stairs to the bathroom, hurriedly snatching a pair of white silk panties and a delicate lace-edged bra from the curtain rod and hiding them behind her back.
Nate coughed. They both smiled uncomfortably.
“Um, about the shower. You, uh, turn this knob.” He demonstrated as he instructed. “The farther right you turn it, the hotter it becomes.” She was thinking something on the cool side. “You’ll probably want it somewhere in the middle. Then you flip this little lever on the side.”
Again, he demonstrated. The water sprayed out from the showerhead. Small beads of it ricocheted off the tiled surround and landed on his forearm. The hair there was bleached as light as some of the streaks on his head, alluding to his time spent in the sun. Indeed, he had a good tan going. In comparison, Holly was ridiculously pale. It had been that way when they were kids, too, although by the end of her visit, she’d always managed to look like a regular beachcomber—or a commoner, as her mother complained.
No doubt Olivia had worked herself into a good fit by now, despite the note of explanation that Henry had delivered on Holly’s behalf. She felt a little guilty, a little queasy. And a lot rebellious, because she wasn’t going to return for at least a week. Maybe longer. And even though her mother considered her engagement to Phillip a done deal, Holly was far from convinced.
Nate turned off the shower and stepped back. She glanced away.
“Everything okay?”
She pushed away all thoughts of her mother, Phillip and the responsibilities waiting for her upon her return. She was free now.
“I didn’t see the lever,” she said quietly.
“No one does. It’s old-fashioned, which is why I had them all replaced in the cottages when I took over. Saved me or whoever else was manning the front desk at the marina office a lot of phone calls.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t gotten around to this one yet.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been a priority.”
“Not exactly,” he agreed. “I’ve put most of my time and resources into the cottages.”
“Walking up from the beach, it looked like there were more of those than there used to be.”
He nodded. “I was always after Dad to expand, but he said he and Mom had enough to keep them busy with what they had.”
“I liked your parents.” She smiled, enveloped in simple and homey memories so unlike the majority of those from her childhood. That, too, she realized now, was part of the reason she’d come here. Simplicity. Her complicated, overrun life yearned for it. “They always made feel at home when I stopped over from my grandmother’s cottage, even when they had work to do and guests to attend to.”
“They liked you, too. They were always after me to be as polite as you were.”
They both laughed. Then sobered. Silence stretched. For a moment, given the way he was watching her, she thought he might stroke her cheek. He’d raised his hand. But it fell away and he blurted out, “Fresh towels.”
Holly blinked.
“Um, for your shower. They’re in the cabinet next to the sink. Washcloths, too.”
“Right.”
“One more thing, Holly.”
She nodded, feeling ridiculously expectant as she waited for him to continue.
“Don’t flush the toilet right before you get in the shower or you’ll wind up scalded.” He cleared his throat. His cheeks grew pink. “Another of those things I haven’t gotten around to updating.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE storm was in full swing by the time Holly came downstairs an hour later. Rain pelted the windows and lightning illuminated the inky sky, followed by loud crashes of thunder that shook the home’s foundation. It was a spectacle to behold, by turns frightening and thrilling. Even so, Hank was sprawled out on the couch, his snores competing with the storm. She envied the man’s ability to fall asleep so easily. Even on perfectly quiet nights, Holly seldom slept soundly. She usually had too much going through her mind to relax and simply drift off. She’d tried the old remedies, such as counting sheep and listening to soothing music. Neither had much effect. Meditation sometimes worked. As did reading really, really boring accounts of her country’s gross domestic product.
The royal physician blamed her insomnia on anxiety and had prescribed pills that she rarely took. They made her too groggy the next day, as if she were walking through a fog. She preferred to have her wits about her, even if it meant slumbering off sometimes during a dinner party. A picture of her with her eyes closed and her chin resting on her chest had graced the front page of a newspaper not long ago.
“This is exactly the kind of publicity you need to avoid,” her mother had warned. “Royal or not, the press can turn public sentiment against you in a heartbeat.”
Even so, Holly had been reluctant to take the pills. Still, she wondered if she would come to regret not bringing them with her for this trip.
Nate stood at the glass door that opened to the deck, one hand in the front pocket of a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts, the other holding a beer. He’d taken a shower. She’d heard the water in his bathroom running not long after she’d shut off the water in the guest bath. His hair was still wet. He wore it on the long side, though not as long as he had as a boy. Back then, it had nearly brushed his shoulders. Now, it just grazed his collar. The color had gotten darker over the years. It bordered on brown, but the sun had left its mark with the kind of highlights that women—and some men—spent vast sums of money at salons hoping to achieve. She couldn’t imagine him sitting still long enough to let a stylist work her magic.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.