The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle
Eleven
The drive from the ferry terminal at Swartz Bay to the Costco outside Victoria is about an hour with traffic, which meant plenty of silent driving. That is, until Harrison reached over and turned on the classic rock station, satisfied with Black Sabbath riffing “War Pigs.”
“I didn’t peg you for the heavy metal type,” I tell him.
“What kind of music do you think I listen to?” he asks, sitting back in his seat, his fingers drumming along the edge of the open window.
“I don’t know. What do soulless people listen to? Dave Matthews Band?”
He turns his head to look at me, and I feel his glare beneath his sunglasses. “I would rather stick broken glass in my ears,” he says firmly.
Whoa. Okay, so definitely not a DMB fan.
“What music do you listen to?” he asks after a moment.
I place my hand on my chest. “You’re . . . you’re asking questions . . . about me?”
His mouth moves into a firm line before he says, “I’m always asking you questions.”
“Ha! No, sir, you don’t. Maybe you do in your head, but that mouth of yours never opens to speak.”
“I’m speaking right now.”
“I know. It’s shocking.”
“So?”
I shrug. “Music? I like all kinds. Except country. I will take that glass you have in your ears and jab it in mine if I hear any sort of twang accompanied by some dude singing about his lost dog. I mean, why are you singing about it? Go out and put some Lost Dog posters on the telephone poles or something.”
He laughs. He actually laughs.
I gawk at him. “What’s the date today?”
“It’s July 6,” he says. “Why?”
“Because I want to remember it as the day I made Harrison Cole laugh. I’ll celebrate it every year by making offerings to the Holy Saint of PPOs, leaving tidings of aviator sunglasses and stiff upper lips.”
He’s shaking his head at me. “And you said I wasn’t normal.”
“It takes one to know one.”
He’s trying hard not to smile, I can tell.
Is it weird that I get excited every time I go to Costco? I mean, the place is generally chaotic, but there’s something about buying in bulk that makes me feel like an accomplished adult. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you need a membership card. I’ve wanted to belong to an exclusive club ever since I read The Baby-Sitters Club.
“Have you ever been to a Costco?” I ask him as we grab a cart and wheel it into the store, one of the staff checking my card to make sure I’m a member. I wave it at him with satisfaction.
“No,” Harrison says, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into his front pocket. He looks around the giant store with its towering aisles. “First time for everything.”
“Okay, but you’re going to need to have a hot dog.”
His brow quirks up in amusement. “A hot dog?”
“Yes. They do awesome hot dogs.”
“You bloody Americans and your hot dogs.”
I smack him across the chest. “You’re in Canada. You’re going to get a poutine dog if you’re not careful.”
“Dare I ask what that is?”
I shake my head. “You’re not ready for it.”
We walk through the aisles, Harrison reading groceries off his list. Because I’m not used to frequenting Costco as much as my local Country Grocer, I forget where things are, so there’s an awful lot of going back and forth across the store. Of course, I also want to stop at every single station that’s handing out free samples.
The first time around, Harrison stood back as I munched on some kind of chutney and crackers. With his lip curled, he looked utterly disgusted at the idea of someone just handing out food like this. But by the time I got on to the chocolate chip cookies, he was intrigued enough to have some too.
I watch as he munches on the tiny crumbles, his eyes lighting up.
“Perhaps we should grab a bag of these cookies,” he says, eyeing the display beside the person handing out the samples.
“See, this is how they get you,” I tell him, reaching over and grabbing a bag and tossing it in the cart.
“I feel victimized,” he says. “They bait you first with the free samples, then they swindle you into buying it.”
At that, he reaches over and takes yet another sample from the station, giving the person a wink.
“You know it’s one sample per customer,” I whisper to him as we walk away. “If word gets out that the royals’ bodyguard is trying to game the Costco sample system, it won’t look good.”
He leans into me, and I find myself holding my breath. “It will be our little secret, then.”
Then he straightens up and I’m slowly exhaling through my nose. Sheesh, he oughta warn me when he comes in close like that; it’s like I freeze and go into shock. If I breathed in his scent, my eyes would roll back in my head.
The rest of the shopping trip goes normally, with Harrison back to avoiding the samples again, and it feels like we’ve gotten everything we needed, and then some.
Though sometimes, just sometimes, I get this feeling that there’s heat in his gaze. The way I caught his eyes drifting over my chest when he thought I wasn’t looking, how his fingers brushed against mine as we both reached for the Kirkland bacon, how he guided me out of the store with his hand at the small of my back. Not to mention the peonies he picked up. Two for Monica and Eddie, but one bouquet for me.
I didn’t find that out until I drove through the gates back home and parked in front of the royals’ house.
“These are for you,” he said as he reached into the back seat and handed me one of the peony bouquets.
I stared at him for a moment in disbelief, then at the pink flowers in my hand. He continued by saying, “It’s a thank-you. For being so helpful and understanding.”
Aka don’t get any wrong ideas about this ten-dollar purchase.
But still, even as a gesture, it was sweet.
Then I popped the question.
“You know how you can really show me your appreciation? Come with me to the Blowhole on Friday.”
He looked offended at the suggestion. “Why would you even want to go to that?”
“To show them all I’m not afraid.” I hesitated. “I’d feel safer if you were there.”
“Do you want me to go as protection or as a friend?”
“As a friend.”
He gave me a curt nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It’s Friday afternoon and I haven’t seen Harrison all week, which is kind of strange. Same goes for Monica and Eddie. The mysterious James PPO in the SUV seems to have done a great job of keeping the media away, so whenever I’ve walked Liza or gone on a coffee run or a hike, I haven’t seen them either. It’s been completely and utterly peaceful.
And, I have to say, a little boring. All I’ve been doing is reading and doing podcasts, more so than normal. All this time I wish I could talk about Harrison and Monica and everything that’s happening here, but I’ve managed to keep it just about the books this time. Luckily, I’ve been able to read a bunch of books featuring a “cinnamon roll hero” (which, no, has nothing to do with those gooey treats from the café and more to do with romance heroes with a soft center), enough that I have a good segment for my listeners, who seem to grow in numbers by the day.
My mother isn’t particularly good to talk to these days either. She’ll happily go on about Monica and Eddie, but if I bring up Harrison at all, she gives me that look, the look she’s given me in the past whenever I started dating someone. I know it doesn’t matter that I’m not dating Harrison, that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind (not to mention isn’t viable whatsoever), but she gives me that look all the same. Maybe because she thinks she knows me, thinks I’ll get some silly idea and start falling for him.
I am not falling for him. Not even close. Not even a little.
But I am spending the day pacing the house, wondering if I should gather up the courage to text Monica just to check in, just to see if Harrison comes up. I’m wondering if Harrison totally forgot about our non-date at the Blowhole. I’m also checking the front door constantly, thinking he might randomly turn up. But then again, why would he? He’s a PPO. His job is to protect the lives of the duke and duchess. His job isn’t to go on a faux date with some small-town schoolteacher as a favor, of all things.
By the time dinner rolls around and I’m helping my mom make a stew, I’ve mentally given up. There’s no way I’m going to the bar by myself. It was either I go with Harrison or not go at all. And I’m very aware that my motives for having Harrison there are on the petty side, but I think he knows that too.
I’ve physically given up too, resigned to sweatpants and a ratty flannel shirt, my hair pulled back into a tangled nest, as we sit on the couch, slurping on the stew as my mom flips through channels on the TV.
I’m trying my best not to be in a foul mood, especially since my moods, particularly my negative moods, tend to transfer to my mother. There’s a reason why I seem peachy keen most of the time—I’ve trained myself that way. Another thing that my therapist unveiled when we discussed my C-PTSD (or complex post-traumatic stress disorder). A lot of the time my negative emotions get buried because there’s no safe place for me to express them, and it’s been that way since I was a kid.
Even so, I know that this week reminded me of what my life is normally like: boring. And how much excitement the royals injected into it. Though my conversations with Monica and Harrison have been somewhat few and far between, just having that interaction with them makes me realize how badly I actually need a friend or two in my life.
I’m contemplating giving Cynthia a call, even though I’ve never really hung out with her outside of school, when Liza starts barking.
My mom and I both swivel our heads toward the front door seconds before there’s a knock.
My heart leaps in my chest.
It can’t be him.
I get up and go over, acutely aware of how awful I look but still hoping it’s Harrison all the same. I mean, who else could it be?
I open the door.
It’s Monica, looking sweet and elegant as usual.
“Hello, Piper,” she says, looking apologetic. “I’m so sorry for just stopping by and not texting. It just seemed silly when you live so close.” She looks past me to my mother on the couch and gives her a quick wave. “Good evening, Evelyn.”
“Princess, come on in!” my mother hollers. “I made stew!”
“We just ate, but thank you so much for the invitation,” Monica says. She fixes her deep brown eyes on me. “Harrison had mentioned earlier in the week that you wanted him to accompany you to the local bar tonight.”
Uh-oh. Even though Monica seems amiable, I can’t tell if I’m in trouble or not.
“Yeah, I might have mentioned that,” I say uneasily. “Should I not have done that?”
She breaks out into a grin and gives me a friendly tap on the arm. “No, no, I think it’s great. I mean, I really do. That’s why I’m here. Harrison mentioned it in passing, as if he either expected me or wanted me to say no. I just wanted to talk to you first, to make sure the offer was still there and you were serious.”
“Definitely. I thought it would be fun.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell him he has to go.”
I put my hand up. “Wait, wait. I don’t want him to have to go. I thought maybe he wanted to.”
She cocks her head and gives me a wry look. “He doesn’t know what he wants or what’s good for him. Listen, I’m close with Harrison, and there’s a few things you should know. He has never, ever asked for time off. Even when Eddie insists, Harrison is still on in some aspect. He’s never had a vacation. He’s never dated anyone, not in a serious relationship, anyway.”
“I’m not dating him,” I interject. “This isn’t a date.”
“One-night stands, maybe,” she goes on, ignoring me. “I don’t talk to him about that.”
“It’s not a date or a one-night stand,” I repeat, even though the thought of him having a one-night stand with someone else makes my chest feel all flustered.
“Oh, Piper, I know that. He knows that. I’m just saying, he doesn’t go out and doesn’t get to live his life. We’re his life. And I know that’s the way he thinks it has to be because of his job, but it’s not true. One of the reasons we insisted on Harrison coming with us when we moved is because we thought this would be good for him. He had to be at the height of surveillance in England. There were threats everywhere. We knew coming here was the only chance for all of us to breathe.”
“I take it he’s like family to you.”
“He is. And if I’m being his meddling substitute mother right now, I don’t care. Just tell me when you want him to come by.”
“Monica, Duchess, with all due respect, I don’t want Harrison to come if he’s going to be miserable.”
“If you haven’t noticed, he’s always miserable. At least he’ll be out of our hair. Don’t we deserve a break too?”
What can I say to that?
“So what time?” she presses.
“Uh, I guess in a half hour? An hour?”
“He’ll be here in a half hour.”
And with that she gives me a quick wave and then leaves.
I give myself exactly three seconds to mouth what the fuck to myself, and then I’m hurrying back inside the house.
“What did she want? Why didn’t she come in?” my mother asked.
“Can’t talk, gotta get ready,” I tell her as I run straight to the bathroom. I run the shower and hop in, the old pipes groaning loudly as the hot water kicks on. If this is actually happening, there is no way I’m showing up to the Blowhole looking less than a one-hundred-percent fine-ass bitch. If I’m showing up to the bar and Joey with Harrison at my side, I’m going all out.
At the very least, I need good hair for once, so I spend what feels like forever blow-drying it straight, then quickly put on some makeup, a little heavier on the eyes this time, with shining highlighter you’d be able to see across a bar. Then I’m scrambling in my towel across the living room, over to my bedroom, and quickly riffling through my clothes. I slip on skinny jeans and am just pulling a slinky black tank top over my head when there’s a knock at the door.
I’ve been rushing so fast, I haven’t even had time to feel anxious, but now it’s hitting me like a freight train. I know I have no reason to feel nervous, but my body is just full-blown butterflies at this point.
It’s not a date. He’s doing this as a favor. He doesn’t even want to go.
I take in a deep breath even though it does nothing to calm my racing heart, and I head over to the door.
Of course my mother beats me to it.
“Hello?” she says as she opens the door. “Mr. Cole. You seem different. My goodness. Your tattoos. Look at them all. Why would you do that to yourself?”
Oh god.
I can’t see Harrison from where I’m standing, only hear him. “Is Piper here?” he asks, his voice as cool and calm as ever, even with my mother running her mouth off about his tattoos (she hates tattoos so much, it’s a wonder that I never got one out of spite).
My mom frowns. “Yes, she’s here.” Then she turns and looks over at me standing outside my bedroom, and her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down. “You’re all dressed up. Where are you going? What’s happening?”
“Just going to the bar. Don’t worry about it,” I tell her.
“You can’t drink and drive.”
“I’m having one drink, I promise.”
“Is this a date?”
Oh. GOD. Did she not hear the conversation I had with Monica?
I shake my head vehemently and gesture for her to get away from the door. “No. Not a date. We’re just going to the bar. Okay?”
She exchanges a glance with Liza and then sulks away, back to the couch.
I go to the door, ready to run before she says something else.
And I hardly believe my eyes.
Harrison is wearing a fitted black T-shirt that shows off the tattoos on his arms and charcoal-gray jeans and dark work boots. He’s so ruggedly dressed down that I hardly recognize him, though of course he’s wearing his aviators. He wouldn’t be Harrison without them.
To say he looks hot is an understatement. He looks ridiculously hot. Like, a whole other level of handsome, a whole other league of gorgeousness. For once I’m looking at him not as a bodyguard extraordinaire to the royals but as a man who has turned my ovaries into a ticking time bomb, a man who makes me want to climb him like a jungle gym, turn him into a ride I never want to get off.
Except that I do want to get off.
“Hi,” I say brightly. Too brightly. It’s like he’s hypnotized me with his sex appeal. Sexnotized me.
He doesn’t say anything back for a few moments. It’s long enough to be noticeable, and I wish that damn sun wasn’t still out even though it’s seven at night, otherwise I’d be able to see his eyes. Does he like what he sees? Or does he think it’s all a bit garish?
“Well, shall we go?” I say awkwardly.
“Yes, of course,” he says with a start, shaking his head slightly, as if to snap out of it.
I step outside and close the door, heading over to the Garbage Pail.
“Are you sure you want to drive?” he asks.
I open my door and give him a smile. “You’re sick of my driving already? You did so well the other day.”
He reluctantly walks over to his side. “I thought you might want to have a few drinks.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Get in.”
He grumbles quietly and gets in his side. I take a moment to stare up at the trees above and take in a deep breath, bringing my brain back on track.
He’s doing me a favor, it’s not a date, he doesn’t even want to be here.
I repeat that and get in the car, but my nerves fire up again once I realize how different it feels to have him so close to me when he’s wearing less clothes. Yeah, it’s a T-shirt, but compared to a suit he’s practically naked now. I can clearly see the tattoos on his forearms and his biceps and . . . oh lord, his forearms! His biceps! They’re so huge, the muscles hard-won and rippling and taut, and I can’t even focus. Maybe I shouldn’t drive. He’s more intoxicating than any drink.
And then there’s his scent, like sea salt and lime and something woodsy and sweet, and the heat generating off him, his shoulder so close to mine, and . . .
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I blink. I have to blink. I think I’ve been staring, no, gawking, at him without blinking, like a fucking lunatic.
“Yes,” I manage to say, feeling my cheeks burn. I start the car. “Just lost in thought.”
He nods at that though we’re just past the gates when he says, “Weird seeing me like this?”
“Super weird,” I say, even though weird doesn’t begin to explain it and I’m not about to. I clear my throat. “Thank you for coming, by the way. Monica told me that you didn’t want to, so I appreciate it. But I mean, I don’t want to force you to either.”
“No one is forcing me to do anything,” he says, sounding all grumbly. “It’s taken some consideration, that’s all.”
“She said you need to get out more.”
“She’s the one who needs to get out more. Not me. Luckily, I have complete faith in the team, so I know they’ll be fine.” He pauses, glancing at me quickly. “Me, on the other hand . . .”
“You’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Do you have a curfew? Are you going to turn into a pumpkin if I don’t get you home in time?”
I don’t have to see his eyes to know he’s glaring at me.
“Apparently, thanks to you, I have the day off tomorrow,” he says.
“Well, if I’m driving, then you’re drinking. No excuses.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Frankly I don’t care if he drinks or not. I just want the guy to relax for once. After what Monica said about him being so busy and devoted to his job that he doesn’t even date or seem to have a personal life at all, it’s given me a bit of insight into a man who’s notorious for clamming up.
It’s only a ten-minute drive to the pub, situated at the edge of town and at the base of a large marina. There are people standing outside the entrance and smoking, and I immediately scan them to see if I know them. I may not have a lot of friends, but I know a lot of people, not all of them good. I exhale when I don’t recognize anyone. Probably tourists.
“You going to be okay?” Harrison asks as we trundle along the gravel lot and park.
“Sure,” I tell him.
He’s staring at me, I think, and now that the car isn’t moving and I don’t have to concentrate on driving, I’m even more aware of how crammed we are in this small space.
I reach over and place my fingers on the edges of his sunglasses and gently pull them off his face.
He blinks at me, his eyes the color of the water here when the cedar reflects off it, intense as anything.
I have to take a moment to find my breath.
“You can’t wear these inside,” I tell him. “You’ll look like a douche.”
He squints. “I guess I should be happy I don’t already look like one. I feel like one.”
I hold out his sunglasses, and he takes them from me, his fingers brushing against mine, sending sparks up my arm, to the base of my neck, and down the rest of my body.
I am in trouble.
“You look great,” I tell him, my voice small, like I’m holding back what I really want to say. “Not at all douchey.”
Just ridiculously, sinfully hot.
He seems satisfied with that, though his eyes hold mine for what seems like eternity, the tension between us growing thick and heavy. My god. Is this how he always looks at me?
I have to look away. I clear my throat and smile bashfully at my steering wheel, at nothing, at anything but him, and then I get out of the car.
