The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle

Two

I stare at the Sexy Secret Agent for a moment, wondering if he’ll even believe my excuse. “I . . . I don’t have it,” I tell him.

I can feel him studying me with disbelief. “You don’t have your driver’s license?”

“I know, I know. I had it this morning, but a kid puked in my bag. Sicky Nicky, the kids called him. It was my fault, really.”

“A kid did what?” Then he shakes his head. “Likely excuse.”

He’s got to be joking if he thinks that’s an excuse. I’m used to the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses at work, and generally the more outlandish they are, the more they seem to be true. I mean, unless their homework was eaten by velociraptors or something.

“I’m serious,” I tell him. “I was planning on going after work to get a new one, but the whole town has gone crazy because, well, you’re in town.”

“Then I’m sure you can produce your insurance papers,” he says calmly, folding his hands at his crotch, my eyes following. “They should have your address on them.”

I quickly look away from his crotch and open the glove compartment, a whole bunch of empty Tic Tac containers rolling out onto the floor.

“Uh,” I say, rummaging through the containers and a wild, loose stack of papers, looking up over my shoulder at the PPO, who is watching me with raised brows. At least he’s not frowning. “Sorry. Just a minute.”

“That’s a lot of Tic Tacs.” A pause. “You must have very fresh breath.”

Is he making . . . a joke? Does he even know what a joke is?

My hands close over the plastic covering of my insurance papers, and I breathlessly sit back in my seat, handing them to him with aplomb. “I do have fresh breath. I stress-eat them.”

Probably didn’t need to add the second part.

He takes the papers from me and opens the plastic, pulling out what’s inside. He holds it far away from him, glancing at the papers underneath, and then turns it over to me.

“Miss, this is a letter to Santa Claus from some girl named Chamomile.” He then slides another piece of paper in front of it as if he’s a lawyer producing damning evidence during a trial. “This is a letter from a boy named Spruce who wants a bongo drum for Christmas.”

“What?” I reach out and snatch the papers from him. There’s a letter from Chamomile, from Spruce, from Jet, from Eunice. Shit. Now I know where I put all those Christmas letters I promised I’d mail last year.

“Interesting names,” he comments. “I can’t tell if you’re a schoolteacher or the matriarch of a hippie commune.”

“Most definitely the former.” I lean back over the passenger side and start rifling through the glove compartment again. There are rabies shot papers from the vet for my dog, Liza, two Sarah MacLean historical romances, a million receipts. I think for a moment that I’ve found the papers, but I quickly realize that what I’m holding is just the menu for our local noodle bar.

“Miss, I’m sorry, but I’ve dealt with a lot of people like you before,” I hear him say as I frantically start ripping everything apart. “You make up any excuse but don’t have the evidence to back it. I gather that you aren’t a photographer or journalist and probably just a super fan, but either way, you’re going to have to leave before I call the police.”

I straighten up, my hair messy, my face red and vaguely sweaty. I narrow my eyes at his aviators. “What do you mean, you don’t think I could be a journalist?”

He sighs, sounding tired, and does that dismissive hand wave thing again. “If you please.” Then he pauses, seeing something in the distance. “Finally.”

I crane my neck to look behind me. It’s a cop car, the SUV of our chief of police, Bert Collins, pulling up behind me.

“Oh thank god,” I say out loud, much to the surprise of Agent Grump.

Bert gets out of the SUV and strolls toward us. “Sorry I’m late,” Bert says to Mr. Broody. “Got held up in town. Utter madness.”

“Bert!” I cry out before the PPO can get a word in. I practically hang my upper body out the window. “Hey!”

“Hey there, Piper,” he says, his mustache moving as he speaks. Bert has a mustache that would strike envy in the hearts of both Tom Selleck and Kenny Rogers, like someone stuck a densely bristled shoe-shine brush to his upper lip.

“Bert, one of the kids threw up in my handbag today and I had to throw it away and it had my wallet in it. I was going to get a temporary license after school, but the town looked crazy.” I side-eye Harrison before I continue. “And this guy doesn’t believe that I live here.”

Bert folds his arms. “You know you can get in trouble for driving without a license.” He sighs and looks to Harrison with a jovial expression. “But I can vouch for her.”

“She doesn’t have her insurance papers either,” Harrison blurts out.

What the actual fuck? This dude is throwing me under the bus now.

Bert frowns at me in overblown disappointment, and I can’t help but cringe. “Is this true? You’re driving around without a license and without insurance papers?”

I give him a shaky smile. “I was just in the middle of looking for them when you showed up. Hold on.”

I’m about to turn back to the rummage pile when Bert says, “No, it’s fine. I trust you’ll find them.” He looks back at Harrison. “She’s okay. She lives at the big property at the very end.”

Harrison’s frown deepens, a canyon between his brows. “But that’s where . . . that’s the real estate in question. We were told it was unoccupied, no renters.”

“She lives in the guest cottage.”

The PPO’s forehead wrinkles like a shar-pei.

“It’s a separate property,” I point out. “Back in the day, it was the guest quarters for the main house. For the help and all that. My mom bought it five years ago when it had just been subdivided into two different properties. We share a driveway, but that’s it.”

I know I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel the resentment in them, the fact that he’s going to be sharing a driveway with me.

Oh. Wait a minute.

I’m going to be sharing a driveway with them.

Holy shit.

They’re going to be my neighbors!

“Nothing is final,” Harrison quickly says, reading my building excitement. “I don’t even know if they’ll want to rent it or not. They’re just looking at their options.”

Bert shrugs with one shoulder. “If they don’t, there are plenty of other properties on the island that might suit them. Privacy, space, we have that in spades.” He pauses. “That said . . . are you sure they really want to move here? I mean, no offense, but judging from how the town was today, I’m not sure our fair little island can handle it.”

“I’m sure they’ll take that into consideration,” Harrison comments, in a way that says they most likely won’t.

“So, am I free to go home now?” I ask.

“Of course,” Bert says, but Harrison holds out his hand in that “stop” gesture again. My goodness, he has large hands.

“Just a minute, Miss Chamomile.”

“Piper,” I say imploringly. “My name is Piper. Chamomile is the name of one of my students.” He’s smart enough to remember my name, so it’s obvious he’s just doing this to be a dick.

“Because you share a driveway, I have to trust you not to go up to the property or take any pictures or tip off anyone or . . . You know what? I’ll escort you to your house.”

I jerk my chin back, which I’m sure is very flattering. “You will not.” I look at Bert with wide eyes. “He can’t escort me.”

Bert’s mustache twitches with sympathy. “The royals are a part of our commonwealth, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is in charge of providing their overall safety when they visit. I can escort you, Piper, if you want, but if they are calling for it, then I’m afraid I have no choice but to provide the service.”

“They aren’t calling for it. He is.” I side-eye Harrison again.

His face could be made of stone. “As head of security for the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, I make the calls, and my word is law.”

Whoa. That’s dramatic. I glance at Bert, thinking I’ll catch a hint of a smile buried under his lip bush, but to my surprise, he’s looking at Harrison in awe.

Bert finally wipes the fanboy expression off his face and looks at me. “I’m still more than happy to escort you, if you’re not comfortable with this gentleman.”

Oh great. Now it sounds like I’m scared.

“I’m absolutely comfortable with this . . . man.” I make a weak gesture to him. “I’ve never had a male escort before, so why not start now?”

I flash him an overly cheery smile, and he grunts at me in response.

With a heavy exhale, he nods at Bert. “Do you mind blocking the road while I escort this woman to her house? No one is allowed through unless they have proof of address.”

“No problem,” Bert says, and then he goes and actually salutes the man.

Harrison nods in response, and then to my surprise he walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door. For some reason I thought he would walk beside my car or something like that, like . . . escort me. Not actually get in the car with me.

I don’t think I’m ready for this level of intimacy.

But he pauses, half in the car, which seems far too small for his massive frame, eyeing the disaster on the seat. I quickly start picking up all the junk with both hands and throwing it in the back seat.

Finally he sits down, his knees comically rammed against the glove compartment.

“There’s a lever at the side,” I tell him, “to adjust your seat.”

He moves the lever back and forth until the seat slams all the way to the back.

THWACK!

For a dude who probably had to do some epic training with crazy dangerous situations, he seems completely out of sorts in the fuzzy green seat.

I try not to laugh, especially since he looks so serious as he dutifully buckles himself in. He looks down at the seats and the dice.

“Interesting décor. Did you skin Oscar the Grouch?”

“Pretty much,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re used to riding around in Bentleys and whatnot.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just faces straight ahead. I glance out the window, hoping for some camaraderie from Bert, but he’s just as serious and gives me the nod to keep driving.

Of course, my car hates this small hill normally, so since we’re at a standstill, I have to press my foot down on the gas and hold it there until the RPMs are going wild and it takes off like a shot.

Okay, it takes off like an injured baby impala. One big jerk forward, followed by pathetic hops, and maybe Harrison was right about making sure he was strapped in, because it looks like he’s already succumbing to whiplash.

“Sorry,” I cry out as the car finally gets going and we chug up to the top of the hill. “Not long now.”

It’s actually only about thirty seconds down the slight slope to the very end of the undulating peninsula, but it manages to feel like a million years with this British beast of a man trapped in my car. He’s so big that his shoulder brushes against mine from time to time, and I can feel the heat off him. Doesn’t help that it’s warm outside and I don’t have air conditioning. I also can’t tell if it’s him that smells like balsam and sea salt or if it’s the air outside.

He remains silent and visibly uncomfortable, and I take a little too much glee in that. Serves him right for escorting me to my own damn house. I mean, do I look like the type of person who is going to go home and get her camera and climb up through the tangled salal bushes and overgrown ferns just to get a glimpse of them? Does he think I’ll show up at their door, peer in through their windows, and post it all to my Instagram stories?

I’m guessing so. I totally get him needing to be protective of them, but this seems like overkill, especially since Bert seemed to vouch for my character. Though I guess he could have said a few more complimentary things just in case. So far Harrison knows I live here, but I’m pretty sure I’ve only given him evidence that I’m some quirky manic pixie dream girl, minus the dream part. Nightmare is more like it.

The road ends in a narrow cul-de-sac with barely enough room to turn around, the ocean on either side crashing against kelp-strewn rocks. So far the street has been quiet, so I guess Harrison has been doing a good job keeping people away, if anyone has caught on yet that this is actually where Eddie and Monica are.

The driveway that we share runs off the end of the turnaround, up another slight hill where it forks into two. I take the driveway to the left, which plunks us into my parking spot beside a tall western red cedar. From here you can see a bit of the cul-de-sac, but you can’t see the mansion at all.

It’s a really interesting property. Even though it takes over the very tip of the peninsula, with the ocean on nearly all sides, where they placed the servants’ quarters (aka my house) is among tall cedar and arbutus trees. It’s on the dark side, and you can only see glimpses of the ocean through the trees. I’ve talked about taking down a few to improve the view, but my mother has extreme paranoia and thinks if I do that, it means people can spy on us easier, so I’ve just let the trees grow and the branches continue to block the ocean. But we’re lucky that there’s a path that takes you to rickety steps that lead down to deepwater moorage. The dock is crooked, and one end is sometimes underwater, but when I’m craving the sun and blue sky, that’s where I go.

And while there is a fence separating us from the road, there’s no gate and there’s also no fence between the properties. We just know where the lines are and we keep to our side, even though the mansion has been vacant for as long as we’ve been here. Sure, sometimes there are families or couples staying there, but we never really see or meet them, and I’m sure it’s more the owner’s friends coming to stay rather than an Airbnb or some other vacation rental.

That said, I still have no idea who owns the place. There were rumors in the past that it belonged to the infamous Hearst family, but I doubt that’s true. Whoever they are, however, they must have some kind of connection to Eddie and Monica.

“So,” I say innocently, turning to Harrison as I put the Garbage Pail in park and turn off the engine, “if they’re just looking to rent and not buy, who are they renting it from?”

He doesn’t even look at me. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Are Eddie and Monica in the house right now?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you at liberty to say?”

“Just that I need to make sure that you’re not going to be of harm to the Fairfaxes.”

I gesture to my house. It’s small and quaint, with a garden out front that my mother dutifully attends to. Most of the plants have to thrive in the shade or part shade, but she’s got a green thumb, and even the zinnias are doing well. “Look. That’s where I live. I wasn’t lying when I said this was my address, and I can definitely promise you I’m not going to harm them in any way. I’m a schoolteacher. I read romance novels. I like Tic Tacs. I have a rescue pup. My bones ache when a cold front comes in.”

He eyes me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just trying to prove that I’m human.”

“I never said you were a robot. I said I need to make sure you aren’t a threat. And for your information, Tic Tacs were Ted Bundy’s candy of choice.”

“So now you’re comparing me to one of America’s most famous serial killers?”

He opens the door and gets out of the car. This already seems like a classic Harrison response and I don’t even know the guy.

“By the way,” I tell him, getting out of the car and looking at him over the roof, “Tic Tacs aren’t candy. They are mints.”

“I find the fact that you stress-eat them troubling.”

“And also, if Ted Bundy really ate Tic Tacs, he wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on anyone. You would have heard him coming.”

“Doesn’t change a thing.”

I throw my arms out. “Fine. Do you want to call the school principal and get a reference of character or something? I guess the chief of police wasn’t good enough.”

He stares at me, and even in the shadow of the trees, he still hasn’t removed his sunglasses. I’m starting to think he goes to sleep in them.

It doesn’t matter. I’m done here. Any excitement I should be feeling over the fact that the royals might be moving next door has been absolutely dashed due to this sexy British dick on a power trip.

Whoops. Did I say sexy? Definitely didn’t mean that.

I grumble under my breath and start walking toward the house, noticing the light in the kitchen is on, which means my mother is probably up. I steady myself internally.

“I need to walk you to the door,” Harrison says, slamming the car door hard enough to make the Garbage Pail shake, and I look over my shoulder to see him striding purposefully over to me.

I blink at him, shaking my head before I turn around and start walking to the front door, hoping my mother doesn’t have to see any of this.

“You, sir, have control issues,” I point out.

“It’s my bloody job to have control issues,” he snaps.

I pause and look at him. Whoa. Defensive much? I think this is the first display of any sort of emotion I’ve seen from him.

He realizes how he’s come across too, because it’s like he wipes his face clean and there it is, that blank but broody slate again. He clears his throat, raises his strong chin in defiance. “Control is an important factor of my job.”

Yeah, that’s not what you said the first time, 007.

I head for the door up the winding woodland-style path with prehistoric-looking hostas lining the sides, and stop on the front steps, ivy crawling up the sides of the overhang. “Okay, well, here I am at the door. Satisfied? Or are you going to demand to come inside too, because I know for a fact that you’ll need to provide a search warrant and I can scream real loud.”

He studies me for a moment, and I so know that he wants to tell me some bullshit about inspecting my house to make sure I don’t have dead bodies in my freezer, but instead he just nods. “That will be all.”

He’s turning to leave just as the door opens.

I freeze in place.

He freezes in place.

My mother is there, her head poking through the narrow opening as she eyes us both suspiciously. Her hair is a mess, and I cringe inwardly in embarrassment until I remember that my hair is a mess too. Like mother, like daughter.

“What are you doing? Why are you late? Who is that?” At the last question she narrows her eyes into slits, venomous daggers directed at Harrison.

I know I have to lie. My mom has paranoid delusions and distrusts authority, and if she found out the truth about Harrison, she’d start freaking out, and that’s when Harrison would really consider us a threat.

“Mom,” I say quickly, gesturing to Harrison. “This is Harrison Cole. He’s, uh, our new neighbor.”

I can feel his frown at my back, and I keep on smiling, hoping he’ll play along. Then again, I don’t think the man knows what the concept of play is. He probably supervised other children on the playground when he was young.

“Harrison Ford?” she asks.

“Harrison Cole,” I tell her. Then I do a weird thing where I lean back and grab Harrison’s forearm and pull him forward so he’s standing next to me, and I don’t let go of his arm. His very strong, muscly arm. Holy crap. Just touching him feels like it’s scrambled my brain. I clear my throat and try to ignore it. “He might rent the house next door, so I thought I’d show him where we live.”

To his credit, Harrison hasn’t yanked himself out of my grasp, nor has he corrected me on this white lie.

My mother eyes my grasp on him, and then a strange look of realization comes over her face. I know what that look is. She thinks I’m interested in this man, like, sexually, because so far, he seems exactly like all the assholes I used to be attracted to: handsome, emotionally constipated, and very controlling.

“Okay,” she finally says. “Welcome to the neighborhood, then. Do you want to come in?”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice bordering on a yelp. “No, no. It’s fine.” Harrison opens his mouth to say something, but I blabber on through. “He has to go back; this was just a quick visit. I’m sure you’ll see him again if he rents the place.”

My mom shrugs, suddenly disinterested. “Okay,” she says, then closes the door on the both of us.

“What was that?” Harrison says to me after a beat.

“You mean my mother? She’s like that. Don’t take it personally.”

“No, I mean, why did you lie? Why didn’t you tell her who I was?”

“It’s a long story,” I tell him. And none of his business, but I don’t feel like antagonizing him anymore. He did his part by keeping his mouth shut, and that’s good enough for me. Now if only I didn’t have to see him again. Something tells me that might be a tall order. “But thanks for playing along.”

“I didn’t seem to have a choice,” he admits gruffly.

I fold my arms and shrug. “Well, I’m afraid that despite what my mother just said, this is where we part ways. If you feel like harassing me further, feel free to leave a letter in our mailbox.”

He watches me for a moment, exhaling harshly through his nose. Then he gives a stern nod. “I’ll be in touch. If they do end up renting this place, we’ll need to put a security gate at the start of the driveway, and I’m sure we’ll need your permission for that. I’ll make sure to put the forms in your mailbox.”

He then turns around and walks down the path, past the Garbage Pail and the cedars until I can’t see him anymore.

I let out a long, heavy sigh and straighten my shoulders before I open the door and step into the house.