The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle
Seven
The next day I wake up earlier than usual, needing a walk to clear my head.
I slip on my leggings and a hoodie, since it can sometimes be chilly in the mornings near the water, and head out of my bedroom.
Liza sleeps with my mom most nights, and the door is open, my mom snoring like a rusty chainsaw. She crashed pretty early last night, after we played around with a few cake recipes (all of them looking like a Pinterest fail, but hey), and I hope that her energy carries through today. I wouldn’t be at all surprised, though, if she backed out of the dinner—and the cake—at the last minute.
I pick up Liza’s leash, and that’s all she needs to come running out of the room, her tail going Mach 5. We head out of the house, enjoying the quiet of the morning, peppered with lapping waves and the calls of Gary birds (not their actual name, but it sounds like they’re constantly yelling for Gary).
The serenity is ruined the moment I step through the new pedestrian gate.
“Who is that?!”
“It’s their dog walker!”
“It’s the help!”
The cul-de-sac is filled with cars and news vans, and to be honest, it looks a bit like a campsite. There are fold-out chairs, collapsible tables with checkered plastic tablecloths, propane stoves, and barbecues. Seconds earlier, the reporters and camerapeople had been hovered around a giant French press, pouring coffee into tin mugs and paper cups.
Now, they’re all running toward me, fumbling for their cameras and phones, coffee sloshing over the cups and splattering on the pavement.
Meanwhile, sweet Liza is in full-on panic mode. The hair on her back is raised, and she’s growling. I’ll admit, I normally hate it when she does this. She’s not dangerous in the slightest, but she looks like she is, and pits already have a needless bad rap. I’ll usually soothe the people we pass on our walks by telling them the truth, that she’s a rescue, that she’s a sweet girl, but she has people issues (I mean, don’t we all?). But now? I know that the dog is all that’s keeping these vultures from swarming me.
“What’s your name?” a petite woman with severe blond bangs asks me, thrusting out a microphone while warily eyeing Liza.
“Do you work for the duke and duchess?” asks a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the ash a mile long, while he aims his phone at me.
I immediately put my hand in front of my face, shielding it from the camera, just as more reporters start recording me. With Liza’s barking and my hand in front of my face, at least I’m not giving them any good material.
Except . . . shit.
This is good material, isn’t it? The mysterious, flustered girl with bedhead that rivals Cousin Itt, caught outside the secret royal house, having just come through the gate with her out-of-control pit bull.
“What is your name?” someone else asks.
I know I shouldn’t answer, but I need them to leave me alone.
“Piper!” I cry out, tugging back on the leash. “And this is Liza, and we’d very much like to go for our morning walk without being harassed by the paparazzi.”
The cigarette man snorts, the ash finally breaking away into the wind. “Paparazzi? Ma’am, I work for Channel 6 News. We’re local.”
I squint at him briefly. He does look familiar. It doesn’t matter, though.
“Then you should know that I’m local,” I tell him, and jerk my thumb to the gates. “I live there and share a property line with the duke and duchess. I’m just a schoolteacher, for crying out loud.”
“So you admit it!” the blonde says, her appearance morphing into that of a cat about to pounce on a mouse. I’m quite obviously the mouse. “The duke and duchess live there!”
And now I’ve said too much.
“Uhhh,” I mumble, and then spin around, my back to them, changing my focus to Liza. I’m wondering if I dare keep going for my walk or just run back to the property like the coward I am.
But before I can make any panicked decisions, the automatic gates start to open and excited chatter begins to spread among the vultures. They forget me and start swarming toward the gate, just as a black SUV comes cruising down the driveway.
It goes through the gate, cameras recording its every move, and then the back door opens wide and Harrison is in the back seat, staring at me with his usual gruff expression.
“Get in,” he says, a total command.
I quickly glance down at Liza, who seems more in shock now than anything, and before anyone can get one more picture of us, I’m scooping her heavy weight into my arms and practically throwing her into the car.
I scramble inside after her, slamming the door as the vehicle pulls away, the cameras still recording.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Harrison says to me as I fiddle with my seat belt.
I pause. My eyes go wide, brows to the ceiling. Even Liza, who is crammed in between us, looks aghast.
“What do you mean?” I practically hiss. “I was taking Liza for a walk and suddenly it was a paparazzi free-for-all out there. I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking.”
He’s not wearing his sunglasses yet, but even so, he turns his head away, looking out the window so I can’t see his eyes. Silence fills the vehicle.
I frown at him, feeling anxious and all out of sorts, then try to get a better look at our driver in the rearview mirror. He’s wearing square glasses and has thinning gray hair. He reminds me a bit of Anderson Cooper. He gives my reflection a stiff smile and then goes back to driving. Of course, I have no idea where we are going or why. I’m just glad to be out of that situation, even though this one doesn’t feel that much better.
Safer? Yes.
Less awkward? No. Definitely not.
Meanwhile, Liza is shaking next to me.
“Poor girl,” I whisper to her, pulling her upper half onto my lap and holding her. “That wasn’t very fun, was it?”
I run my hand over the top of her head, trying to calm her, and feel Harrison’s eyes on me as he shifts in his seat.
“It’s okay, girl,” I say, continuing to soothe her.
“She doesn’t do well with new people?” Harrison asks.
I shoot him a sharp look. “I don’t think anyone does well with being accosted by the media the minute you step outside your property. Not her, certainly not me.”
He stares at me for a moment, his brow furrowed, as if what I just said confused him somehow. “I told you you’d be grateful for that gate.”
“Do you expect me to be grateful that I need that gate to begin with? No.”
He raises his chin and looks forward. “You signed the papers.”
“As if I could prevent you from moving there.”
One brow raises, but he still faces forward. “None of this was my choice. You knew this was going to happen.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I tell him. It doesn’t escape me that I was quite okay with Monica and Eddie moving here up until this very moment, but that whole encounter with the media really rattled me.
I turn my attention back to Liza, who is calming down now, apparently not too worried that we’re being whisked away somewhere. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“To town.”
“Do I have a choice in this?”
He finally looks at me. “My apologies. Shall I have Matthew pull over and let you out?”
“So I can walk right back into that again? You know, I was trying to tell them that I’m just a local schoolteacher. Now they’ve seen me get in your car—they’re not going to believe it.”
“I suppose I could have just left you out there,” he says with a sigh, briefly examining his nails, which in turn makes me gawk at his hands. Damn him for having such nice hands.
I open my mouth and close it again. He did just save me from a brutal situation, but it’s a situation he’s put me in, inadvertently or not.
Instead of saying anything to that, I go back to stroking Liza. “So why are you heading to town?”
He clears his throat, looking back out the window as we drive out of Scott Point and pass by a ferry terminal. “Groceries.”
I stare dumbly at him for a second before I fight the smile on my face. “Groceries? They’re making you get the groceries? Isn’t that Agatha’s job?”
“She’s busy with the house, and I didn’t want to disturb her this morning,” he says curtly. “So I volunteered.”
I don’t know why I find it so funny. Perhaps because I can’t imagine Harrison in his pressed slick suit perusing the aisles of the Country Grocer at eight thirty in the morning. Then again, he did surprise me with his knowledge of baking yesterday.
His posture is stiff now, his shoulders held tensely, his jaw set on edge. I probably only find it funny because it seems to bother him so much.
I clear my throat. “Might I ask which grocery store you’re going to? We have two.”
“The one by the marina?” he asks, sounding unsure.
“It depends on what you’re getting.”
He makes a gruff sound of resignation and pulls out a slip of folded paper from his breast pocket, sticking it out with a flick of his fingers.
I reach over and pluck it from him. I unfold it and quickly read it over.
It’s written on royal stationery.
Organic apples.
Saltine crackers.
Leg of lamb.
Rosemary.
Potatoes.
Tetley tea.
Ingredients for a charcuterie board.
I flip it over. The list goes on and on. Seemingly not just for tonight’s meal, but at least a full week’s worth of groceries for at least four people.
“Okay, well,” I tell him, handing it back, “you’re going to want to go to a few different stores if you want it good enough to please the royals.”
“I’m sure they won’t be too picky.”
I give him an amused smile. “I think you’ve forgotten who you work for. Even if they aren’t picky, isn’t it your job to find them the best of the best?”
He stares at me, and his eyes are as unreadable as they are when he’s wearing his sunglasses. I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate my telling him what his job is. Oh well.
“Fine,” he grumbles after a moment. “You lead the way.”
My pleasure. I get the driver to take us to the two big grocery stores, as well as the smaller all-organic one (picture Whole Foods, but somehow more expensive and smells like palo santo). After I convinced the driver that Liza would be fine to hang out in the back seat as long as he stayed in the car, I became somewhat of a foodie tour guide for Harrison. As we walked down the aisles, quiet in the early morning, I grabbed a lot of local delicacies—basil and truffle goat cheeses that melt in your mouth, sweet-and-spicy fruit jams like raspberry habanero, delicate smoked salts, and luxurious old-fashioned ice cream. I showed Harrison the best butcher to get our famous Salt Spring Island lamb, and the best organic produce from nearby farms.
Finally, after we loaded up the SUV with the bags, I asked if I could buy him a coffee.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks me as he closes the trunk.
“You drink coffee, don’t you?” I ask. “Oh wait, it’s tea. Can I buy you a tea?”
Since we’ve been outside, his sunglasses are back in place, but judging from that frown, he’s totally perplexed by this idea.
To be honest, I am too. What am I doing?
“I drink coffee,” he says after a minute, as if it took him that long to put it together. I’m about to tell him to forget it, lest the rejection start to sink in, but he nods. “I would love one.”
“Oh.” I mouth the word and then give him a crooked smile. “Right this way.”
We walk through the parking lot and down the street toward Salty Seas Coffee & Goods. The streets are a little busier now, the tourists having woken up in their “charming and rustic” Airbnbs, ready to infiltrate the town to look for food and hot beverages.
“Your mother isn’t going to think you’ve been kidnapped?” Harrison asks as we cross the one-way street. “Took the dog for a walk and never came back.”
I hesitate before giving him a quick smile. “She’ll be asleep for a while. Meeting Monica was a bit much for her.”
“Is she going to be okay for tonight?”
I cross my fingers and hold them up to him. “Hopefully.” I quickly add, “I’m sure she will be.” I don’t want Harrison to think that this dinner is for nothing.
It’s busy this morning at the café, with the line snaking out the door. I’m about to tell Harrison we should go to another one when I spot their sandwich sign announcing they have donuts today.
“Ooh yay, donuts!” I let out a squeal loud enough for the people in the line in front of us to turn around and look at me. Then they look at Harrison. I’ve seen this look from people all morning. It’s the “Who is this tall, handsome, built-like-a-truck man in a suit?” Followed by the “And why is he with this frizzy-haired Oompa-Loompa squealing like a pig about donuts?”
To Harrison’s credit, he doesn’t seem fazed. He’s most likely used to me by now.
“Donuts?” he asks calmly.
“The best donuts,” I tell him, ignoring the people still watching us. Probably tourists, anyway. “Almost as good as their cinnamon buns, but they only make them once every few weeks.”
He nods. “Ah yes, the infamous cinnamon bun.”
My cheeks go hot at the memory of it all stuck in my hair. Really ought to start wearing a ponytail when I’m around sweet and sticky pastries.
“Tell you what,” he says. “You buy me a coffee, I’ll buy you a donut.”
I can’t help but grin up at him. “You have yourself a deal, mister.”
A strange giddiness flashes through me, and I have to check myself. I get giddy about a lot of things in life (I mean, look at me and food), but the fact that Harrison is buying me a donut shouldn’t be one of them. It’s a bad, terrible, no-good sign to feel giddy because of something a man does. Something that Harrison does.
And yet . . .
I temper my smile as the line moves and we find ourselves inside the coffee shop. My mind wants to focus on him next to me. I want to inspect him closely, look for those signs of the hidden tattoos, figure out if the bracing sea scent is from his cologne or body wash, study the faint scar on his cheekbone, half hidden beneath his stubble.
I’m about to remind myself that I’m staring, and that he definitely knows it, when I hear my name being called.
A shudder runs through me. I don’t even have to look to know.
In fact, I make a point of not looking until Harrison nudges me with his elbow.
“I believe this man knows you,” he says.
I sigh quietly and turn to see Joey standing by the cash, a coffee and a pastry bag in his hand. Joey is smiling at me expectantly, in that way of his, as if I’m just some buddy he happened to run into and not his ex-fiancée.
“Hey,” I say to Joey, giving him a polite smile and nod, the bare minimum. I don’t want to get into a conversation with him, especially with Harrison here. In fact, I lean in a little closer to Harrison, hoping that Joey will assume we’re together or something and just leave.
Alas, he does not. He leans against the coffee table across from the cash, much to the annoyed detriment of the woman sitting there and reading a guidebook, and gives me the once-over.
“You’re looking good, Pipes.”
I cringe. So many things to unpack here. First of all, he called me Pipes, which was his nickname for me, something no one else called me (for good reason, because it’s stupid); second of all, the way he’s looking at me and the way he dropped that compliment makes it obvious that no one thinks Harrison and I are together, let alone him, and somehow that stings.
“Thanks,” I say stiffly, just as the person in front of us finishes their order and then I’m up next at the cash.
My relief is short-lived. I open my mouth to put in my order, hoping that by putting all my attention on the barista, Joey will leave.
But instead, the barista is Amy Mischky. She’s the sullen, gossipy, twentysomething daughter of Barbara Mischky, who is famous for her letters to the editor that somehow always get printed in our newspaper, often in the vain of “But who will think of the children?” And if I, a teacher of the children, think she’s a pearl-clutching charlatan, then that tells you all you need to know. In short, both Mischkys love to know your business, spread it around, and slander you with it.
“Oh my god,” Amy says in her low, dry voice. “This is soooo awkward.”
My brows go up. “What?”
She looks over at Joey and then back at me, her small lips quirking into a smirk. “I haven’t seen the two of you together since you left him at the altar.”
My cheeks burn again, and I feel Harrison stiffen next to me, no doubt shocked by this. Or maybe not.
“Oh, that was ages ago,” Joey speaks up, walking over so he’s right beside me, now leaning against the counter. “Let bygones be going on.”
“You mean let bygones be bygones?” I say.
He chuckles like an idiot. “And that’s why you’re the teacher.” Then his gaze goes over my head to Harrison. “What’s up, man? You new here?”
It takes Harrison a moment to reply. “Just visiting.” Those two words sound crisp and authoritative coming from him.
Joey seems to pick up on it. He nods. “Well, cool. Hope you like the island. Tell Piper to take you to the Blowhole. Next Friday should be good.” He looks at me. “You’ll come, won’t you, Piper? You always said you loved the band—well, the band is better than ever. Tell you what, I’ll give you a free drink ticket. On the house.”
“Oooh, well, well, well,” Amy says, her eyes darting between us with a look of wry contempt on her face. “The two of you seem to be on the mend. You know, I would have thought you’d stay enemies until the end of time. Or at least until you decided to pack up and leave, Piper.”
I blink at her. Pack up and leave? She thought I’d pack up and leave?
“But,” she continues smoothly, her eyes twinkling at Joey, “guess that’s not the case. How nice. It’s good to have a real sense of community here, isn’t it? I mean, just because you left him at the altar like that and ran away doesn’t mean you’ll continue to run away from all your problems.”
I hate that she’s said that, because her words are making me want to turn on my heel and run. In fact, as my gaze drops away from her triumphant one, I feel my body starting to turn.
Except Harrison steps closer to me, his body blocking me.
“Is this how business on this island is usually run, with a side of gossip?” Harrison asks Amy. His voice is so stern and commanding that she blinks up at him, her mouth dropping a little. “Shouldn’t you be taking our order?”
Flustered, Amy hastily tucks a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear and looks down at the cash, avoiding Harrison’s gaze. “Yes, of course. What will you have?”
“I’ll have two donuts and an Americano, large,” Harrison says, then, to my surprise, gently rests his hand on my shoulder. “What will you have, Piper?”
I clear my throat. Having his hand on me is making me feel even more off-balance somehow. “A donut and a lavender oat-milk latte. Please.”
Amy nods and puts the order in with the other workers.
Harrison gives my shoulder a squeeze.
I can feel the strength coming back to me. I take in a deep breath through my nose and exhale slowly. Harrison is already paying and I’m not about to make a fuss about it here, the fact that I was supposed to buy him a coffee, not the other way around, and I bring my eyes over to Joey.
He’s staring at me unsurely, like he wants to ask me something else but can’t find the words.
When Harrison is done paying, he puts his hand at the small of my back and guides me over to the wall to wait for our coffees, while the next people in line step up to order.
Joey watches us for a moment, then shrugs and heads out of the café without saying anything.
“You good?” Harrison leans in and whispers to me. His tone is gruff, but I appreciate his asking all the same.
I nod, pressing my lips together into a thin smile. I have too many thoughts to process, too many feelings, none of them good. It feels like the whole café is staring at me, even if they aren’t, and I hate that even though I keep to myself as a self-proclaimed hermit, my situation with Joey is what I’m most known for on this rock.
It feels like forever before our order is up. Harrison isn’t one for small talk, and it’s not until I’m outside in the fresh sunshine that I feel myself relax even a little.
“Want to talk about it?” Harrison asks me as we cross the road to the parking lot.
I stare at him in shock. “About what?”
His brow raises. “About what happened in there?”
I shake my head. I should explain what happened between Joey and me, what led to my leaving him at the altar, but it suddenly feels too raw.
“It’s none of my business,” he says quickly. “I understand.”
“It’s not that . . . ,” I tell him, but we’ve already reached the car, and he’s opening the back door for me. His expression is grim and made of stone, back into bodyguard mode.
Conversation over.
