Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 10
Camille
The farmhouse is cozy and quiet. The smell of smoke from the living-room fireplace still lingers in the air, even though it burned out long ago. Jackson, Eliza, and I sat in the living room for three hours after we ate—leftover chili she’d made the day before, which was delicious—and we talked while the fire blazed, crackled, and eventually dwindled.
Jackson didn’t build it for heat but ambience after his mom said, “I can’t ever get your dad to build a fire anymore. Says it’s a waste since we have central heat.”
So practical.
So very different from my parents. If my mom wanted a fire, my father would construct a fireplace that could fit ten football teams inside, not because he loves her more than Bill loves Eliza, but because he’s so wealthy, he’s never had to be practical. It makes neither man wrong.
Just different.
It was fun listening to Eliza, who spent a good deal of time bragging about Jackson, from his time playing youth soccer to the exciting work he does for Jameson. She, of course, is proud of his naval service, but I got the distinct impression the reason she didn’t showcase it is because he gets so much grief from his father about leaving the military. I could tell from the way she speaks that she’s the peacemaker in the family, helping to mend the frayed relationship that occurred when Bill made it known he was disappointed in his son for not following all the way in his footsteps.
It’s ironic, really.
I think it’s brave Jackson chose his own path, and in an indirect way, that’s the message I was passing along to Bill at the hospital. The work Jackson does now is as important as what he used to do for his country.
Even if I lied a little about that top ten list.
The irony, though, is that I’m very much in the same boat as Jackson. I am expected to follow in my father’s footsteps, and it’s not necessarily something I want to do.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m loyal to the crown. I’m devoted to my family. I love Bretaria as much as I love air, and I will do my duty to ascend when the time comes.
It’s just … I wish I could lead a different life. I wish I could choose a path where I was less controlled and I could make decisions for my own interests and not that of my subjects.
Alas, that is not an option for me. It’s the absolute downside to being a royal.
I could abdicate, of course.
But I’d never.
I’d never forsake my duty, even for my own happiness. My life will be about Bretaria. I will live on that island, in that palace, and have the same life around the same people day after day. It’s why this trip across the United States was so important to me and why my parents were so willing to let me take it at this time.
As I approach twenty-five when my role as heir will be solidified, my duties will increase over time. My father intends on taking me fully under his wing and teaching me everything. He also plans to start letting me represent the crown in some official capacities for him.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think my father is preparing for an early retirement and wants me to ascend sooner than upon his death. He’s still quite a young man, after all. But I know he’d never do that to me. He knows the weight the crown carries, and he wants me to have every opportunity to lead my life as I see fit.
With the small exception of getting married and producing an heir, he’s all for letting me spread my wings.
It was nearing midnight when Eliza yawned and I insisted she needed to get to bed. She intended to return to the hospital tomorrow and spend the entire day there. As of now, Jackson and I haven’t discussed when we’ll leave for Miami, but he has all day tomorrow to be with his parents. I’ll give him longer if he needs it. The jeweler I’m meeting will gladly fly here to meet me, and I don’t even mind giving up the Keys to hang around the Gales’ Arlington farmhouse. His mother is a delight, and his father, while crusty and pigheaded about his ideas of Jackson and job importance, I can tell beneath all that, he’s a good man.
I softly chastise myself as I walk down the creaky staircase. I try to go lightly so as not to disturb Eliza who closed her bedroom door about fifteen minutes ago. I should be doing the same, but I’m not tired at all. Both Eliza and Jackson told me to make myself at home, and although I didn’t know what that statement meant before or how it literally applies as I’ve never quite had this opportunity, I’m going to try it out and go down to the kitchen for a snack.
When I hit the landing, I stuff my hands into the pockets of my plush robe and cut left into the big kitchen, done in distressed white cabinetry, knotty pine flooring, and ruffled curtains over the sink windows. It’s quaint and homey and just the kind of kitchen in just the kind of house that makes me feel like I can raid it without judgment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement through the living-room bay windows overlooking the porch that runs the entire length of the house and realize Jackson’s out there. I assumed he’d gone to bed, too, in the guest bedroom just down the hall from mine. Contrary to his teasing about me sleeping on the couch, the big house actually has three guest bedrooms in addition to the master.
From the glow of the porch light, I can see Jackson coming up the steps, meaning he was out there somewhere in the front yard. I move toward the door out of curiosity and he steps through, blinking in surprise to see me. He shrugs out of his heavy wool coat and hangs it on a rack by the door. He then throws the dead bolt and sets the alarm from the wall panel.
“What are you doing up?” he asks as he turns to face me.
“Couldn’t sleep. Was going to take your mom up on her hospitality and raid the butler’s closet.”
Jackson chuckles. “The butler’s closet?”
“You know, where the food is kept.”
“We call it a pantry.” Jackson grins and motions with his hand toward the kitchen. “I saw a stash of microwave popcorn in there.”
“Perfect,” I reply and lead the way.
Plopping down on the stool, I let Jackson get the popcorn and prepare it. Once he has it spinning inside the microwave, I ask, “What were you doing outside?”
“Just walking the perimeter and touching base with the agents,” he replies.
I grimace. “Is that really necessary? It’s freezing, and I feel horrible they have to stay out there.”
“First, it’s not freezing. It’s only about forty, which I suppose is freezing to you,” he chides gently. “But they’re paid to stand out there, and they’re paid well, so don’t feel too bad for them.”
“I suppose my life on a tropical island has me a bit spoiled.” I sigh. While I love the cold and the snow and skiing, I only like it for limited periods. I wouldn’t want to be out in it for twelve hours.
“You’re actually one of the least spoiled women I know,” Jackson says, and my chin involuntary pulls inward, I’m so surprised to hear this from him. He’s never come right out and said it, but I know his initial impressions of me were far different. I could tell by the way he talked to me.
By the way he “handled” me.
I feel the need to point out. “I am a princess, in case you forgot. I have my every whim catered to. My family has more money than God. I have my own private jet, and you don’t think I’m spoiled?”
Jackson shakes his head. “And yet you were sneaking downstairs to raid the pantry for food rather than call for help. You gave up precious vacation time to let me come here to see my dad. You’re forgoing luxury hotels to stay in this old farmhouse.”
“This old farmhouse is gorgeous. Just the kind of house I’d want if… well, if I could have my own house.”
“See,” Jackson says, pointing a finger at me, “it takes more than money in your pocket to make you spoiled. Look at how wealthy you are, and you can’t even have your own house. It’s all relative.”
I wrinkle my nose at the reminder. The palace is the only home I’ve known and ever will know.
“That bothers you,” Jackson surmises aloud, apparently reading my expression all too well. The microwave dings, and he reaches in to grab the popcorn. “You hate that you have to live in the palace for the rest of your life.”
I shrug. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s just … a choice I don’t really have. Who knows, given the choice, I might gladly want to live there, but I’ll never know because my destiny is set.”
Jackson grabs a bowl from the cabinet, opens the bag without getting burned by the steam, and pours the buttery popcorn. He comes around the island and pulls out the stool beside me and sits, setting the bowl between us.
“Your path is what you want it to be,” he informs me, as if I’d never thought of that myself.
“Yes, I know that. I could easily choose to abdicate and go venture off to live my own life.”
“But you’ll never do that because you have too much loyalty to your people and too much love for your father.”
“Does that make me unambitious?” I query before placing a single piece of popcorn in my mouth. It’s so good and exactly what I was looking for in a snack. I reach in and grab another handful.
Jackson laughs and sticks his hand in the bowl when I remove mine. “Unambitious?” He snorts. “I thought you’d be a princess who attended fancy luncheons every day, shopped in the mornings, and dozed by the pool in the afternoon. I never realized being Princess Camille is actually not only a full-time job, it’s a career. You have a tremendous amount of responsibility on your shoulders. The mere fact you meet it tells me you have more ambition in your little finger than most people have in their entire bodies.”
“Wow,” I murmur, still holding the handful of popcorn as I’d been so focused on what he just said. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”
Jackson makes a sound of disbelief. “People say nice stuff about you all the time.”
“Most of them are paid to,” I retort with a laugh. “But what you said was genuine.”
“I meant it.” He shrugs as he tosses popcorn into his mouth.
It’s a nice mouth too. His lips are full and look soft, but you know they’d be commanding. I really shouldn’t be staring at them.
“I want to thank you again,” Jackson says and my eyes jerk up to his.
“For what?” I shove more popcorn into my mouth.
“For handling my dad at the hospital tonight.” Jackson’s gaze falls a moment to the kitchen counter, as if he’s collecting his thoughts. When he again meets my eyes, he says, “You defused what could have been a tense situation. He would’ve said something shitty about my career, and I would’ve gotten pissed. There would’ve been this whole big argument, and it would’ve been very awkward.”
I’m still chewing, so I smile in understanding.
“You actually got him to look at me differently.” The gratitude in his voice touches me. “Shit … I was so shocked when he said he was proud of me. That was all your doing. I could have kissed you.”
I suck in a breath, taking a few pieces of popcorn down into my throat at the same time, and immediately start choking.
He could kiss me?
I cough and wretch, and eventually Jackson’s palm meets my back, and he pounds me a few times. “Are you okay?”
Wheezing, I nod and then cough once again to clear my throat. “Yes,” I rasp. “I’m good.”
Jackson laughs and gives me one more tiny tap on the back before his hand drops. “Go easy on that popcorn.”
“You could have kissed me?” I ask hesitantly, focused on that instead of my near-death experience.
Jackson’s body sort of jerks. “I meant… figure of speech.”
I stare at him thoughtfully. Really? Figure of speech?
“I wouldn’t kiss you,” he insists.
“Wouldn’t or don’t want to?” I press, not sure why I’m pushing this button. He said it was a figure of speech. Nothing more.
Which means I should let it go.
I’m stunned, though, when he makes an admission. “I wouldn’t.”
I can’t help but pounce, accusing him almost gleefully. “Meaning you want to.”
“Meaning I won’t,” he says with determination.
And all of a sudden, I’m confused. I have no clue if we’re still talking figure of speech or if we’re just clouding our intent with innuendo.
Without warning, Jackson stands and grabs one more handful of popcorn. He tips his head to me, tone cordial and dismissive. “Good night, Camille.”
I purse my lips in frustration as he steps back from the stool and pushes it in. I pick up a single piece of popcorn that fell from his hand onto the counter and examine it as he moves to the doorway that leads back into the living room.
“I’d let you,” I say, still staring at the exploded kernel held between my thumb and forefinger.
I can’t see him clearly—only from my peripheral—but he stops at the door. Maybe I’m crazy, but I can feel tension rolling off him.
It’s so quiet, I believe I could be deaf.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
I add so there’s no misunderstanding, “Kiss me, I mean. I’d let you kiss me.”
Jackson doesn’t move, and prickles edge up my spine as I wonder if that was enough to goad him into action. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I know that I really would like him to kiss me.
“But I won’t,” he finally says and walks out the door.