Royally Yours Page 5

  He shook his head, clearing his mind of her face, his heart of her memory, at least for the moment, and rubbed his bristled chin with one palm. Time to stop standing here mutely. Either say something or take your leave.

  He issued an awkward cough, then spoke the first words that came to mind. “Talking fruit?”

  The freckles on Rowan’s face scrunched together as she looked up in confusion. “What?”

  “You wrote a story about talking fruit. Apples, oranges, bananas? Or did you go a little more exotic? Kumquats, mangos, dragon fruit?”

  Rowan jumped from the bed, her daze finally broken and awareness spreading over her face. “Oh my goodness.” She yanked the towel from her head and her wet hair came tumbling down. “Y-you’re a king. You’re the king of Concordia. You put out the fire. You spent the whole day helping . . . all those fans. And you’re asking me about fruit.”

  “A question you don’t seem all that keen to answer.”

  “I’m sorry I ran upstairs earlier. It just hit me all of a sudden, the fire and everything, and . . . should I be curtsying right now or something?”

  “None of that. Please.”

  “But I . . . you . . . I don’t even know what to say.” A flush filled her cheeks as she looked away and then down and gasped. “And I’m wearing my reindeer slippers.”

  “If only you had a sweater like the mayor’s to match.”

  She toed the rug’s tassels with one slipper. “How much of Mayor Hayden’s tirade did you hear before all the chaos?”

  “Enough to piece things together. I’d be interested in reading that inflammatory article of yours.”

  One corner of her mouth quirked as she lifted her eyes. “You know what’s funny? By the time I finished that letter to the editor last night, I wasn’t even thinking anymore about the library. I was thinking about how good it felt to write again. I used to want to be a writer. A travel writer—you know, go all around the world and put everything I see into words. That’s a job, right? But then Grandma—”

  She clamped her mouth closed.

  He let himself grin this time.

  Her blush deepened as her focus moved to his wrapped knuckles. “How’s your hand? I should’ve asked earlier.” She kicked off her slippers and stuffed her feet into a pair of shoes nearby. “I should’ve gotten you an ice pack or—”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  “I’ve never even apologized to that friend of yours—Hamish—for hitting him last night.” She moved past him, combing her fingers through her damp waves.

  “Hey, Rowan?”

  She cast him a questioning glance over her shoulder.

  “Let’s go on a walk.”

  She paused. Turned to face him again. “What?”

  “It’s almost dark out and I want to see if the town square is all lit up like I remember from when I was a kid and you’ve had a long hectic day and I just thought maybe you’d like to clear your head and . . .”

  And apparently Rowan’s rambling was contagious.

  She watched him with her head tipped to one side. “I go on a walk almost every night. No matter how cold it is. Except for last night. I was going to go see the lights downtown, but then I saw you busting in to the library.”

  He gave an exaggerated huff the way Mum used to when she pretended to scold him for whiling away yet another day with his nose in yet another book. “Hm, as I recall, the door was unlocked.”

  “An oversight. The library was officially closed.”

  “Would you like to go on a walk or not, Rowan Bell?”

  She dipped her head, her freckles bunching once more as her expression turned coy. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She reached for the jacket on a hook just inside the door and flounced from the room.

  He hurried after her. “No more Your Majesty-ing, if you please.”

  “But that’s how Hamish addresses you. I heard him this morning, just before you recklessly smashed the fire extinguisher case with your fist.”

  “Don’t you mean heroically?” He stopped halfway down the steps. “Wait. Hamish.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s rather . . . overprotective. If we go the rest of the way down these steps, he’s going to insist on coming along for the walk.” Which is not exactly what Jonah had in mind.

  Although, what exactly he did have in mind, he couldn’t say.

  Just a little stroll. A walk downtown to see the lights and help Rowan relax after a trying day.

  Rowan Bell, who watched him now with an expression turning slightly mischievous.

  “There’s a fire escape at the back of my apartment. The city insisted on putting it in years ago, same time as they installed the sprinklers.” She pointed upstairs.

  Rowan Bell, who he was beginning to like very, very much.

  How exactly did a person converse with a king? Rowan walked silently—self-consciously—beside Jonah. They’d been talking comfortably enough just a few minutes ago back in the library, hadn’t they? Why couldn’t she think of a single thing to say now?

  The last pastel tendrils of sunset peeked over the horizon, the rest of the night sky already settled into its usual midnight blue. The cold evening air wrapped around her and the breeze lifted her damp hair. She really should’ve known better than to come out into a December night with wet hair.

  But she couldn’t have said no to Jonah’s invitation for this walk if she’d wanted to. Not with the way he’d looked at her. At some point during the day, he’d rolled the sleeves of his plaid shirt to his elbows. Stubble shadowed his cheeks and chin, same color as his dark hair. He’d stood there in her apartment with his soot-stained jeans and his injured hand wrapped in gauze with pure eagerness in his maple-brown eyes.

  And so of course here she was, burrowing her chin into her coat’s collar and hoping her hair didn’t freeze off when she should be back inside drying books or checking Craigslist for a used stove.

  Or she should at least come up with something halfway intelligent to say to this man—this stranger—who’d gone above and beyond to offer his assistance today.

  He glanced down at her. Caught her gawking.

  She shot her gaze straight ahead to where the lights of downtown winked in the distance.

  “If it helps, I’m not technically a king at the moment.”

  She stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and his injured hand was instantly at her elbow, steadying her. “W-what?”

  “I’m on a bit of a . . . a sabbatical of sorts.”

  “Kings can do that?”

  “They can in Concordia, but it’s rare.” He released her elbow and then went about unrolling his sleeves. Why hadn’t she noticed he didn’t wear a coat before now? Wasn’t he freezing? She opened her mouth to ask, but he spoke first.

  “There’s a law—the 18th Decree, it’s called. Stems all the way back to King Fordham II in the mid-1700s. His daughter was kidnapped by soldiers from Harthingland in the middle of the Border War of 1759.”

  Harthingland. Another small country right next door to Concordia. She’d seen it on the map in the encyclopedia last night.

  “King Fordham didn’t trust himself to make strategic wartime decisions with his child in the hands of the enemies,” Jonah continued. “He knew he’d never be able to put the country’s best interest above his daughter’s. So he temporarily abdicated power to his twin brother, younger by less than three minutes.”

  The faint strains of Christmas tunes from the square floated down the block. Jonah’s strides had slowed as he talked. His breath was white in the air, but if he noticed the chill, it must not bother him.

  “What happened?”

  “Concordia finally won the war. The king of Harthingland released King Fordham’s daughter. The 18th Decree, somewhat similar to your 25th Amendment, was enacted as a formal law.”

  Allowing Jonah a temporary reprieve from his title. But why had he needed the reprieve?

  “I knew your grandmother, by the way.”

 
; She stopped mid-step. “You did?”

  “At least, I assume she was your grandmother.” He turned to face her on the sidewalk. “You look just like her minus the wrinkles and gray hair. She was the librarian last time I was in Tinsel—Mrs. Bell.”

  “Yeah, she was my Grandma.”

  He must’ve heard something shift in her voice because his dark-eyed gaze now rippled with compassion. “Has she been gone for some time?”

  “Eight years. She got sick. I was a sophomore in college. Came home just before she passed. Never went back.” The entirety of her adulthood, summed up in fragments.

  “You’ve been running the library ever since?”

  She gave a bare nod.

  “Well, now I understand even more why it’s so important to you to preserve its current home.”

  Yes. Because it was her home. Grandma’s home. The one place where Rowan could still feel the remnants of her childhood.

  “I was close to her. Incredibly close. My dad died when I was seventeen. After that, the three of us—Grandma, Mom, me—we were inseparable for a time. Mom and I even stayed with Grandma up in the library apartment for a couple of months.” Because that cramped second floor had been better than a house that felt too empty without Dad.

  Wasn’t empty anymore, though. No, it was practically bursting at the seams since Eddie and his four children had moved in.

  “How did he die?”

  Rowan met Jonah’s eyes and there was something more than sympathy there now. “A heart attack. He was a doctor. He’d just arrived at the hospital to deliver a baby.” And a night that should’ve been about new life had instead been darkened by death’s heartrending shadow.

  Jonah watched her with a gentle study. As if he could hear the whispers of her old grief, long-quieted yet always there. As if he understood. “That’s . . . that’s how my wife died, too. Apparently she’d been living with a heart problem her whole life. We never knew until it was too late.”

  At her sharp inhale, the bitter cold pierced her lungs. Stole any reply she might’ve come up with.

  “As for my father,” he rushed on, looking away. “Cancer. We didn’t know about it until . . . there was nothing to be done. That was two years ago.”

  And he’d become his country’s ruler. Had his wife died before or after? Was it sorrow, mourning that had driven him from his throne? She had the strangest urge to draw near and wrap her arms around him—this man she barely knew.

  This man who was a king. And who watched her still, his quiet tenderness suggesting that he might wish to comfort her just as she wished to comfort him.

  Instead, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how we happened upon such serious matters. This was supposed to be a relaxing walk. We should talk of something else.”

  “Okay.” They started walking again, now only a block from the town square. Silence, weighty and yet, somehow comfortable, stretched between them.

  “They were berries,” she finally blurted.

  Jonah gave her a blank look.

  “The story I wrote. The one that won the newspaper contest. They were strawberries, blueberries and cherries.”

  He grinned. “That’s very . . . creative.”

  “So you, um . . . you’ve been to Tinsel before.” She pulled a pair of mittens from her pockets and stuffed her hands inside.

  “Just the one time. It was a family vacation.”

  “And you met my grandma.”

  “I was considerably more interested in books than taking on the slopes. Which is what Father and Geordie, my brother, were most interested in. I spent tons of time at the library.” He glanced over at her. “Your grandmother took a liking to me and my bookish ways.”

  Bookish. Not a word Rowan would’ve thought of to describe him. Rugged, maybe. Striking, certainly. And considering he’d given up an entire day to help out after the fire, kind and thoughtful would also make the list.

  “She only scolded me once in all the time I spent at the library.”

  “Let me guess: You broke in late at night?”

  His laughter was a low rumble. “No. She’d caught me underlining a sentence in a book. She told me I shouldn’t write in the library’s books and I told her, in my best royal voice, that I believed the best books were meant to be written in. We find ourselves inside stories, often without even realizing we’re looking. So how can we help but underline a beautifully worded sentence or write a note in the margin?” He laughed again. “Which probably sounds rather daft, but I still believe it.”

  They’d reached the corner of Main Street and Maple, and the music from the speakers in the gazebo drifted to where they stood—Bing Crosby’s crooning voice, wishing for a white Christmas. Jonah had stopped to face her once more and behind him, twinkle lights and lit-up lampposts cast a glow over the whole square. The giant tree reached toward the star-studded sky.

  “I don’t think it sounds daft at all.” Even if she couldn’t believe the words had come from a child. Then again, she had a feeling this man standing in front of her had never been ordinary.

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head, oddly breathless and filled with a strange and sudden awareness. As if she teetered on the edge of some magic something she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for. Jonah’s gaze lifted from her face to the sky, but Rowan didn’t move. Didn’t want to break this . . . whatever it was. Moment?

  Enchantment.

  And then . . .

  A snowflake, twirling from the sky and landing on her cheek. And another. And more still.

  And there was no more holding back. She let herself squeal in delight. “Snow. I’ve been waiting for the first snow for weeks. Months. Everyone else gets so annoyed when it snows in October, but I love it. Only it never snowed even once this October. And then November went by and—” She cut herself off at the amusement in Jonah’s eyes. “Don’t make fun of me. I love snow. Always have. I can’t help it.”

  “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just trying to decide how to break it to you that this isn’t the first snow. Last night—”

  “I know all about last night, Your Majesty. But it barely snowed for five minutes. Doesn’t count.” Oh, it was beautiful, falling in thick, white tufts. As if God had tapped open the clouds just for her.

  Jonah watched her with a look she couldn’t read, snowflakes landing and dissolving in his dark hair.

  “Now you think I’m daft, don’t you?”

  His lips spread into a smile that reached his eyes. “Not daft at all.”

  “You should be wearing a coat, you know. It’s freezing out here.”

  “I was so eager to get on the plane back in Concordia, I left my coat in the car. But I’m fine. Come, I want to go stand by the tree and see if it feels as tall as it did when I was a kid.” He started across the street.

  But she couldn’t seem to make her feet move. Not with her heart about to flutter its way out of her chest. Because of the snow, of course. And the music. And the snow. And the lights. And the snow.

  That’s all.

  She picked up her feet and hurried after him. A moment later, they stood in the haze of the towering tree, a thousand lights glittering, reflecting in the golden sheen of dangling ornaments. But it was the king at her side who held her attention, the joy in his face and the peace in his eyes.

  “Jonah, what book did Grandma catch you writing in?”

  He glanced down at her, the light of the tree glimmering in his gaze. “A Christmas Carol. Dickens.”

  “What lines did you underline?”

  Was it his low chuckle or his wink that warmed her insides most?

  “I’m sure the book is still in the library. Check it out for yourself.”

  Chapter 5

  Rowan held her breath as she looked around the Nonfiction Room, which this morning served as the gathering place for the second meeting of the Committee to Preserve the Historic Tinsel Public Library. The basement was simply too cold and damp today, especia
lly after all the snow of the past few days.

  Out the window, glistening banks of pristine white covered the yard under a glimmering sun. Winter had finally arrived in Tinsel.

  Just in time for her plan to win over the town leaders.

  “Well, what do you all think of my idea?”

  Silence stretched around the sprawling walnut table in the middle of the room. Maybe she’d talked too fast. Rambled too much.

  Finally, Peter the Postman lifted his hands and . . . and he clapped. “Bravo, Rowan. It’s a brilliant plan. If it doesn’t work, nothing will.”

  The rest of the group joined in the applause. Lester Schneekloth’s ruddy cheeks bunched with his grin. “A Charles Dickens Christmas at the Library. It has the perfect ring to it.”

  Rowan let out a relieved breath. “It does, doesn’t it?” Every year the library’s Christmas book sale was the same. Gingerbread cookies. Hot chocolate. And a few hundred dollars’ profit from selling old books no one had checked out in years.

  But not this year.

  “We’ll go all out,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Everything will feel quaint and old-fashioned. I was thinking on the second night, we could clear the furniture out and hold a little dance—like at Fezziwig’s in A Christmas Carol. We’ll have decorations, live music, candles in all the windows. Fake ones, of course. Last thing we need is another fire.”

  Her enthusiasm spread from one end of the table to another, voices rising as the committee members added to her plan with ideas of their own. Of course, they had less than two weeks to throw the whole thing together, but with enough help, they could get it done.

  And maybe, just maybe, Tinsel’s city leaders would fall under a magical, Christmasy spell . . .

  Just as she had four nights ago, while standing in front of the tree in the town square with Jonah. That’s when the idea had first come to life.

  And it had grown the next morning when she’d gone searching for the library’s yellowed copy of A Christmas Carol. She’d flipped through its pages until she’d found the quote he’d underlined as a kid. “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.”