Inconceivable! Read online

  Even though my editor and the gossip rags salivated over the awkward pics, my goal was to capture his brilliant smile and keep it for myself. I’d get some unflattering snaps in the process, and that would fulfill my professional obligations for this silly assignment.

  On your mark. As I sized up the other reporters, I recognized a couple of Xpress photographers near the back door of the childcare center. They were the pros, but I’d inched my way into the primo spot. My position put me close enough to touch the rear bumper of the purring black limo that waited to whisk the prince back to the palace.

  I held up my smartphone with its camera ready to go the moment Prince John exited the building. Would he remember me, the gal who was ‘too lovely to be lonely?’ A surge of nervous, jittery hope rushed through my body, making me lightheaded.

  Get set. Thunder ripped into the quiet anticipation that had settled over the horde of reporters and photographers, but I held steady. A twinge of resentment threatened my focus as I thought about Heidi Braun, the senior palace correspondent from my newspaper, sitting comfortably inside the building covering the prince’s visit. She might not get a quote, but she got to stare at his gorgeous face.

  The back door of the childcare center swung wide to reveal a uniformed guard just as the dark clouds overhead opened up, releasing an instant torrent of blinding rain, the kind that’s notorious in northern continental Europe. I stuck my phone in my armpit and scooped my umbrella off the ground. The sliding mechanism was stuck. I pushed and cajoled, but it didn’t budge.

  “Damn it,” I whispered.

  Go! The guard holding open the back door expanded a giant umbrella in a single motion and Prince John emerged. Shouting erupted from the reporters and photographers.

  “John! Is Simone Thoreaux pregnant with your baby?”

  “John, be a sport! Who was the woman with you last Sunday at the track?”

  “Is the queen dying? Why haven’t we seen her in weeks?”

  I threw the umbrella into the grass at my feet, grabbed my phone from my armpit, and started snapping photos. My phone’s camera clicks competed against the cacophony of shutter sounds around me and the pounding rain. Where the more experienced journalists had plastic covers on their cameras, I used my hand to shield my phone from the driving rain. I held steady as my teeth started to chatter.

  The prince moved briskly down the path, staying under the umbrella carried by the guard. Was he actually smiling at the line of reporters?

  “Sorry you have to be out in this, but thank you for coming!” he shouted in reply to all the nasty questions.

  I waited to yell at him until he was right in front of me. I felt certain my words would prompt him to look at me with a “Huh?” expression on his face.

  “We shared a kiss Saturday at Finn’s!”

  At my assertion, he stopped, then turned toward me with a quizzical look on his face. His gleaming smile was frozen and his perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitted together. I snapped photos continuously. Cha-ching for James, and ooh, la, la for me!

  “I’m Plato’s friend, Hatty!” I added, realizing he might not recognize me as a sopping heap.

  His expression didn’t change. There was no flicker of recognition or even acknowledgement he’d heard the second thing I’d said. It was disappointing. Maybe he’d been a bit schnockered Saturday night, thus explaining why he’d flirted with a nerdy girl like me.

  He took two more steps to the limo and sat down. Just as the door was closing, the prince stuck out his hand and the guard leaned down.

  Snap. Snap. Snap. My phone captured image after image of the guard turning from the car and walking in my direction.

  I looked up at the tall, stoic man with the umbrella and saw my shocked face staring back at me in his mirrored sunglasses. My heart cranked into overdrive as I registered the authority embodied in his crisp navy suit and the clear plastic coil connecting an earpiece to a receiver buried inside his jacket. Had I done something wrong? I guess yelling we’d “shared a kiss” in front of reporters wasn’t the smartest idea. Crap. None of my professors had touched on how to handle getting arrested while on assignment.

  “The prince would like to see you.” The guard’s deep voice was quiet and urgent.

  I nodded, and he reached out a big hand to lift the security tape. As I took the four steps to the limo door, the pack of reporters had just enough time to register what was transpiring. They shouted louder, and the camera clicks accelerated. By crossing the press line, I’d just become part of the story. And it was surreal, disconcerting.

  I slid in next to the prince, unsure about the proper seating protocol for royal limos. The door closed behind me, blocking out the reporters and the chill of the late October rainfall. The guard got in from the other side and sat on a side bench, never changing the dispassionate look on his face.

  From his red tie to his shiny, wet shoes, the prince wore the fashion opposite of his Saturday night disguise. My teeth chattered, and droplets of water dribbled off the end of my nose. My thin jacket was drenched, and my clothes clung uncomfortably to my body.

  “Here, put this on,” Prince John said as he removed his jacket.

  It was a simple gesture laced with intimacy: his hands positioning the jacket over my shoulders, his fingers brushing against my dripping hair. I basked in his attention and let him adjust the coat.

  “There. Are you warm?”

  “Yes, but your jacket’s going to be ruined. I’m soaked.” Water dripped onto the collar from my hair.

  “It’s fine. I’d rather not see you freeze to death.” He gestured to my hands. “May I?”

  I nodded and he put my palms together. He briskly rubbed my fingers and hands, creating a cozy friction. Even though he wasn’t exactly holding my hands it was close enough to make me lightheaded and giddy.

  Seated next to him, literally enveloped in his generosity, I forced myself to remember my goal: getting photos and a quote. I wasn’t here to moon over Toulene’s hottest royal. It also didn’t help that his jacket wrapped me in his scent: a mixture of soap, spicy aftershave, and mint. In one deep breath, I imagined him shirtless, going about his morning routine.

  “Did you like the kiss we shared Saturday night?” I asked, laying on my Ozarks accent a little thicker than normal. It was the vocal equivalent of innocently batting my eyes.

  “Of course. But what I really appreciated was your passion for covering politics. That and your incredible rendition of that awful babies song. So imagine my shock at seeing you along the press line just now.” He raised his eyebrows like he expected an explanation.

  “I hope you’re not offended my newspaper sent an intern to help cover the event.”

  “Not at all. But I had the impression that stalking royals isn’t how you intend to make a name for yourself.”

  “You’re right. But I always try to do my best, regardless of how I feel about the assignment. I have to get a good grade this semester. And even if I graduate with honors, I’ll probably have to start out doing more grunt work when I move back to the states in May.” Grunt work for a Missouri newspaper meant more 4-H competitions and fewer limo rides with handsome men.

  I hastily added, “I’m at the mercy of my crazy editor at The Morning Dispatch, and he gave me this assignment. He’s also an American―totally obsessed with increasing coverage of royals and celebrities. I know there’s an appetite for news about you and your family, and today’s been fun, but I don’t want to spend my life hiding in bushes, hoping to photograph you picking food out of your teeth. Not that you would ever do that. I mean, I’m sure you do floss and brush, just not in public. I’m going to shut up now.”

  He smirked. “Do you read the coverage of my family?” He leaned a bit closer and a flash of warmth crept up my neck.

  “Not usually, but I see the magazine covers. Those photos can’t compete with the real thing,” I blurted without self-editing. Yes, horror of horrors, I’d essentially just told the prince he’s way hotter i
n person.

  An awkward silence crept into the space around us and I realized the driver needed to take me back to my car. I was dying to run to my apartment and change out of my cold, damp clothes before heading to the newsroom to review my photos and write a brief.

  “Can you tell the driver to turn around? My car’s a couple of kilometers east of the preschool.”

  John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but we can’t take you home right now. When we travel on official palace business with the police escort, we have to keep to our route and schedule to ensure minimal disruptions to traffic. Once we get to Belvoir, I’ll arrange for you to get back to your car.”

  “Sounds great. Thank you.”

  I glanced over at Grimmy McGrim sitting stiffly in the side seat close to John. Maybe he’d radio the police and make sure no one towed my car. This country cracked the whip when it came to parking and other vehicle-related violations. But the guard didn’t move; his eyes and thoughts remained tucked away behind those sunglasses.

  “Were the kids at the preschool excited to see you?”

  “I think so. We played dress-up.”

  “Are you serious?” How adorbs.

  “Of course! They had me wear a hat with a horse’s mane on it. Then they wanted me to pretend I was sick so they could take me to the veterinary hospital.”

  “Did you cough and say, ‘I’m a little hoarse? Get it, hoarse-horse?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I’d inherited from my dad this ridiculous compulsion to inject stupid jokes and puns in conversations. It served me well as a journalist because I could channel it into the creative process of writing stories. But in real life, I just sounded like Super Nerd.

  “Sorry. That was a really bad joke.”

  The prince flashed his gorgeous smile. “Hatty, this is only the second time I’ve met you, but I get the impression you don’t censor yourself. Do you have any idea how fun that is?”

  “Fun for you. Horrifying for me.”

  Our eyes locked momentarily before I looked away.

  “Is it always like that? Cameras flashing, reporters yelling?”

  “Yes. Part of my job is knowing how to deal with it in a gracious way that allows me to maintain some degree of privacy. That’s why I take every chance I get to step outside this bubble and do normal things. Like going to a bar and getting to know some of Plato’s friends.”

  I was one of Plato’s friends. Electric currents ripped through me. Get a grip! You’re on an assignment for Pete’s sake.

  The limo took a sharp turn and I looked out the window. We pulled through a tall, black iron gate at the rear of Belvoir Palace.

  Some inspired architect conjured Belvoir from a fairytale. I gazed up at the towers topped with the beguiling battlements that reminded me of the bottom teeth in a jack-o-lantern’s grin. At eye level, the manicured grounds sprawled away from the palace, a green grandeur, even in October, reserved for the royal family; a high brick and stone fence shielded it from public streets.

  I realized I was holding my breath as the driver opened the door and helped me out.

  “This is it. Home Sweet Beaver,” John said, grinning at the well-known mispronunciation of the French name Belvoir.

  “Does that mean you’re Prince Beaver?” I realized a beat too late that what I said was a double entendre.

  “I’ve been called that and worse. Are you sure you don’t read the tabloids?”

  I rubbed my forehead again. Even my reaction to embarrassment was embarrassing.

  John led me through a service entrance into a dully lit passage. Despite our brisk pace, I tried to register each sight (faded green wood paneling in the hallway), sound (a woman singing in German), and smell (Toulene’s airy, puffy bread in the oven). I drew in a quick breath when we passed a small, oval portrait of John’s mother hanging on the wall. Her charity work and then her untimely death thrust Toulene and its royals into the international spotlight. It was a tiny country in the grand scheme of Europe, but the Meinrad family gained significant attention when Princess Beatrix died of ovarian cancer at age 29. John was only nine years old at the time. His father, who would presumably take the throne before John, hadn’t remarried, and raised John and his brother, Henri, away from the public eye. That is, until the boys reached their late teens. They were handsome in all the right ways and exuded perfect manners, so they received more than their fair share of international press coverage from the gossip rags and TV newscasts.

  We turned a corner and started up a staircase. The reality of being inside Belvoir was exhilarating. The royal family almost never let reporters in here. So, why the heck was he allowing me to traipse through the place? Regardless of the reason, I was in, and I hoped to score an exclusive story and an amazing photo with some flirting on the side.

  By the time we got to the top of the staircase, I was huffing a little, though I tried to conceal it by taking controlled breaths.

  “Sorry. Am I going too fast? Since I’m always darting in and out of cars and buildings, I’ve gotten into the habit of practically running everywhere I go.” John waited for me to catch up at the top of the stairs.

  “I’m fine. The wet clothes are making me a little slower than usual.” The cold dampness of my shirt reasserted itself, and I shivered.

  “We’re about to take care of that.” John had a note of delight in his voice. With his wide eyes and eager smile, he was brimming with the knowledge of some pending surprise. He was a man who knew how to fix problems, and enjoyed doing it. I’m sure it’s fun to tackle challenges when you have vast quantities of money and power.

  After traversing a series of short hallways, we faced a dead end with three closed doors.

  “Is this your first time visiting the palace?” John stood with his back to the middle door, his hand on the knob.

  “Yes. I’m mildly impressed so far.” I laughed, unable to play it cool.

  He opened the door. “After you.” Ever the gentleman.

  I stepped into a room that had a marble mantelpiece, a canopy bed decked out in blue layers of luxury, and a short, light blue sofa with navy pillows. Its sheer perfection froze me to the spot where I stood.

  “Does anyone use this room? It’s immaculate.” I didn’t want to drag my soaking self into such a clean space.

  “It’s one of the rooms we sometimes let photographers use if they want to do a shoot in the palace. Otherwise, we keep spare clothing in the wardrobe for just such emergencies.” Just such emergencies? I kind of loved the refined, formal way he talked.

  He disappeared around a corner that, from my vantage point at the entrance to the room, was hidden. It looked like he stepped through the wall.

  “Come over here and have a look.”

  I carefully tiptoed through the room, afraid to drip on the plush rug or brush up against the furniture. When I rounded the corner, John had the wardrobe open.

  “Riding clothes?” It was just a guess.

  “That’s right. We keep these here for palace guests who come for dinner and stay for hunting or riding. There’s a linen bag in there for your wet clothes. I’ll wait outside.”

  And he quickly slipped into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind him.

  The hulking wardrobe nearly touched the ceiling. Green and pink rose-patterned paper lined its interior walls.

  “That happens? You come to the palace for dinner and end up gallivanting through the woods in designer clothes?” I said out loud to the empty room as I gently touched the velvety fabric of a pair of pants.

  Most Toulenian women were thinner than my U.S. size twelve, so I assumed most of these clothes would be too small for me. I sure didn’t want to squeeze into tight breeches that would tattle on my every chunk and bulge.

  I checked the tags inside the waistbands, and found a pair of jodhpurs that had potential. I peeled off my undies for fear their dampness might seep through and create unseemly wet patches around my crotch.

  Putting on the old-style riding
pants with the flare of fabric below the waist was like handing my thighs a megaphone: “We are here and we are big!” they seemed to scream from inside the overly bulky breeches. I just shook my head. There was no other choice.

  On to the shirts. Only white. A perfect complement to my wet black bra.

  I glanced at the canopy bed as I walked back through the room and wondered who might’ve had a fun romp there. A maid and John’s father? Maybe he caught her by surprise one winter’s evening. At the thought of this imaginary encounter, I exhaled loudly. I glimpsed at myself in the mirror, noting the black bra peeking through the thin button-up and my dark stringy hair drying in messy clumps. No one wants to romp with this.

  I tentatively opened the door and peered into the hallway. John was on his phone, scrolling through something with an intent expression.

  He raised his eyes. “You look brilliant!”

  I extended my arms, looked down at my attire, and laughed at his assessment.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He laughed too. “I mean it. I’m only sorry it’s raining and we can’t go for a ride now that you’re dressed for it. Maybe another time. Let’s go and see about getting you back to your car.”

  I nodded, but I heard the high-pitch whine of air seeping out of my happy little balloon. This unexpected adventure could’ve led to a brief interview or tour of the palace. But it seemed the inside of a guest room wardrobe was the only intimate encounter I’d have with Belvoir. Just as well. My deadline loomed.

  He led me back through the maze of hallways, but stopped abruptly before descending the wooden staircase.

  “Hatty. Have you had lunch? Do you want a bite before you leave?”

  How ‘bout them apples? Maybe I’d get my story-photo-flirting trifecta after all.

  wanted to jump at his invitation to stay for lunch but… “I’m supposed to have my photos from the daycare ready for an online story by 4:00 p.m.”

  “If I give you an exclusive interview over scones and coffee, think you could buy yourself some extra time?”