5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

Fenella

L aandia is boring.

It's my third day here and I had no idea hiding out in a foreign country would be so deadly dull.

It's not that dull, but there's nothing to do.

Prince Gunnar Erickson is one of my closest friends and best ex (don't tell him), so when he offered me a safe haven in the castle, it was a no-brainer. It's not like I've never been here—this is my fourth time, plus one of those visits was for Prince Odin's wedding—but Battle Harbour is a small place and I've already checked out everything there is to check out.

We've been to The King's Hat pub twice, gone into every store in what constitutes as a downtown in Battle Harbour. Yesterday, I bundled up in what seemed like every piece of clothing I had and went whale-watching. We had no luck, other than spotting a few seals, and I spent the evening moving from room to room in the castle so I could hug the fireplaces because I was still cold.

Gunnar's new girlfriend Stella insisted we go to the Maritime Museum of Laandia so that I could learn the history of the country—how Battle Harbour was the site of the fight between the Vikings who came to plunder in the 1600s and the bands of First Nations who weren't keen on being pillaged.

The First Nations lost, and the Vikings became the first settlers of what would eventually become the country of Laandia.

In the museum, there's an entire video series about the Second World War, how Leif Erickson prevented the German invasion of Canada, and how grateful the country was for his assistance, that they gave him whatever he wanted, which was his own country.

I thought I was entitled, but even I've never asked for a country before.

Laandia was carved from the province of Newfoundland and Labrador and presented to the family to rule as they liked. King Magnus is the third king and they've done a pretty good job of it.

Learning about the other kings was interesting, but I've never been much for history.

It was better when Ashton was here; at least I wasn't playing third wheel to a deliriously happy Gunnar and Stella. But Ashton left early this morning; Gunnar is flying him to New York and then staying the night with Stella.

I would have liked to go with them but I need to Stay. Out. Of. Sight.

Father's orders.

So now I'm here on my own. Alone.

I'm not used to being alone.

One of the castle security details gives me a ride into Battle Harbour because I've decided I need to get out of the castle. During the drive down the hill (really a cliff with a windy road that wouldn't be out of place heading into the Pyrenees Mountains in Spain) into the town (more like a village) I text the group chat instead of looking out the window at the colourful autumn leaves.

Me : Day 3 of hiding out.

I send a picture of the view of the harbour outside my bedroom window that I took yesterday.

Coral: Looks dull

Me: It's… quiet

Milo: You're bored. Should we come liven things up?

Me: I don't think the town has recovered from the last time you were here

Rupert: That was a good party

Milo: Didn't Lav end up proposing to a fisherman?

Lavina: Sweet man, but really couldn't handle this.

She sends a picture, one that should never get online—Lavinia wearing a pair of baggy sweats, long blonde hair fixed into two wobbling space buns with one of the facial masks that look like a piece of ham on her face.

Rupert: not many can

Me: love you all. Off to shop

Milo: Where??????

Maybe I will go shopping, but we hit all four clothing shops the day before yesterday, which leaves the bookstore, the bakery and a return visit to the candy store.

I could do with a visit to the candy store.

I get out of the car in the centre of town. There's a cool wind blowing in off the harbour but the afternoon sun is warm and bright. It really is a pretty place.

But boring.

Maybe boring isn't the right word. Quiet. Uneventful. What's another word for "there is nothing to do"?

There are five bars; I know this because the second time I visited, Gunnar and I did a bar hop and visited all of them. That was before Gunnar was Gunnar-and-Stella so there was still the undercurrent of flirtation, even though we had been broken up for years .

Not that there was any chance of us getting back together. Once you break up, that's it for me, sexy prince or no sexy prince.

Tiger is out of luck.

My first stop before my walkabout is Coffee for the Sole.

The heady aroma of coffee greets me, along with the chatter of customers waiting in line or seated at the tables. Two of the leather armchairs are empty by the window, which would be perfect to curl up in, but sit in a coffee shop by myself? That's something I would do with Lavinia or Rupert. This whole alone thing will take more than a minute to get used to.

The hum of the coffee machine breaks over the background music as I take my place in line. Every single person I make eye contact with—and the place is pretty full—smiles at me.

That will also take some getting used to.

It's unnerving, but they're not the smiles of recognition, just pleasant, polite people saying good afternoon. I'm sure it's a small-town thing, but I can't be sure.

Behind the counter, Silas moves with an ease that suggests he's been doing this for a while. He's got a geek/boy-next-door vibe going on, and the flannel shirts make him seem outdoorsy. The whole package is not really my thing, but he's certainly nice to look at. Tall and shaggy with hair that needs a cut and some product to put it in place, and green eyes that always look like he needs a nap.

Something certainly keeps that boy up at night.

He-who-is-cute runs his hand through his hair, tousling it like he just woke up and grins at the short girl behind the counter with him. His whole face lights up like she's the most important person in the world.

I want him to look at me like that.

And I shouldn't. Why should I want that?

It's been a week since my discovery that Tiger was a lying, cheating jerk. He sent me sixty-seven texts, full of explanations and remorse, but no real apology. I blocked his number, and unfollowed him on social media—the usual stuff.

Tiger told TMZ that he didn't understand the exclusivity restraints of our relationship. You give a girl a ring; that means you're exclusive.

He was in it for the publicity. I know that now.

I'd know it even if everyone didn't tell me that fact.

Being seen with me can boost a fading career, or jumpstart a new one. I once made Rickie Fowler the darling of the PGA tour for six weeks, showing up at three tournaments and causing fourteen people to be escorted off the green. I don't know if it was me as his good luck charm, or if he just decided to step up his game, but Rickie made it to the Masters that year. He didn't win the Green Jacket, but it doesn't matter because we broke up before the tournament.

Even bad publicity is good, and Opium holds three of the top ten songs on Spotify and Apple Music this week .

Yes, I checked. I didn't want to but it had to be done.

And Tiger is making the most of it—appearing everywhere he can to promote the group and himself as the wounded boyfriend.

He cheated on me.

That seems to be forgotten in his narrative. Yesterday, Coral sent me the video of Tiger's heartfelt plea for me to forgive him for whatever I think he's done.

No comment from me, because…really?

Plus, my father gave me stern instructions not to engage with the press while I'm here. It was nice enough of Gunnar to offer me safe haven in Laandia, and amazingly kind of King Magnus to issue a four-week ban on any outside press entering the country.

It's not the first time I've picked the wrong guy. Usually, I jump straight to the next mistake while the reels are still viral, but for some reason, I'm not jumping this time. There's been a long list of men I've dated; men who treat me like a princess in public, and the lowly pea under the mattress in private. Men who want one thing from me—instant fame and to rub against my bank account. Men, who don't care about me .

Because of this, I know I wouldn't have the faintest idea of what to do with a nice guy.

Silas seems like a nice guy, with his flannels and his scruff and kind eyes.

I focus on the rest of the coffee shop instead of wondering if the beard is usual or just because he's forgotten to shave. He's very easy to look at but so is the rest of the place. I'd say eclectic, really going for the small-town fishing vibe with nets and buoys and pictures of boats. The walls are dark blue and decorated with vintage signs advertising coffee and cream and cans of tuna, alongside framed art prints and canvases, and crayon-coloured pictures.

I like the one with the barista holding a huge to-go cup that's bigger than his head.

There's also a fish—it's animated and the head and tail flop as a song is played.

It's interesting. It might not be my first choice, but there's no other choice. There's no Starbucks, no Cha Cha Matcha, or not even the Canadian favourite, Tim Horton's. Gunnar told me Laandia refuses to allow franchises in the country.

There's not even a McDonalds here.

It's like one of those little Italian villages that serve dinner out of the back of someone's house.

It's not as slow moving though; the line jumps quickly to my turn. It's not Silas—sad—or the short girl, but a woman with brassy blonde hair from a bad dye job and heavy eyeliner that makes her look about ten years older than I imagine she is.

She also looks even more bored than I am, constantly checking her phone on the counter beside her.

That all changes when I give my name and she does the most dramatic double-take I've ever seen, even counting the time I walked around Soho in a bralette. "You're Fenella Carrington?" she practically shrieks.

"No," I say automatically, taking a step back .

Already, I imagine phones are out, filming, taking pictures. Telling the world where I am. "No, I'm not." I usually give a fake name at Starbucks since there aren't many Fenellas who order pumpkin spice throughout the year. There aren't many Fenellas, period.

Thanks to my grandmother for my so very unique name.

"You are?" Everything about the woman is wide open—eyes, mouth. Even her nostrils are flaring. Her name tag says Nathalia , and I really wish Nathalia weren't working today.

"Are you telling me or asking?" I demand.

"I'm…telling."

"I know my own name, thank you very much."

She frowns. "You are, aren't you?" I look over but Silas has disappeared. Not that I looked to him to rescue me but—

Okay, maybe a little rescue. He looks like the rescuing type. "Now you're asking," I say coolly. "Can I have my drink?"

Nathalia blinks, mouth still open. She seems a little older than my usual fan, more like one of the conservative Karens who criticize every step of my life. The incorrect use of bronzer and unshaped brows also suggests she doesn't follow old makeup tutorials. "What did you want again?" she asks. "I was distracted."

"Pumpkin spice latte, with two pumps and an extra of vanilla, oat milk, unicorn froth."

Granted, a latte isn't a simple drink but it's one of those with a three-inch order attached. But where I stand gives me a perfect vantage point to watch her totally mess up my drink.

Three pumps, so that's going to be really pumpkin-y.

"Vanilla," I remind her as she gives a pump of caramel. "And oat milk."

"You said almond," Nathalia says as she pours almond milk into the frother jug.

"No, I said oat."

"Are you allergic?"

I want to say yes. "I don't like almond milk."

She holds it under the steamer spout. "But if you're not allergic, it doesn't matter. Try it this way, you'll like it. In fact, you can make this the drink of the fall… I'll give you a drizzle of caramel over the foam—oh, and maybe I'll add a shot of peppermint. No, lavender."

"No thank you." But it doesn't matter—she adds two vigorous pumps. "I'm not drinking that," I declare.

"You have to. I made you a custom drink. You have to try and I'll video—"

She clearly knows nothing about keeping a low profile. "No."

"What do you mean, no? Do it for Silas."

Who is this person? She presents me with the cup with a flourish. "Try it. Love it, and I'll film you."

Nathalia isn't going to like what I have to say. But as I'm revving up, she gets called away by the irritated short girl .

And then Silas appears. "Uh—hi," he greets me. Today's flannel is black and blue, the sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms with a faint dusting of reddish hair.

I pull my gaze away from those arms. "Your employee just made me a drink I didn't order."

There's no masking the expression of resignation and he doesn't even ask who I'm talking about. "What did she make?"

"I have no idea but there's lavender and caramel in this." I give a sniff and grimace. "I would never want lavender in a latte. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte with vanilla."

"I'll make you another. I'm sorry about Nathalia. She—"

"Shouldn't be working here if she can't take a simple order."

There's no one waiting in line after me, and the bustle of the shop seems to have relaxed. Or maybe it's just Silas who is relaxed.

Distressed, but still relaxed. He sighs. "It's not that simple. I really needed to cover shifts and I felt bad—she's my parents' neighbours' daughter, and just got divorced—"

"That's a her problem, not a you problem."

Silas frowns. "I'm helping her out and—"

"Does she need the money?"

He glances over his shoulder to where the short girl is gesturing to the jug of steamed milk that has been left on the counter. "I don't think so."

"Then there's no reason for her to work here if she's incompetent." A voice rises—something about beans—and I look at Silas expectantly .

"I know." He lowers his voice. "I haven't been able to bring myself to tell her." He shrugs with a sheepish smile.

Huh. I didn't expect this. He's…huh.

Maybe I should revisit nice guys. Especially ones from Laandia.

"Of course I'm right." I cock my head."Are you…" I drop my voice. "A nice guy?"

"What?"

"You can't fire her because you're too nice."

"That's not… maybe? Is that bad?" He gives me a smile that is half confused, half apologetic, and all the way adorable.

Oh no. My stomach flips at the sight of his smile. Slightly crooked, teeth not perfect but wow, that dimple is deep enough for me to stick my finger in it. The whole package is making me smile.

"It's rare. I only know a few of the species." I give him my camera-ready smile and his eyes glaze over for a moment. "Because of that, I'm going to help you out."