Chapter Thirteen

brINGING JAMES HERE might not have been my best idea ever. But there were two things I knew for sure. First, the paparazzi were extremely unlikely to be hanging around outside the Home Strait Retirement Resort’s weekly Scrabble tournament. And second, many of the scrabblers wouldn’t be able to either see or hear well enough to recognise James or would forget they met him as soon as he left.

What I wasn’t quite so certain about was if James would enjoy himself.

And from the look of consternation on his face as he, Astrid, Larry, and I marched through the doors of the Home Strait, I thought perhaps I’d talked up today just a smidge too much. Why on earth would a jet-setting prince accustomed to high society soirees ever be excited about spending a few hours playing a board game with a group of, admittedly wonderful, senior citizens.

Yet, everything inside me told me he needed this. Prince James needed to be just James, at least for a short while. He didn’t need bowing, or polite words. He needed to be normal, to be treated as if he were normal. And we could give him that.

“Are we visiting your grandparents?” James asked.

James hadn’t woken until almost nine this morning and I’d been content to let him sleep. Flying halfway around the world tended to be exhausting, from my limited experience, not to mention the emotional strain of James’s unfortunate outing. But when he’d finally arisen, showered, and dressed, James looked luminous. I’d never seen a more devastatingly beautiful person in all my days and doubted I ever would again.

And now, as I watched his curious gaze dart around the room, I couldn’t help but feel a little breathless. Despite my best intentions, nothing about this was normal. “No,” I answered, offering James a smile. “We’re playing our weekly Scrabble tournament against Seamus O’Hare’s Words of a Feather and Maureen Dixon’s Dixonaries.”

“Oh, um. May I ask the name of your team?”

“Mother’s Little Scrabblers.”

James nibbled adorably at his bottom lip. “And will I be playing in one of these teams?”

“Oh yes,” replied Astrid. “We’ve been playing a player down since a vote held that my father couldn’t play remotely due to Mary Whittle’s firm conviction that technology is the devil’s tool.”

“Does your father live far?”

“Not at all, “Astrid replied. “He lives with me. Unfortunately, he suffers from agoraphobia.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be, but thank you.”

“Your mother doesn’t play, Presti?”

“Ah, she is currently on a three-week ban.” My ears warmed as a flush crept up my throat. “She used a few too many…indelicate words.”

“To be fair,” Astrid defended, “I hardly think hussy is worth banishment for three weeks.”

“It wasn’t hussy that pushed them over the edge though.” I hoped James wouldn’t ask what word my mother had spelled out with her tiles. I did not relish cussing before royalty.

“So, no indelicate words then.” James smiled. “Got it.”

“And don’t stare,” Larry added.

“Stare?”

“Mm. At Seamus. He was young and foolish. Thought he was in love. I guess it is kind of romantic and how was he to know they’d never grow back,” I explained.

“What wouldn’t?” James asked, his expression adorably curious.

“His eyebrows. His first girlfriend suffered from trichophobia. Absolutely paralysed with fear at the sight of hair up close. Must have been extraordinarily difficult, given most people tend to be rather well covered and then there’s the positively hirsute.” I’d thought about poor Seamus’s girlfriend quite a lot, more than I should, but how did she manage day to day in a world of follicularly thriving humans? “So, Seamus…de-haired himself. Sadly, his eyebrows never grew back.”

“Poor Seamus.”

“Mm. He tends to draw his brows on but even after all this time he’s not terribly good at it. Looks constantly surprised actually.”

“Well.” James smiled softly. “I’ll be certain not to stare.”

“I guess you are used to it. Not staring, I mean. You must meet all sorts of people.” I couldn’t imagine having to do the things James does as a prince of England. Meeting one or two strangers I found challenging enough, but having to meet the sheer volume James did blew my mind.

“I do meet all kinds, and as hard as I find it, it has also shown me how wonderfully diverse our world is.”

“Brace yourself, Presti,” Astrid groaned. “Here comes Peter Gussett.”

“Oh, lord help us,” I muttered and then said to James, “Poor Peter always mistakes me for an old army buddy. Forever trying to grab me and hurl me into a foxhole.”

“Booney? What the devil are you doing? Get yourself back in that foxhole before you get your head blown off.” Peter ordered as he grabbed my arm and attempted to launch me across the room into the safety of a foxhole invisible to the rest of us.

“Right you are,” I replied, attempting something like a graceful dive to the floor.

“Bloody stupid young bugger,” Peter groused but continued on his way, apparently satisfied I was safe from harm now that I’d landed spreadeagled on the floor.

James offered me a chivalrous hand up once Peter had gone. His strong grip emphasised the warmth and softness of his hands. I did not often get lecherous thoughts while visiting the Home Strait, but how could I not when a devastatingly handsome prince held my hand?

“Thank you,” I whispered. Self-preservation warned me not to get too attached, too besotted with Prince James. All too soon he’d return to England, to his life, and where would that leave me if he took my heart with him?

“Shall we?” Astrid asked after I’d stood frozen and staring at the prince for far too long.

“Of course.”

The games room had been set up exactly as it was every other Saturday afternoon with a handful of tables topped with Scrabble boards. A trolley sat along the far wall with plates of biscuits and a hot water urn for the numerous cups of tea we consumed during our matches. Our fellow competitors were already seated and ready to play. I quickly introduced James, hoping if I went fast enough nobody would have time to look too closely at our new player.

Once we were seated and the games underway, I released a relieved breath. Our subterfuge appeared to be working. No one had given James more than a cursory look. No one gasped with recognition of royalty in their midst.

And James seemed to be having the time of his life.

“Should we intervene?” James leaned over his board where he fought a healthy battle against Seamus. He stared, quite alarmed, at Astrid who engaged in a heated debate with Mary Whittle, self-proclaimed judge and jury of the Scrabble tournament.

“Best to leave them to it, actually. I suspect Mary is questioning one of Astrid’s word choices. She refuses to accept any word not found in her Macquarie Dictionary , and as you are aware, Astrid has a most unique knowledge of rare words.” I leaned a little close and continued, “You should hear Mary when Oliver uses made-up words from pop culture.”

“Such as?”

“Well, things almost came to blows when he tried using Arrakis.”

“Like from Dune ?”

“Exactly.” One of the things I liked about James was his ability to follow my conversations wherever they might lead. I didn’t know who to thank for his gift because I frequently managed to confuse others. “Are you having a good time?”

James flicked his gaze to where Seamus was placing his tiles, gave him a little glare, then turned back to me. “I’m having the best time. Though where do we stand on what I can only guess are Dutch words?”

“Absolutely not allowed and Seamus knows that,” I said. Seamus gave me a smirk and a wink before returning his attention to his tiles.

“How did this start?” James waved his hands about to encompass the room and everyone and thing in it.

“Oh, well, Astrid and I chose community service rather than playing sports in high school. Neither of us are particularly athletic. Mr Rubenhold sent us here and we enjoyed ourselves very much.”

James gave me one of those smiles where it looked as if he couldn’t quite figure me out but seemed to like me regardless. “Not many people your age would spend their Saturday afternoons at a Scrabble tournament.”

“Mm. I suspect they’d rather be out drinking or partying.”

“Oh, cripes,” Muriel Spranger, my opponent, muttered. “Don’t give this one drinks. Next thing you know he’ll be standing on the railway overpass brandishing an imaginary sword as he prepares to fight off the invading French.”

“That happened one time!” I protested. I could not believe this episode was being brought up again and this time in front of James.

Unrepentant, Muriel continued, “Thought he was Henry the bloody Fifth at Agincourt.”

“Actually, I thought I was one of his knights,” I replied, ridiculously aggrieved that she was telling my tale incorrectly. I should be insisting on her silence.

“By the time I got there,” Larry interjected, “Presti was screaming that it was his duty to die for the king and my lovely Astrid was shouting right back that no, it was his duty to live for her.”

James barked a laugh. “Was she drunk too?”

“Nope,” Larry answered. “That’s just how they are. Love one and you must love the other.”

“Not in the sense of a thruple-type situation,” I added. “We don’t, well, I just, I mean sex with one person is…well, it’s enough, isn’t it? But throw in another set of hands, and, well, you know, an extra penis or vagina. Where would everything go?”

The games room of the Home Strait Retirement Resort went very still and deathly silent.

Until finally Astrid said, “I don’t think Larry was alluding to us being a thruple, Presti. And it’s entirely possible you’ve just given Mary a small heart attack.”

“Apologies, Mary. Small misunderstanding.” Even as I made my apology, many of the other residents, excluding Mary, roared with laughter. James did that lovely lopsided smile of his and played around with his tiles, a faint bloom of pink colouring his cheeks. Despite my humiliation, I couldn’t see past how lovely James looked.

“You mustn’t worry, Presti. We all have our stories,” Seamus said, still trying to leash his laughter. “I bet James here has some of his own. Stuff like that makes us human, endearing. Right, James?”

“Yes. It’s a wonderful story. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to witness it.”

“Two vodkas and he’ll likely re-enact it for you,” Astrid added, earning herself a ‘do shut up’ glare from me.

“That is a gross fabulousity, Astrid. I’d had at least four vodkas, and it was the first time I’d ever touched alcohol.”

“Might we get back to the tournament,” Mary Whittle admonished. “We don’t have all day; we are on the home straight after all.”

“Right you are,” Seamus agreed, and we all focused our attention back to our Scrabble boards.

Except I noticed James staring at me every now and then with a look I couldn’t quite decipher on his face. Whenever I caught him, he’d smile that crooked grin, his eyes would soften, and he’d turn back to his Scrabble tiles.

James’s fixed attention on me produced a bout of aprosexia as my distracted mind couldn’t focus at all on Scrabble. Instead, I tried to decide what James’s staring meant and if I should be happy about it.

Of Mother’s Little Scrabblers, only Astrid won her game, but none of us cared. We’d talked and laughed with each other, bickered over silly words and accusations of cheating. It had been a wonderful day, but then, they always were at the Home Strait Scrabble tournaments.

Astrid, Larry, James, and I walked silently home, Astrid and Larry hand in hand and a few steps ahead. Dark clouds of an incoming storm blotted out the stars and moon, leaving an ink-black sky. Street lights glowed eerily through the mist. Though winter was behind us, it wasn’t hot yet.

Despite the wonderful day, a tremor of sadness rippled through me. We’d been attending these Scrabble tournaments for six years. We’d seen faces come and go. Loss was no stranger to me. Yet the idea that I might not see James’s smiling face at next Saturday’s game tore a little rip in my heart. And it surprised me how much it hurt.

“Are you all right, Presti?”

Embarrassingly, I jumped as James’s voice broke the silence. I glared at him. “Cyril Horton died fifteen minutes after he lost a particularly intense game of Scrabble against me. Felice Stevens died an hour before the tournament one week. People die, James.”

“Um, yes. I am quite aware.”

“Or they leave because they don’t like being around you anymore. Or they get a new job interstate. Or perhaps they fall in love and move to be closer to their lover. Maybe they want to live somewhere warmer or colder.”

“Presti?”

“My point is, James, people leave. And you’ll leave.” My voice cracked a little on the end there, but I didn’t care. Why shouldn’t James know I’d miss him when he left. “And, well, I already know that I shall miss you when you do.”

James stopped, and as if we were joined together by a piece of twine, I did too. “I will have to go home one day. And I shall miss you too.”

“We can resume our penpalship,” I suggested.

“I would like that very much.” James smiled, reached out, and tentatively cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin.

Yes. Dear god, yes. I would miss him awfully.

Once we’d said goodnight to Astrid and Larry, James and I walked home mostly in silence. We didn’t need to fill the quiet with words to feel comfortable. That was a rare thing, especially for two people who hadn’t known each other very well. James and I fit… We worked. Feeling so relaxed with another person felt like a precious gift, and I intended to jealously guard this new relationship.

As we walked, our arms brushed. James’s fingers sought out mine, held them gently. We were holding hands. We were friends, pen pals. I didn’t really know what label to give us, but whatever we were, I was happy. James held my hand, and I was happy.

Simple.

“You really wrote back to me?” James whispered in the dark.

“I did.”

James sighed heavily. “Simon probably intercepted it.”

“Pardon?” Had I stepped into a Romeo and Juliette situation where evil forces would strive to keep us apart? Ridiculous.

“Simon de Montfort is Gran’s personal secretary. He’s a weasel. Cares only about the monarchy, and I very much doubt he’s pleased with our…writing to each other.”

“He’s trying to stop our penpalship?”

“Penpalship?” James asked. He began swinging our arms as if we were the happiest two people on earth. Maybe we were.

“Mm. Astrid and I dubbed it as such. Well, the evil Simon may be trying to thwart us, but I have the drafts of that letter in my scrapbook”— oh, god —”if you wish to read it.”

“You’re keeping a scrapbook?” James’s tone stayed light, but I hoped I hadn’t scared him with that revelation.

“James,” I began. “I know this is no surprise to you, but you are a prince.”

“Yes. Yes, I am aware.”

“Well it is something of a novelty for me. I’ve never met royalty before—if we don’t include my birth at the feet of your grandmother. So, I’m keeping souvenirs of this wondrous turn of events. Silly, I know, but one day I might look back and think this was all some kind of very vivid dream. At least I’ll have the scrapbook to remind me it was real. You were real.”

James stopped walking. I matched him as if we were one. I turned to face him, watched the moonlight flash in his soft eyes, saw the hint of a smile on his lovely mouth. He stole my breath with his beauty.

“I’m real, Presti. This is real.” And then he leant in, pressing his soft lips to mine in the gentlest of kisses.

I pressed back, harder, searching for more. Needing more. James’s arms circled my waist, hauled me closer. Our bodies touched everywhere. The feel of him so close, every ridge and hard plane against mine was incredible. I wished there were a way we could stay like this forever.

My fingers twisted in his hair, lightly tugging, pushing, pulling as I held on, hoping the kiss would never end.

Of course, it did end. When it did, we were both breathless. James’s eyes shone with desire. Nobody had ever looked at me like that before. It was exhilarating. Life-changing.

I’d found people attractive before, but I’d never felt such desire, such unrestrained want for someone. As amazing as I felt, I knew the danger. This was not a simple boy-likes-boy situation.

With James’s kiss still fresh on my lips, I knew we were heading into territory we might not come back from unscathed.

But I simply did not care.

James was worth the risk.