Eight

"I thought we could work in the dining room." Arran followed Charlotte through the front door of her house. "We'll have more

space to go through everything."

Her ball cap was pleasantly absent, and her hair fell in a long braid over her shoulder. Plus, she wore the fitted green sweater

he'd picked out for her in the shop, along with a pair of her new jeans and new calf-high boots.

His grin tipped. Maybe she was starting to like this makeover a little bit.

Arran tugged off his jacket as they entered the dining room, papers scattered across an antique table. "What is all this?"

"Contacts, finances." She sighed down into a chair. "A list of kids' names from the past."

He took a chair across from her, surveying the mess. "Is anything digital?"

Her eyes withered closed and she leaned forward, elbows on the table. "The previous organizer believed in the old-fashioned

way of filing."

Ah, a definite way to assist. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, to match her pose. "Well, tell me what we have here

and what the schedule is, and then we can sort out how to manage it all. Create a spreadsheet, if necessary."

"Wait a minute." Her grin flickered. "I didn't know royals used spreadsheets. Is that one of the courses you take in prince

school?"

"Oh yes." He curbed his smile into a thoughtful grimace, chin tipped. "Along with how to maintain unwavering posture, appropriate throat clearing..."

"How to style the perfect wave to your hair." She gestured toward him.

"Most assuredly. Every prince in the movies has a perfect wave."

At this Charlotte snort-laughed, and a warmth bloomed in his chest at the sound. "And, of course, various ways to fight dragons."

His gaze caught hers. "And rescue damsels in distress."

Her smile flared wide. "Well, then I can't imagine you not being prepared to help with The Wish. You are fully qualified, especially for the rescue part."

They spent the next half hour sorting the tangled information into manageable data. In the process, the sweet scent of apples

kept distracting him.

Charlotte's scent. And it suited her. Sweet with a little tang.

"So your first presentation is at the school meeting next week?" Arran asked.

"Followed by the fundraiser at the Ashby Theater," Charlotte added. "Which is a big deal, because it's the first time in years

that the Ashby's offered to have a jam session."

"Jam session?" Arran replayed the phrase in his head. "That sounds violent."

Charlotte's grin resurfaced. "It's when folks get together to play bluegrass music. And in this case, Christmas bluegrass."

"Bluegrass?"

Her eyes lit. "Oh, you definitely need an introduction to bluegrass."

"With an activity known as a ‘jam session' and music referred to as ‘bluegrass,' I'm simultaneously intrigued and terrified."

Her lips quivered toward another smile. "Well, there is food involved too. And dancing, of course."

"And you dance?"

A rush of pink deepened her cheeks, and he stared for longer than he'd intended. " That kind of dancing, yes. Not"—she waved at him and looked back at the papers—" your kind of dancing."

A blush suited her.

Very well.

So did laughing.

In fact, the soft, feminine look of her in that cozy sweater and long braid matched the woman he was beginning to understand

better with each passing day. What a marvelous combination for such a strong, skilled woman to possess a gentle beauty she

didn't even seem to know she had.

"I'm less concerned about dancing and more about my presentation skills, or lack thereof."

He relaxed back in the chair and studied her. "When I first started public speaking, my grandfather told me to remember three

points. Of course, there were additional things like volume and rate of speech, as well as eye contact with some in the crowd.

But in writing the speech, he boiled the necessities down to three."

Charlotte rested her chin on the heel of her palm, waiting.

"Firstly." He held up one finger. "Gratitude or welcome. So, simply welcoming those who are listening or thanking them for

their time."

"That doesn't seem so hard."

"Right." He grinned. "A natural thing to do when you're thankful for the opportunity, yes?"

She nodded, and he continued by raising two fingers. "Acknowledge the story."

"The story?"

"This part is the heart of your speech. Taking the history or the passion of what you're discussing and passing it on to your

listeners. This is where you can give a brief history of why The Wish was created and, perhaps, the reason you believe it's

worthwhile."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that." She studied him, her brows pinching a little, before she steadied her gaze in his. "I... I was one of those children."

Even though he'd suspected as much, the declaration constricted his chest.

"At first I didn't think my mom's absence impacted me so much because she had slowly been disappearing from my life for months

before she finally left. But then as those weeks turned into years, this lingering ache began to grow." She looked down at

the papers, her hand moving to squeeze her braid, almost as if the action brought comfort. "I had this weird sort of wrestling

match going on inside of me, between wanting to hide because of my own shame and to escape people's pity, or to just let people

see how lost I was."

" Your shame?"

Her gaze rose. "I know it's not true, but there was this lingering feeling that I was the reason she left. That I wasn't good

enough for her to stay, to choose me over her drugs."

"Charlotte," he whispered. And without a second thought, he covered her hand on the table.

"But then again, I didn't want to be forgotten. I didn't want people to assume my life was like everyone else's, and that

there wasn't this giant mom-sized hole taking up permanent residence in my soul."

A glossy sheen filled those silver eyes. He slid from his chair and moved to the one nearest her, taking her wrist into his

hand as she turned to him. She didn't seem to notice his touch, lost in her hurt.

"And finally," she said with a sniff, "I chose the easiest of the two options."

"Hiding?"

She nodded. "But when I turned sixteen, someone nominated me for The Mistletoe Wish. At first the idea of being one of ‘those kids' horrified me." Her lips curved into a sad smile as she shook her head. "But the woman who brought me my Christmas gifts—her name was Grace Mitchell. She's kind of a legendary matriarch here in Ransom." Charlotte chuckled even as a tear slid down her cheek. "One of the gifts she chose for me was a painting of an old castle on top of some cliff with a sunset in the background. A little girl with her long hair flowing in the breeze, waiting at the door of the castle, with a massive lion standing beside her." Her grin grew. "Ma Mitchell had known me since birth, so my reputation of dressing up as a princess and searching for castles still followed me into my teens, I'm afraid."

His grin responded to hers, the way she tried to find humor even in the middle of sharing this heartbreaking story. "I imagine

you were the sort of princess who fought dragons."

A light lit her eyes. "It's the only type of princess worth being."

"Indeed, it is. Because in real life, there are still a great many dragons to face."

Her eyes watery, she smiled before she drew in a breath. "One of the best parts of the painting were the words written on

a little gold placard at the bottom: ‘ Have courage, dear heart. '" Charlotte shook her head. "I think that's what she wanted me to know most. Maybe she'd seen how I'd lost my courage and

confidence over the years and wanted to remind me I still had them." She shrugged a shoulder. "And I had my dreams." She paused

for a moment before she sighed. "That painting didn't immediately change anything, but it told me that someone saw my pain

and believed there was more to me than just ‘the little girl whose mom left.' That there was hope."

A solemn silence followed her words. She drew in a shivering breath before releasing a small chuckle. "Um, sorry, I don't

think you wanted all of that, did you? But, well..." She shrugged. "You asked."

"I'm glad you told me." His thumb trailed the inside of her wrist before he released his hold, the feel of her skin sending

awareness through him. "It sounds as though you have a great deal of wisdom and passion to bring to your speech."

Her face broke into a grin, and he somehow felt the movement in his pulse. "I think being pushed into this role propelled something to the front of my mind that I'd hidden in the back. Truths I hadn't considered for a while, maybe ever."

"You've expressed two important things every thoughtful human wants." He studied her face. "To be seen and loved for who we

really are."

"Seen and loved enough to stay," she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. The declaration shook through him as if

she'd spoken it directly to his soul. Enough to stay.

He leaned back in his seat a little, the intensity of her words shaking him. A cry his heart knew all too well.

"Your father instilled some excellent qualities in you, Charlotte." Arran waved toward her, attempting to distract himself

from the unexpected connection her wounds held with his. "And I'm certain, with your intelligence, you can master public speaking."

She looked away, another rush of pink rising into her cheeks as she cleared her throat. "So, if number two is to acknowledge

the story, what's number three?"

Deflection? Perhaps she recognized the connection too?

He held up three fingers. "Purpose of the speech. Oftentimes, this is where you encourage people to join the story. So, for

example, after your riveting and heartfelt acknowledgment of the story—"

A burst of air erupted from her in a silent laugh.

"You'll either invite others to join you or thank them for joining you, depending on the purpose of the speech."

"That makes sense."

"But, Charlotte." He nudged her hand again. "Putting elements of your story into your speech would make it more meaningful." Her gaze caught in his. "I'm certain you have the courage."

She searched his face, as if his words mattered to her. "Are you?"

"You've continued your friendship with me despite my appalling first impression and poor carpentry skills."

His response not only brought out her smile but encouraged the proper turn of the conversation in a lighter direction.

"Well, I do have a weakness for the perfect hair wave." She offered a one-shoulder shrug. "And it's good to know that sometimes

the prince needs a rescue now and again."

" This prince needs rescuing on a regular basis and is humble enough to admit it." He tapped the table. "So I'm certainly not fit

for the fairy tales."

"I don't know." She shoved a file toward him. "Maybe the best stories are when two people rescue each other a little bit.

No girl wants to constantly live in damsel-in-distress mode. Not only would it be exhausting, but also a little humiliating."

He rather liked that definition of a relationship.

They shifted through a few other papers before Arran broke the silence. "Do you still have the painting?"

Her brows rose, the question taking a moment to register, and then she frowned. "No. When Dad and I moved into this Victorian,

somewhere in the middle of all the packing and purging, the painting disappeared." She raised a palm. "But I did buy a necklace

with ‘ Courage, dear heart ' written on it, as a type of replacement."

"A good reminder?"

"Yeah." Her gaze met his. "That being seen in all my brokenness isn't so bad after all."

He couldn't look away. A flicker of something... vulnerable, almost like a question, waited in her expression. The look

pulled at a point in his chest, drawing him forward in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. "That's a very good reminder for

any story, even a fairy tale."