Page 29 of Roaming Holiday

I sigh. After watching her constantly put on hand sanitizer and carry a cloth in her bag specifically to keep her bare legs from touching public chairs, it wasn’t a far-fetched guess she wouldn’t want to wear the helmet. I hold it closer to her.

“I made sure to clean it myself,” I say, and when she hesitates, I add, “Twice.”

Only then does Nina accept the helmet and climb on. I manage to remain neutral with my tone and demeanor; it takes more effort than usual. Regardless of her sitting behind me, of her arms snug around my waist, I’m working. She’s my client who manipulated me into getting what she wants. I’ll stop so she can get fries she likes and I’ll drive up to Moritzi’s so she can watch the sunset again. The light will outline her and the word angel will haunt me. If doing all of this will keep her content and quiet, then so be it. I can deal with intrusive thoughts and ignore deep desires.

But if she begs me for something—anything—again, I’ll be undone and won’t trust my decision-making.

15

NINA

I want my own moped.

Even riding on the back of one is way better than I imagined—as long as I avoid overthinking the cleanliness of this helmet.

The road Beck drives us through has a perfect view of the sea, the sparkly waters blinding. I unwrap a hand from his waist and let it curve with the wind, but the moped suddenly slows and he snaps at me to hold onto him with both arms. I groan but comply and enjoy the rest of the ride to Moritzi’s while pushing aside the thought of how comfortable I am with my chest pressed against my bodyguard’s back.

There’s way too much on my plate to even consider his attractiveness. I may have spent the last few hours doing anything I wanted, but the reality is that I’m here to accept a title. At least, that’s what my aunt and cousins want. During lunch, they gushed about life as a Maldanian royal—about all the good we could do.

Since I arrived in Maldana, different emotions have been hitting me left and right: excitement, confusion, grief, anger, and fear. Today, I feel tricked. I was tricked into this vacation, lured into a falsehood of relaxation when I truly have to determine the future of myself and a whole country.

The job sounds enticing. I would never have to worry about rent or dinner. I could travel without issue. But at what cost—the taxes of the woman running the fruit stand Beck drives us past? What gives me the right, and what would I do for her in return? Oh, right. I would attend charity auctions and gatherings while wearing a ten-thousand-dollar dress.

“Pull over,” I tell Beck.

He hesitates. “We’re two minutes out.”

“Pull over!”

Panic seizes me. If I decline the crown, I won’t just disappoint my family; I’ll disappoint an entire culture that loves tradition. But accepting it means defying my values.

Beck stops on an emergency shoulder. I rip off the helmet and drop it before walking paces ahead toward the sun. He asks me what’s wrong, but I don’t answer.

New emotion unlocked on this trip: powerless.

No matter what I choose, someone will be hurt. I can’t stop that. I place my hands on my knees to catch my breath. The wind pushes a curl in my face, so I begin twirling my hair into a low bun. I can control having a face clear of loose hair. It’s not enough. I glance over my shoulder at Beck. He studies me through his sunglasses.

I reach for the keys. “I’m driving.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, lifting them from my reach.

“I can drive a stupid moped.”

“I know you can, but I’m not giving you the keys until you take a minute to calm down.”

I flex my fingers and take a deep breath. The easy thing to do is threaten to scream if he doesn’t give me the keys, but that’s not the kind of person I want to be. He hands them over after a few calming moments.

Controlling this vehicle is the most I can do. It’s best to get out of my head and root myself in the present, but the present includes sitting between Beck’s legs and it’s really hard to ignore what I feel pressed against my ass. Rather than hold my waist, he reaches under my arms to grasp the inner part of the handles. I turn my head to secure the helmet clasp until I feel a hand on the back of my head.

“Watch where you’re swinging that thing.”

“Ugh,” I huff, taking it off. “You put it on.”

He leans back. “Absolutely not. You’re wearing it.”

“No, I’m not. If you insist on reaching forward to hold the handles, I’m not wearing the helmet because I’ll knock you out by accident. And as appealing as that sounds…”

His expression doesn’t falter. “Put the helmet back on.”

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