Page 1 of Guarding the Princess
1
Charlotte
The wine sloshes around in the glass as I bring it to my lips. Technically, I’m not twenty-one yet, though that day is approaching, so the restaurant shouldn’t have even served it to me. Stature, body language, manners. The right way to carry yourself has been drilled into me since the day I was born. I probably came into the world with a proper peep of a cry, not too loud, not too long, just right. At least now, I’m putting all that training to good use: not being carded by the server at this fine establishment in West Hollywood.
“So this young kid used the app for like, ten minutes, and was able to break into the city hall servers. Can you believe that?” The table shakes as Zeke gets carried away with his latest tale about the app he designed. He’s been telling me about it for months now, and while I mostly zone out because, let’s be real, I have no clue what he’s talking about, I know it’s important to him.
“That’s rad.” I smile and sip my wine, willing my hand to stop shaking. It’s just a simple meal of noodles and conversation. Sure, I’m planning on asking Zeke to marry me, but there’s no reason to be nervous.
He quirks a smile at me, loving it when I use American slang. That’s what brought us together six months ago. He heard me talking at the coffee shop I work at and he loved my accent. Said it made him smile into his no whip, caramel, single shot, extra caramel drizzle frapuccino. I work hard not to judge him by his frilly coffee drink, believe me, I do. Six months we’ve been dating and I haven’t even told him where my accent comes from. Funny enough, he hasn’t asked either.
“I know, right? So now I just need to get it in front of some investors and this thing is going to be huge. I can just feel it, Char.” His eyes twinkle more than the white twinkle lights strung outside on the empty patio in the wintery air.
Mine don’t twinkle because I don’t really like the nickname “Char.” He gave it to me right after our first date, but by then I kind of liked him—or the idea of him—and didn’t call him out on it. Americans were always shortening words or slurring them together, weren’t they? I was, and still am, intrigued by his passion and focus on his app. In my little country, we don’t have a lot of entrepreneurs. Mostly just ship builders and the guys who work the oil rigs. Most kids don’t even have cell phones until they either go off to college or get their own jobs after high school. Building an app is unheard of.
Zeke takes a huge bite of spaghetti, the tail end of one long noodle splashing red sauce onto his cheek. Mother would die if she saw his deplorable manners. He chews his food like those squirrels I feed at the park after work sometimes. He’s adorable in his own way. Dark hair always a little unkempt like he can’t be bothered to comb it when he has so many more interesting things to do. Bright yellow Crocs he wears with slacks and a button-down shirt might be considered gauche in some circles. It’s all part of his charm. He dabs at his face with his napkin and washes it down with a swig of water.
“I really think this thing is going to be a huge hit.” He leans forward, the excitement contagious in the way it rolls off him in waves. “I’m talking high six figures.”
It takes me a second to translate. I’ve been in the States for almost three years and have perfected the English I learned from my tutor when I was six, but the idioms and slang sometimes trips me up. I quickly realize he means making over one hundred thousand dollars, which is impressive, for sure. In my old life I may have scoffed over the paltry sum, but having recently lived as a minimum wage barista, I understand how far money gets you in the real world.
“That’s wonderful, Zeke! I’m so happy for you.” I smile at him, the affection real though the intensity feels a bit muted for someone I profess to be in love with. I don’t know what love really feels like, but I always assumed it would be more spectacular than this vague fondness.
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. It’s now or never. My heart rate picks up in anticipation. Nausea hits my stomach and I push it down. I need him to say yes.
“Zeke?” Should I get down on one knee or is that just for the man? I’m unclear on American traditions, only that the woman proposing is a bit progressive.
He must not have heard me as he releases my hand to take another bite of spaghetti.
“Wait!” I shout, drawing some attention from nearby tables. I glance around apologetically. Except for when I seehim. The new bodyguard Mother must have hired who follows me everywhere. He’s sitting in the back of the restaurant with a clear view of my table. Let’s hope he’s far enough away to not hear my proposal.
“Charlotte. Lower your voice,” Zeke hisses at me, clearly not happy with the other patrons giving us dirty looks. He wants to be taken seriously, which I can respect. Shouting in a fancy restaurant is not exactly the height of manners.
“I’m sorry. Really. I don’t know what’s come over me. I just—well—I wanted to ask you a question.” I fumble through the words after his criticism, making him frown harder, which makes me fumble more. “We’ve been dating for a while. A long while. Well, not that it felt like a long time, just that we’re compatible, wouldn’t you say?”
When he only tilts his head at me like a confused puppy, I plunge ahead. “So, I think it’s time to take the next step. I-I would like to ask you if you’d marry me.”
There. I said it. I blew out a breath, inordinately relieved I got the question out of my mouth. Though it wasn’t much of a question. More like a weak suggestion. I finally look up at him, seeing his jaw has gone slack. And that sparkle in his eyes? Gone. Like dead as the leaves in winter, gone. My stomach rumbles and I don’t think it’s due to the questionable squid we had as an appetizer.
Zeke finally snaps his mouth closed and looks around the restaurant like his answer might be found elsewhere. Anywhere but here at our table. The silence hanging between us is deafening.
“Did—did you hear me?” Mother would be so disappointed in my stuttering. At one time I was known for giving eloquent speeches, even as a teenager. My life has clearly changed.
“Yeah. I heard you, Charlotte. You asked me to marry you.” His eyes focus back on my face, his cheeks turning a mottled red, his words clipped on the end. “Are you insane?” His voice explodes into the quiet restaurant, drawing onlookers yet again.
Now my cheeks are pink. I don’t care for his tone. “No, I’m not insane, just a touch desperate or I wouldn’t have asked so soon.”
“Desperate?” A couple beads of sweat dot his upper lip.
“Yes, desperate.” I throw my napkin on the table and let the fire growing in my belly fuel my speech. Despite the last two and a half years in hiding, I won’t deny who I am at my core any longer. Popping the question has popped open my true personality.
Charlotta Isakkson is back.
“Family tradition has dictated a role I don’t particularly want to step into. My only way out is getting married before my twenty-first birthday, which as you know, is next month. I require a husband. You and I get along. We should get married. Immediately.”
Zeke’s jaw drops yet again and I have an insane wish to jam a large forkful of spaghetti into it to shut him up. Not very ladylike so I refrain. Barely.
“Who are you and what are you even talking about?”
