Page 14 of Guarding the Princess
“Here you go. I found one last one in the back.” Charlotte winks at a little boy, handing him a lollipop they don’t even sell at the coffee shop. The boy skips away to his table with his mom and the little baby she has strapped to her chest.
See what I mean? She’s kind to little kids, getting that boy a treat I’m sure she didn’t charge him for, yet she’ll call me names and try to leave me in the dust when she knows I’m supposed to watch her every move.
My phone vibrates on the table with a text message from an unknown number.
Unknown:The family jet has been scheduled for Wednesday morning at nine Pacific Time. Have Charlotta on that plane or your contract is over. Queen Margit
Oh, boy. The Queen herself is now texting me demands. A twisting in my stomach joins the burning in my chest. I really need to stop eating so much sugar. And I guess ignoring Nora’s texts only got me a couple days’ reprieve.
I glance over at Charlotte, wondering how I can complete this job assignment without going against her wishes. Not that I had any experience with this sort of thing, but I could understand not wanting your life to be dictated for you. Everyone wants to be free to make their own decisions.
On the flip side though, was royal life really that bad? And didn’t most people make their own decisions and still get stuck in a job or relationship they didn’t want? Charlotte wouldn’t be all that different than the average Joe schlepping themselves to a job they hate and then home to a spouse they barely communicate with. Seems to me, her country needs her and she’s walking out on them. For what? A chance to work at a coffee shop her whole life and live alone in a tiny apartment in the city, lying to her best friend?
“I know I brought it.”
An old lady with a cane stands at the counter now holding up the line, having just given Charlotte her order. I need to stop getting lost in my thoughts and watch over Charlotte before I lose my job. The lady’s jamming her gnarled hand into every pocket on her dress—and there are many—looking for something. Charlotte leans over and whispers something to her I can’t hear. The old lady beams at her and pats her hand before moving on. Charlotte quickly digs in her own pocket and puts a five-dollar bill in the register before taking the next person’s order.
The sight of her quick generosity confuses me more. There has to be something else she’s not telling me about her situation. She clearly doesn’t have a selfish bone in her body and yet she’s only given me flimsy, self-centered reasons for not returning to take the throne and rule her country. Something isn’t adding up and if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a bodyguard, it’s that if something smells fishy, it’s usually because someone’s lying.
I narrow my eyes and decide that for however long I have on this job—which probably won’t be much longer at all based on the Queen’s tone—I’m going to figure out Charlotte whether she likes it or not.
Speaking of the devil, she raises her head and catches my eye, the pale skin of her neck turning a decidedly pink color before she averts her gaze and uses the fall of her hair to hide her face from me. No matter. I’ll just use the best tool ever invented for investigators or inquiring minds: the internet.
I’m going to know every tiny fact about Charlotta Isaksson before I’m off this job.
A billion Google searches later I discover very little about the American Charlotte Isaac. First, Charlotte and Rhys used to work together right here in this same coffee shop. An article on Rhys and Jake’s wedding, where Charlotte stands gorgeous and poised as her maid of honor, mentions her work history here, explaining how she and Charlotte had become friends almost three years ago, which had to have been right when Charlotte moved here at eighteen. Why would Charlotte lie to Rhys about her identity even after all this time? If they were truly best friends, wouldn’t Charlotte want Rhys to know who she was and how she would be moving back to Regora when she turned twenty-one?
Secondly, online articles on Charlotta’s family are mostly only about their policies or public appearances, not on their family life, so I’m no further along in finding skeletons in Charlotte’s closet. There’s something here though, I can feel it.
“Surfing the internet while you’re on the clock? Ohh, I’m telling Mother.” Charlotte appears beside me, her hip gently pushing my shoulder. I catch her grin and quickly lock my phone screen.
“Time to go?”
“Yes, finally. How about we go back to my place so I can change and then you can take me out to dinner?”
She looks away to fumble with her big bag and scarf.
“Are you asking yourself out on a date with me?”
Charlotte bites her lip and that burn in my chest is back. Maybe I should get that checked out before it escalates into a full-blown heart attack.
“We both need to eat, so why not go out and enjoy LA?”
I stand up and push my chair in, ready to follow her out of the shop. “It is one of your last nights in Los Angeles, so that’s a pretty good idea.”
She rolls her eyes and walks out, assuming I’ll follow. She’s not wrong.
When I catch up, she says, “Will you stop with that? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Your mother seems to think you’ll be on the family jet at nine a.m. on Wednesday.”
She comes to a halt right on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. I shove my hands in my pockets and wait for that fire to enter her eyes. Lashing out at me is expected, but I still brace myself. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, but knowing I’m putting her in distress doesn’t sit well with me.
“Did she call you?”
I inhale a deep breath. “Text.”
She looks down the street, but I don’t think she sees the cars. Defeat looks terrible on her, dulling her shine and killing the sunny spirit that normally exudes from her with minimal effort.
