The Royals Next Door Read online

  They could throw all the peace and serenity of the place into a tizzy. If they move next door, the paparazzi from the US and the UK will quickly find out, and they’ll be camped out here day and night. I won’t be able to sit on this dock without photographers on boats and Jet Skis flying past, disrupting the tranquility.

  Most of all, someone like my mother, who can’t handle any change at all, will likely have a breakdown at the intrusion, thrusting her into the public eye.

  It could all get very messy, very fast.

  And I’m not even allowed to talk to anyone about it. Not that I have any close friends, but even so, this is a hard thing to keep to myself.

  Unless . . .

  After I’m done with my tea, I head back into the house, where I whip up a quick casserole for dinner, and then I’m in my bedroom, ready for my weekly podcast.

  I usually record an episode during the week and then I publish it on Fridays. Tonight is a recording day, but suddenly, reviewing historical romance is the last thing I want to do.

  I’m inspired. I want to talk about the royals.

  My romance podcast—Romancing the Podcast—is quite popular, but I run it anonymously. Any social media I have is linked to the podcast, and it has its own email address for questions or review requests from authors. Most of the time, though, I just read the books I want to read. Less pressure that way.

  It’s not that I’m ashamed of reading romance either; I’m pretty proud and vocal about it in my real life. But being a schoolteacher, I think we’re held to different standards, and I don’t want to feel censored on what I can and can’t talk about. If I want to read out a graphic sex scene, I want to be able to do that without fear that the public will find out and chastise me. In the worst-case scenario, I could lose my job over it. There are a lot of uptight fuddy-duddies on this island.

  But tonight, I don’t want to talk about books. I want to talk about real-life romance. I want to talk about Monica and Eddie and what direction their love story could go now that they’ve chosen that love over the duties of being royals.

  I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and pull out my microphone.

  Press record.

  “Hello, my fellow romance enthusiasts, lovers of love, readers of smut, and proud bibliophiles. Welcome to another episode of Romancing the Podcast.” I take in a deep breath and smile. “Normally I would jump right in to this week’s review, but lately I’ve been thinking about the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax. We’re all familiar with the epic love story of Monica Red and Prince Eddie. We’ve watched as this very unlikely pair fell in love after Prince Eddie requested to meet Monica backstage at her London show. Their coupling was quick, and yet the public knew nothing about their affair until months later, when it was apparent the Grammy Award winner would be leaving show business behind to concentrate on her life with our tall, blond hero.

  “Soon, wedding bells were in the air, and all of us—or almost all of us—fell for these two in the case of opposites attracting. Quiet, stoic Edward and the opinionated, fun-loving Monica became the couple of the century, flipping years of tradition and the royal family on its head.

  “But even happily-ever-afters have bumps in the road, and as the media senselessly attacked the couple, with some reports of animosity coming directly from inside the royal palace, they bravely took a stand and said they were going to do things their own way. They were going to move on and make a new life for themselves as the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax. Now one can only wonder, what exactly does the future hold for these two? I, being a hopeless romantic, even though my love life has been anything but charming, can’t help but root for their new chance at a happily-ever-after. But will their quest for privacy and anonymity ever become a reality? Is there such a thing as an HEA if the happy part isn’t guaranteed? Come on, romance lovers, let’s discuss.”

  Four

  “Falafel?” Cynthia asks, poking her head in the classroom doorway, her brows raised expectantly.

  I’m already getting out of my chair and grabbing my purse.

  Lunch hour just started, and today feels all over the place. Tomorrow is Friday, the last day of school before summer vacation begins, and it’s hot and strangely humid, and the kids are absolutely zooey, with zero attention span. As a result, I’m frazzled with no place for my focus to land, so going into town for twenty minutes is probably the right course of action.

  “Want to do coffee instead?” I ask Cynthia as we head down the hall. “I think I’ve had nothing but falafel and chips all week.”

  Ted’s Falafel and Chips is the island’s oldest food truck, located right across from the elementary school and the high school next door. There’s always a huge line of teenagers outside, but when I’m pressed for time, it’s literally the closest place to grab a bite on days I forget to bring my own lunch.

  This week, that’s been every day. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the last week before vacation or what, but my mind has been scattered.

  “Sure, I could grab an iced coffee,” Cynthia says, and then her eyes light up. “And a cinnamon bun!”

  With that, I know we’re heading to Salty Seas Coffee & Goods, where I already stopped this morning for my pre-class fix. They have the gooiest cinnamon buns imaginable; they’re melt-in-your-mouth and caramelized and almost crispy. I’m drooling already.

  But as we’re walking down the street, past the kids and teens lining up at the chip stand or getting slushies from the gas station, Cynthia mentions how much busier this place is going to get this weekend, when kids are out of school across the country and the island swells up like a balloon, and then my mind backtracks to two weeks ago.

  It goes back to Monica and Eddie.

  It goes back to Harrison.

  That fateful encounter with the PPO was the last I’d heard of them being on the island. I never saw him again. They never moved in. The town very quickly, within a day, went back to normal, and all the British paparazzi vanished.

  As for my podcast, well, it ended up being my most listened to episode, with it spreading all over the romance community. Tons of people messaged me, wondering who I was and where I lived, while an equal amount said I was lying and full of shit. The joys of anonymous comments and all that. I think listeners were disappointed when my next episode went back to reviewing romance books and I didn’t mention the royals again.

  “Hey,” I say to her as we take a side street to the coffee shop. “Can I tell you something weird?”

  “Weird?” Cynthia asks. “I love weird.”

  I know she does. She’s wearing this necklace that looks like it’s made of tiny animal bones sloppily painted in neon colors. She says a student gave it to her for Christmas, and she hasn’t taken it off since, even though I think those bones belong to a frog and that the child may have cast a curse on her or something.

  “Okay, so two weeks ago, when the duke and duchess were in town, well, I went straight home because you told me it was chaos in town, and you were right. Except when I went home, there was a PPO blocking the road.”

  “What’s a PPO?”

  “Like the royal bodyguard.” She gasps, her hands to her mouth. I go on. “Not just that, but the royal bodyguard. The sexy one. The brooding one.”

  The asshole one.

  “No way.”

  “Uh-huh. He had to escort me to my house.”

  “No! Piper. He escorted you to your house? Please tell me you let him do a strip search on you.”

  “No,” I say, feigning disgust. His big, strong hands all over my naked body? I, uh . . . “No,” I repeat, more for myself. “He was controlling and a total prick on a power trip. Anyway, the whole point is that Monica and Eddie were looking to rent the place next to me. Obviously it would be perfect for them.”

  She gives me a questioning look. “I’ve never been to your house. I don’t even know where you live.�
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  “Scott Point.”

  She purses her lips. “Well la-di-da. Scott Point on a teacher’s salary.”

  “It’s a long story, but believe me, it’s not what you think. I live in the old servants’ quarters, and there is no view. And anyway, he was all concerned that I would be a threat to their safety. I mean, me.”

  She nods, taking that in. “That’s true. You’re the least threatening teacher on the faculty.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  I shrug. “I guess because he told me I couldn’t tell anyone and then I kind of forgot with all the end-of-school madness. Turns out, I never saw them again, and it all died down. It’s like it never happened.”

  “I guess he really did think you were a threat,” she says, an amused smile on her hot-pink lips, which match her neon bone necklace. “Miss Piper Evans, the most feared teacher on SSI.”

  I attempt to elbow her, but she moves her lithe body out of the way. “Hey, apparently he thought I was someone to reckon with.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. I’m only five foot three, so any ferocity I have can be likened to a chihuahua’s. “I can’t believe that happened to you,” she says with a sigh. “What a shame, huh? How cool would that have been?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit as we approach the coffee shop and I hold the door open for her. “I talked to Bert, the head of the RCMP, and it seems a lot of people wouldn’t have been all that happy if they moved in. Crisis averted.”

  “More like opportunity wasted.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault,” I tell her, and then bring my voice down to a whisper once we enter the shop. “There could have been a million factors as to why they didn’t settle here. Honestly, I couldn’t really blame them. This can be a strange place.”

  Being lunch hour, there’s already a line, so I briefly consider going to another coffee shop and skipping the cinnamon bun, but who knows what the line will be like over there.

  We’re almost at the counter when a woman sitting at the corner table loudly exclaims, “No!” and her friend leans over to see whatever it is on her phone.

  She gasps.

  They both gasp.

  Then I see someone running past the shop.

  And another person.

  And another person.

  Heading in the direction of the harbor.

  My first thought is that there is some sort of emergency.

  But then the woman and her friend jump to their feet and she quickly says, “Prince Eddie and his wife just arrived by seaplane!”

  That’s all it takes for nearly the whole coffee shop to abandon their cinnamon buns and lattes and run outside, joining the pack of people already running to the harbor.

  “This is insane!” I exclaim, looking around. “Everyone has lost their mind.”

  Cynthia turns to me and gives me a pleading look with puppy-dog eyes.

  “What?” I ask incredulously. “You want to join the mob and run down there too?”

  “My mother is obsessed with Monica. It would make her day if I could send her a picture. Maybe she’d finally come and visit me.”

  “Fine, go,” I tell her. “I’ll get your coffee for you.”

  “And the cinnamon bun!” She grins at me, and then she’s running out of the shop too, her necklace swinging.

  I shake my head, and suddenly I’m the next in line since everyone ahead of me ditched out. I look at the barista with her pale silver-purple hair and nose ring. She’s staring longingly at the door, her phone in her hand, mid-text.

  “I’d take over for you if I could,” I offer.

  She smiles begrudgingly and rings in my order for two oat-milk lattes.

  I snag the last cinnamon bun for myself.

  Afterward I walk back to the school, hoping Cynthia can tear herself away from the mayhem before the lunch bell rings. Every now and then another person runs or speed walks past me, and I have to wonder what the hell is going through their heads. Maybe it’s because I’d already had that meeting with Harrison, but I don’t understand the obsession. This is like Beatlemania for the twenty-first century.

  That said, there is a smaller version of myself, adorned with furry devil horns, perched on my shoulder and whispering in my ear, “They’re back, the royals are back. They might be your neighbors after all.”

  That version of me sounds a little too excited, so I flick her off my shoulder and try to regain my composure. The whole town is going nuts for these royals, not me. Besides, just because they’re back doesn’t mean anything, and it certainly doesn’t mean they’ll be my neighbors.

  My thoughts become reality. Aurelie Lamont, the French teacher, is leaning against the main entrance into the school, staring off into the distance. She’s from Quebec, so there’s something about her pose that’s even extra dramatic, her dark hair flowing around her.

  I give her a quick smile, about to make some passing small talk such as “Hot day, eh?” when she says, “They’re buying a place on Juniper.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Sorry, what?”

  She looks at me idly. “The duke and duchess. They’re buying a place up on Juniper. That big house behind the gates. Used to belong to Randy Bachman. The Guess Who. ‘Femme Américaine.’ ‘Pas de sucre ce soir.’ You know.”

  “Really? Where did you hear that?”

  She gives a light shrug with one of her shoulders. “A student told me. She lives in the neighborhood. Don’t worry, I made her tell me in French.”

  I just nod at that and walk inside. I hate to admit it, but there’s a flutter of disappointment in my chest. It’s almost as if I secretly wanted them to move next door to me, even though I just spent my lunch hour chastising the idea. I guess having them as neighbors would have made me feel . . . special. Sounds silly and so stupid, but it probably would have been the most exciting thing that ever happened to me.

  I shake it off. I have to. It’s dumb, and earlier today the whole thing seemed like a distant memory anyway.

  Before I know it, it’s time to go home. I never regained control of my kids after lunch, so I pretty much just let them run wild in the classroom, so long as no one got hurt and no one puked in my bag again. Cynthia never even came to get her latte, so I ended up drinking both of them, and when I get inside the Garbage Pail, my hands are shaking from the four shots of espresso.

  That doesn’t prevent me from munching away on my cinnamon bun on the drive home, one hand on the wheel, one hand in the delicious gooey mess.

  I’m almost at my house when I see him.

  A black Range Rover physically blocking the driveway and Harrison Cole standing outside it, leaning against the door and facing me, arms folded, aviators on. Another sharp-looking suit that fits him like a glove.

  My heart does something strange, like skips a beat, and I blame it on the caffeine.

  I roll to a stop and then stick my head out the window.

  “Excuse me, I’d like to get by now,” I say in my best Wayne’s World Garth Algar impression.

  Harrison, naturally, doesn’t get the reference.

  “I’m going to need to see some identification, miss,” he says to me in his raspy British accent as he walks toward my car.

  I stare at him, openmouthed, until I realize I have sticky cinnamon bun all over my face. I can’t believe his nerve, and yet I’m also trying to subtly clean my face at the same time.

  “ID? You know who I am,” I tell him.

  “I’m afraid I need to see your driver’s license,” he says, stopping right outside the car, his Hulk-ish frame extra imposing from this angle. “Or is it still missing?”

  “So you do remember me.”

  “I wish I could forget,” he replies dryly.

  I frown.

  Dick.


  “Then you know I live right there and you’re blocking my own driveway.”

  “I can’t let you pass until I see some ID.”

  I’m still staring at him. Is he serious? I mean, he looks serious and I think he’s always serious, but how dare he ask for ID when he knows who I am? What gives him the fucking right to prevent me from going home?

  He cocks a brow expectantly, staring down at me. I wish I could rip those aviators off and run them over with my car.

  I let out a huff of anger and try to get my driver’s license out of my purse. I’m lucky that it came in the mail two days ago. I’m not so lucky that I had the photo taken during my lunch hour, right after gym class, when Eunice dumped Gatorade over another kid’s head after a game of basketball and I got most of the blowback. A partially drowned rat with smudgy mascara is forever immortalized in black and white.

  “Here,” I tell him, trying to hand over the ID, but of course it’s a sticky cinnamon bun–smeared mess.

  Harrison scrunches up his nose distastefully as he takes the card from me. He raises it to his nose and sniffs the substance. “What is this?”

  “It’s the remains of a baked good, what do you think it is?”

  He sniffs again, seems to think about it, and then peers at the photo and then back at me. “These photos are never very flattering, are they?”

  “Are you done?”

  “Not quite, Ms. Evans,” he says, pronouncing my name like it’s some sort of alias before giving me the license back. “The duke and duchess have decided to rent the house.”

  “I was told they were buying Randy Bachman’s house. You know, the Guess Who?”

  “That was a decoy house to throw people off, at least at the beginning. They’ve decided that this is the place for them after all.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nods. Dumb question, really.

  “I expressed my concern over you, but they didn’t seem to be that bothered by it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He goes on as if he didn’t just say that he told the royals that I was a security concern. “The gate will be going up as soon as possible. We’re installing cameras, and there will be a passcode that only you and your mother will be given access to. Until then, I’ll be parked here blocking the way, and my men will be in the trees.”