Sarah toys with the rim of her wine glass thoughtfully. "I don't think it's the sort of task that's supposed to be easy. We've always tried to protect them from the harsher realities of life. Jane knows logically that she is more fortunate that almost anyone else in the world. But there's a difference between knowing that, and seeing it with her own eyes. Truly understanding the suffering others experience in the world and even her own country. Maybe, we've sheltered her too much. Sam and Elizabeth send their children on charitable missions every summer. They've done work in all sorts of places...perhaps it's time we do the same for Jane."
I shake my head. "Our children are different. They're targets--we all are--we learned that the hard way, years ago."
"I haven't forgotten."
"I don't like putting them out there, in danger. Needlessly."
Sarah tilts her head, regarding me. "But you're just fine with putting yourself there."
"It's not the same."
"But, now, it is the same. One day Jane will be you--she will sit where you sit, be faced with the same trials and choices you face. It would be cruel and dangerous not to prepare her for that. We're lucky that she still lives here with us--that she's just in her first year in Uni. But the time is quickly coming when she will be out of our reach, Henry. Her opinions will be set and we won't be able to influence her. If we have any hope of shaking her views, I'm afraid it has to be now...or never."
I rub the back of my neck and stare at my wife for a few moments.
"You're right." I chuckle, shaking my head. "Of course, you're right. You were always the brave one."
She smiles gently. Remembering. "Not always."
Sarah reaches across the table for my hand, and I give it to her without hesitation. "But you kept your promise. You kept me safe, so I could be brave. And I have no doubt that you will do the same for our daughter." She squeezes my hand. "I have no doubts about you, Henry."
Not for the first time, I gaze at Sarah's lovely face, at the absolute, unconditional trust in her dark eyes...and I know deep inside that I would be fucking lost without her. I would be nothing. Less than nothing.
Leaning forward, I bring her small hand to my lips. Then I cradle it in both of mine. "I'll call Sam in the morning."
****
Sarah
"But why did we have so many?"
Henry's voice reaches me from the bath where he's just finished his shower--a lighter extension of the conversation we began at dinner. I sit at the vanity table, my glasses off, rubbing moisturizer into my cheeks, tapping it below my eyes, wearing a rose and ivory silk nightgown.
My husband steps into the bedroom with a cloud of steam wafting behind him, rubbing a towel across his broad shoulders and damp head, wearing nothing. There's no concern that the staff will enter our rooms unannounced. That was nipped in the bud during the first weeks of our marriage--when Henry's valet walked in on one of our...friskier...moments.
Henry thought the whole thing was hilarious--but I couldn't look the poor man in the face for a month. So, my husband gave the staff strict instructions not to come into our rooms without knocking, at any time of day, unless the palace was burning to the ground.
There are Queen's quarters near to these rooms, but we've never used them. As if Henry would ever let me sleep anywhere but beside him. As if I'd ever want to. Sometimes, I still can't believe that it's real--that this is a life I get to have. The most miraculous happily ever after.
"I mean, why did we think having five would somehow be a good idea? I don't remember having that conversation. Do you?"
I glance over my shoulder, my eyes dragging up from his toes to his wild-green eyes. Henry was crowned at forty--a young King by any standard. He'll turn fifty this summer, and the grandest parties are already planned to celebrate the occasion. But besides the sexy dusting of light gray that joins the blond hairs on his chest, he's still taught and rippled in all the places a man should be.
I am a lucky, lucky girl.
"I don't think conversing had anything to do with it." My voice drops to a sultry level as I look him over. "It was more...you...always corrupting me with your wicked ways."
He catches my appraisal and his eyes darken. He tosses the towel aside and stalks over to me, a filthy smile taking possession of his mouth.
"That's not how I recall it." Henry leans down, behind my chair, tugging the strap of my nightgown off my shoulder and kissing the now bared spot. Then he punctuates each word with another hot peck, climbing towards my neck. "I think you have always been too damn delectable for your own good, love."
He drags his nose, up over my ear, giving me goosebumps with his breath, to my temple. "Mmm, you smell amazing."
Then his simmering eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Christ, look at you."
I groan and cover my face. "Uh, please don't." I drop my hands and turn towards him in the chair. "Do you know those crinkles I get around my eyes when I laugh? I realized the other day, they're there all the time now. I'm so old."
He makes a thoroughly disgusted sound and pulls me up from the chair. "That is some top-notch rubbish right there." With his arms around me, he leans back, looking down at me.
"You are every bit as beautiful as the day I first saw you in that pub." He chuckles. "When you stuck your book in my face and told me to smell it."
I laugh, pressing my forehead to his chest. "You make it sound dirty."
I feel his lips on the top of my head. "I like to think it was dirty. The best kind of foreplay. It certainly reeled me in."
Henry runs his hands through my hair, leaning back again, looking at me adoringly. "But you know what--I was wrong. You're not as beautiful as that day. You're even more exquisite now."
He kisses the tip of my nose.
"More beautiful than when I was twenty-five?" I ask doubtfully.
"Oh, definitely." Henry sighs, and brushes my hair back. "You're a woman now." His knuckle strokes my jaw. "An incredible mother, an activist..."
I glance away, blushing, but Henry chases me with his gaze.
"...a beloved Queen."
My eyes drift back up to his and his loving fingers caress my face.
His voice is low, rough with gentle sincerity. "Watching you become who you are has been the greatest privilege of my whole life, Sarah."
The sweetest tenderness swells in my throat.
"You're a king." I tease. "I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be the greatest privilege."
"No." Henry shakes his head, kissing the inside of my wrist, where his name is etched beneath my skin. "No. Even more than that."
And the emotion, the deep all-encompassing love that I feel for this man--my wonderful, precious husband--my darling, amazing King, expands in my soul and brings tears to my eyes.
I melt against him with a sigh. "Oh, Henry."
He bends his head and takes my mouth in a kiss hot with passion and need. I feel his arms encircle my hips, lifting me up and closer. My hands skim over his shoulders and my hair falls around us, encasing us in a magical world that's just he and I, and nothing else can reach us. And we taste each other deeply, kiss with the joy of the very first time and desperate urgency of the last.
Long moments later, I slide my lips across his perfectly stubbled jaw, nuzzling his ear.
And I whisper, "This is how Gilbert got here. I told you it was your fault."
Henry laughs into my neck, devilish and unrepentant as ever. And then he carries me to bed.
The End...for now
If you haven't checked out my other books, from the Royally Series, the Legal Briefs Series & the Tangled Series, you can find them all here: https://authoremmachase.com/books/
And for your reading pleasure, here's a sneak peek at both TANGLED and SUSTAINED...
TANGLED
Do you see that unshowered, unshaven heap on the couch? The guy in the dirty gray T-shirt and ripped sweatpants?
That's me, Drew Evans.
I'm not usually like this. I mean, that re
ally isn't me.
In real life, I'm well-groomed, my chin is clean-shaven, and my black hair is slicked back at the sides in a way I've been told makes me look dangerous but professional. My suits are handmade. I wear shoes that cost more than your rent.
My apartment? Yeah, the one I'm in right now. The shades are drawn, and the furniture glows with a bluish hue from the television. The tables and floor are littered with beer bottles, pizza boxes, and empty ice cream tubs. That's not my real apartment. The one I usually live in is spotless; I have a girl come by twice a week. And it has every modern convenience, every big-boy toy you can think of: surround sound, satellite speakers, and a big-screen plasma that would make any man fall on his knees and beg for more. The decor is modern-- lots of black and stainless steel-- and anyone who enters knows a man lives there.
So, like I said-- what you're seeing right now isn't the real me.
I have the flu. Influenza.
Have you ever noticed some of the worst sicknesses in history have a lyrical sound to them? Words like malaria, diarrhea, cholera. Do you think they do that on purpose? To make it a nice way to say you feel like something that dropped out of your dog's ass?
Influenza.
Has a nice ring to it, if you say it enough.
At least I'm pretty sure that's what I have. That's why I've been holed up in my apartment the last seven days. That's why I turned my phone off, why I've gotten off the couch only to use the bathroom or to bring in the food I order from the delivery guy.
How long does the flu last anyway? Ten days? A month?
Mine started a week ago. My alarm went off at five a.m., like always. But instead of rising from the bed to go to the office where I'm a star, I threw the clock across the room, smashing it to kingdom come.
It was annoying anyway. Stupid clock. Stupid beep-beep-beeping.
I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I did eventually drag my ass out of bed, I felt weak and nauseous. My chest ached; my head hurt.
See-- the flu, right?
I couldn't sleep anymore, so I planted myself here, on my trusty couch. It was so comfortable I decided to stay right here. All week. Watching Will Ferrell's greatest hits on the plasma. Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy's on right now.
I've watched it three times today, but I haven't laughed yet. Not once. Maybe the fourth time's the charm, huh?
Now there's a pounding at my door.
Frigging doorman. What the hell is he here for? He's going to be sorry when he gets my Christmas tip this year, you can bet your ass.
I ignore the pounding, though it comes again.
And again.
"Drew! Drew, I know you're in there! Open the goddamn door!"
Oh no. It's The Bitch. Otherwise known as my sister, Alexandra.
When I say the word bitch I mean it in the most affectionate way possible, I swear. But it's what she is. Demanding, opinionated, relentless. I'm going to kill my doorman.
"If you don't open this door, Drew, I'm calling the police to break it down, I swear to God!"
See what I mean?
I grasp the pillow that's been resting on my lap since the flu started. I push my face into it and inhale deeply. It smells like vanilla and lavender. Crisp and clean and addictive.
"Drew! Do you hear me?"
I pull the pillow over my head. Not because it smells like . . . her . . . but to block out the pounding that continues at my door.
"I'm taking out my phone! I'm dialing!"
Alexandra's voice is whiny with warning, and I know she's not screwing around. I sigh deeply and force myself to get up from the couch. The walk to the door takes time; each step of my stiff, aching legs is an effort.
Frigging flu.
I open the door and brace myself for the wrath of The Bitch. She's holding the latest iPhone up to her ear with one perfectly manicured hand. Her blond hair is pulled back in a simple but elegant knot, and a dark green purse the same shade as her skirt hangs from her shoulder-- Lexi's all about the matching. Behind her, looking appropriately contrite in a wrinkled navy suit, is my best friend and coworker, Matthew Fisher.
I forgive you, Doorman. It's Matthew who must die.
"Jesus Christ!" Alexandra yells in horror. "What the hell happened to you?"
I told you this isn't the real me.
I don't answer her. I don't have the energy.
I just leave the door open and fall face-first onto my couch. It's soft and warm, but firm. I love you, couch-- have I ever told you that? Well, I'm telling you now.
Though my eyes are buried in the pillow, I sense Alexandra and Matthew walking slowly into the apartment. I imagine the shock on their faces at its condition. I peek out from my cocoon and see that my mind's eye was spot-on.
"Drew?"
I hear her ask, but this time there's concern woven throughout the one short syllable. Then she's pissed again. "For God's sake, Matthew, why didn't you call me sooner? How could you let this happen?"
"I haven't seen him, Lex!" Matthew says quickly.
See-- he's afraid of The Bitch too.
"I came every day. He wouldn't open the door for me."
I sense the couch dip as she sits beside me. "Drew?" she says softly. I feel her hand run gently through the back of my hair. "Honey?"
Her voice is so achingly worried, she reminds me of my mother. When I was a boy and sick at home, Mom would come into my room with hot chocolate and soup on a tray. She would kiss my forehead to see if it still burned with fever. She always made me feel better.
The memory and Alexandra's similar actions bring moisture to my closed eyes.
Am I a mess or what?
"I'm fine, Alexandra," I tell her, though I'm not sure if she hears me. My voice is lost in the sweet-scented pillow.
"I have the flu."
I hear the opening of a pizza box and a groan as the stench of rotting cheese and sausage drifts from the container. "Not exactly the diet of someone with the flu, Little Brother."
I hear further shuffling of beer bottles and garbage, and I know she's starting to straighten the mess up. I'm not the only neat freak in my family.
"Oh, that's just wrong!" She inhales sharply, and, judging by the stink that joins the putrid pizza aroma, I'm thinking she just opened a three-day-old ice cream container that wasn't as empty as I'd thought.
"Drew." She shakes my shoulders gently.
I give in and sit up, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes as I do.
"Talk to me," she begs. "What's going on? What happened?"
As I look at the troubled expression of my big bitch of a sister, I'm thrown twenty-two years back in time. I'm six years old and my hamster, Mr. Wuzzles, has just died. And just like on that day, the painful truth is ripped from my lungs.
"It finally happened."
"What happened?"
"What you've been wishing on me all these years," I whisper. "I fell in love."
I look up to see the smile form. It's what she's always wanted for me. She's been married to Steven forever, has been in love with him for even longer. So she's never agreed with the way I live my life and can't wait for me to settle down. To find someone to take care of me, the way she takes care of Steven. The way our mother still takes care of our dad.
But I told her it would never happen-- it wasn't what I wanted. Why bring a book to the library? Why bring sand to the beach? Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?
Are you starting to see the picture here?
So I see her beginning to smile, when, in a small voice that I don't even recognize, I say, "She's marrying someone else. She didn't . . . she didn't want me, Lex."
Sympathy spreads across my sister's face like jam on bread. And then determination.
Because Alexandra is a fixer. She can unclog drains, patch dented walls, and remove stains from any rug. I already know what's going through her head at this moment: If her baby brother is busted, she'll just put him right back together again.
I wish
it were that easy.
But I don't think all the Krazy Glue in the world is going to piece my heart back together again.
Did I mention I'm a bit of a poet too?
"Okay. We can fix this, Drew."
Do I know my sister or what?
"You go take a long, hot shower. I'll clean up this disaster. Then, we're going out. The three of us."
"I can't go out."
Hasn't she been listening?
"I have the flu."
She smiles compassionately. "You need a good, hot meal. You need a shower. You'll feel better then."
Maybe she's right. God knows what I've been doing for the last seven days hasn't made me feel any better.
I shrug and get up to do as she says. Like a four-year-old with his wooby, I bring my prized pillow with me.
On my way to the bathroom, I can't help but think of how it all happened. I had a good life once. A perfect life.
And then it all got shot to shit.
Oh-- you want to know how? You want to hear my sob story?
Okay, then. It all started a few months ago, on a normal Saturday night.
Well, normal for me anyway...
SUSTAINED
When I pull up to Rory's address, the wrought-iron gate opens automatically. The extensive driveway is flanked by lampposts and cherry trees and curves around into a horseshoe. The house is a majestic brick Georgian, completely restored with black shutters and detailed white moldings around its fourteen windows. There's a three-car attached garage, a large front courtyard surrounded by a natural-stone wall, and bright green shrubbery.
I kill the engine and stare at the house, thinking he might be trying to pull one over on me.
"You live here?"
"Yeah."
"Are you, like, the gardener's kid?"
Rory frowns with confusion. "No. It's my parents' house." Then, softer, under his breath, "Was . . ."
He doesn't elaborate but instead hops out of the car, backpack in tow. I take long strides to catch up and we stand before the massive oak door. I put my hand on the back of his neck, just to be ready in case he makes a run for it. Then I ring the doorbell.
A protracted string of yappy barks ensues immediately after. There's a shuffling from inside, then the door swings open. And the air rushes out of my lungs.