“I told you. I was on set with Zac Efron, filming an action movie. We were supposed to make out, because we were in love, and jump out of an airplane at the same time. That’s what hot undercover spies do. So there we were, kissing like passionate lovers, when the director cues us to jump. Out we go, lip-locked, and falling five thousand feet a second. Boy, was it windy up there. Finally, Zac pulled his rip cord but mine didn’t work. I’m dropping like a boulder, thinking I’d better start talking to Jesus, when all of a sudden, Zac comes at me like a bullet—”
“Hold up, hold up,” Daddy said. “Who is this Zac fella? When I asked about your hip before, you said you were filming a cowboy movie with Matthew McConaughey.”
“Oh right. McConaughey. I did hurt my hip with him. The first injury. Zac was the second and the worst.”
“What are the names of these movies again? I’d like to see them.”
“Sadly, my part ended up on the cutting room floor.”
“So exactly who is Zac kissing as he’s falling five thousand feet a second?”
“The wind, Daddy. He was kissing the wind.”
Chapter Eighteen
John
August moved quickly toward Holland’s memorial date. The bronze wreath was ready as were the guest list, musicians, and reception. He had a sense once that date passed, he’d turn a corner.
Briley’s groom reported on the gelding’s health. His leg was not improving but it wasn’t worsening either. At one point he feared laminitis, but the digital pulse tests were negative.
John was grateful. The last thing he wanted on the anniversary of his wife’s death was the loss of her horse.
Head down, focused on his work as well as the queen’s, he read parliament briefings, staff briefings, and a summary from the Supreme Court cases since the monarch was the embodiment of the land’s constitution.
The Midlands case had taken a dark turn with the Justice Ministry’s Solicitor General citing a parliament member involvement.
John suspected MP Hamish Fickle. No wonder the man ran about the capital city trying to win a popularity contest, getting the people on his side. But no names were listed as of yet.
They’re onto you, little Hamish Fickle with the big boasting.
He’d just moved from the queen’s boxes to his own in-box when a new email dropped in from Taylor Gillingham. Right, the photographer from Hearts Bend.
“Your photos. I hope you like them. Click the link to download from my secure folder.” Wasn’t this a lovely treat?
The first image popped on his screen and transported John back to Hearts Bend, to the memories of Gemma, the herd, and how free he was from grief and life as a royal.
He’d not messaged Gemma in a while. He wanted to, but each time he typed her name into his phone, he quickly closed the app. What chance did their relationship have being so far apart? She clearly stated her home was in Hearts Bend. She planned to never leave. But he missed his friend.
He missed how she made him believe in love again. Just holding Gemma’s hand sent his heart to the moon. Then, in one line, he came back to earth.“I still love you…”
As long as Holland’s emotional confession echoed through him, how could he ever truly move on?
One by one, he opened and studied the photos. Taylor had a good eye and she’d captured him well. More than his image, but his heart. His favorite was one where he faced the lens, hands in his pockets, the wind bending the green branches around him, his expression like the days before death. He’d selected that one as a gift for his parents.
“Briggs, can you have this printed and framed? At least eight by ten. -PJ”
Gemma had been beside Taylor, smiling, observing, offering suggestions when the picture was taken. If he were honest, John was trying to look extra confident and dashing, hoping to impress her a little.
He moved on to the images of him with Gemma which knocked him back. Beyond her beauty, he saw the woman she must have been before her shadows. Easy-going, confident, and happy. A sense of connection electrified him.
He laughed at the images where Taylor photoshopped him into a tuxedo. Then he sobered. A thread of longing pulled through him. He wanted to be that man. The one standing beside Gemma, pledging his—
He rocketed from his chair.No. Impossible. Stop this train of thinking.He could not. Would not. Of course he liked her. Very much. She’d become a good friend. But love?
“You look rather serious.” Gus walked into the office, bold as he pleased. “Hamish Fickle up to no good? Something in the queen’s boxes?”
“Um, no, nothing.” John stretched to minimize the pictures of him with Gemma, feeling a bit caught and exposed. Gus could read him better than anyone. “What brings you here?”
