Ele awoke earlier than normal, her stomach a riot of rollicking butterflies. She stayed for a moment as she was, tangled up in sheets with a thread count she never actually considered. The drudgery of the morning’s gray sky careened through the openings in the heavy drapes, casting dim light in its wake. She stretched her arm and pulled open the drawer of the Louis XIV nightstand. Nestle
d within easy reach was a clipping from a magazine she had covertly obtained. Already, it was crinkled, showing overuse. But she placed it on her mattress and smoothed it out, studying it from every angle. She fell back on her pillow somewhat dramatically as she replayed the moment immortalized forever by some unknown photographer.
It was these times when she couldn’t hide from her desires. The trappings of her life were all around her. The opulence of her home, the luxuriousness of every single object, the history of her ancestors displayed as easily as some chronicled just two generations. Everything that set her apart from the world surrounded her, and the only thing that grounded her was now merely a memory.
Except tonight, the footballer she’d dreamed about was going to walk into the palace she lived in. Hence, the ridiculous toil in her belly. She’d really just mastered making it through the day without thoughts of Tristan dominating her brain. She couldn’t help what her head got up to at night.
The first week had been pure torture. She stalked every news outlet, every social media site. And even if she hadn’t, Tristan Davenport, the social media prince, was everywhere. Any interview with members of the team included him. Every billboard erected in their honor featured his face in 2-D glory. Even if she wanted to forget about him, she wasn’t able to escape him.
Then, the realization set in. The one where she remembered the only access she had to Tristan would come from a distance. Most likely with screens between them. Her watching him on one or reading about him or longing for him. It was like, the first week, she overdosed on the image of him. And when the rush became too much, she needed a detox.
She spent the next couple of weeks orchestrating a withdrawal from Tristan Davenport. She begged Millie to take the iPad away from her and put some sort of block, so she couldn’t cyberstalk him. With the temptation removed, she was able to carve out some football-free time. If only the rest of her country had cooperated. Ele could escape Tristan in her home, but with her countrymen and women in the throes of football fever, the moment she stepped outside, she was confronted with it.
Apparently, the World Championship Cup hadn’t only been a victory for the footballers. It had been a public relations coup for the palace. Ele was suddenly the darling of the media, the Ice Princess moniker melting to a puddle under the glare of her international success. Even the queen seemed to be impressed by her, and as much as she hated to admit it, Ele hadn’t curried the queen’s favor in so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to bask in it. Her schedule rivaled Jamie’s with appearances, luncheons, ribbon cuttings, and the like. She found keeping busy kept the thoughts at bay, and her newfound confidence with the press made staying occupied so easy to come by. It mostly worked. Except, well, everyone wanted to talk about the Cup.
Twenty days post Cup, the win was still on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Even the philatelic society—the damn stamp collectors—wanted to discuss the victory when she attended their annual meeting.
“That Tristan Davenport,” a man with rheumy eyes and arthritic fingers said, “when he spun you around”—pause for a hacking cough—“I thought, Well, isn’t that just the merriest sight?”
Ele nodded accordingly and offered a bland smile. But she wanted to argue the merriest sight was Tristan with intent in his eyes when he leaned in to kiss her or Tristan as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along Navy Pier or the wicked smile Tristan leveled at her as he slid between her legs. Yes, her merriest memories of Tristan plagued her day and night. And even though that image of Tristan spinning her around on the awards dais had graced magazine covers—and perhaps resided in her nightstand drawer—and had grossed some crazy millions of views on YouTube, she resented the mention of it a bit. Because it should have been their moment—just Tristan and Ele, overjoyed with his accomplishment. But Tristan was a limelight chaser, and if he had been seeking any more notoriety, he’d found it. Instead of cherishing the act of him swinging her up in his arms as he’d celebrated with her, Ele had begun to resent his impulsivity and lack of foresight. And every reminder of it had chipped away at the sweetness with which she’d experienced it.
She shook her head, dispelling the thought. She had other things to worry about. Like the reception tonight.
With the rest of the house still asleep, Ele left her bed, slipped on a fleece robe, and ambled through the deserted halls to the kitchen. Her parents had had their faults, more than most people were aware, but one thing she would always appreciate was their insistence on a residence away from the royal palace. Although Juliana lived with the queen, Ele and Jamie stayed here, in a royal residence but one that seemed more like a home. Yes, they were surround by a staff handpicked and vetted, but it was still their place. The morning, before the hustle and bustle began, was her favorite time.
Ele fixed coffee and took it into the solarium. She wasn’t surprised to find Jamie perusing the headlines. While Ele found politics and policy boring, Jamie thrived in the environment. She sometimes wondered if it was mere conditioning. The map of Jamie’s life was a detailed route, an itinerary planned down to the pit stops. He never veered, and as far as she knew, he never wanted to detour. So, the politics and ins and outs of the government were things he loved. Whether it was the chicken or the egg that had come first never even occurred to him.
“Good morning,” Ele greeted, sliding into the chair across from him.
He glanced up, cast a quick smile, and returned to his reading. She didn’t even think to be offended by his lackluster response. He would talk when he was ready. And Ele was content to drink her coffee and watch as the sun attempted to find a way to bust through the clouds. She hadn’t come to find Jamie for any particular purpose, she thought. But now, with an opportunity to talk to him without anyone around, she realized she had sought him out for a reason.
Ele pulled her gaze from the windows and found Jamie watching her.
He placed his tablet on the table next to him and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Are you excited about tonight?”
Although she was tempted to roll her eyes, Ele held his gaze. “Yes, and no.”
“Do tell.”
She leaned her head back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. “I feel like I’ve just figured out how to not think about him all the time. And now, I’ll have to see him tonight, and all that work will be wasted.”
The room was quiet around them, not a ticking of a clock or an errant clatter of work being done. A ray of sunshine finally penetrated the gray, and the dappled light drew her attention. It was an ill-timed metaphor for her confession. But she’d already started, and suddenly, she wanted to talk to him about it.
“Is there any way, anyplace where I could …” She got stuck, not knowing exactly what she was asking. “I mean, could we be together? Is there any possibility of that?”
Jamie shuffled in his seat. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” he muttered.
Ele looked at him. “What? You date. I could date.”
“Date. Tristan Davenport?”
“Is it dating when you’re almost thirty?” she asked and then snickered.
But Jamie didn’t laugh with her. His lack of a response drew her attention to him.
“Jamie?”
He stood from his chair and walked to the windows that spanned the back wall. He didn’t say anything, and as the silence lengthened, Ele began to get nervous. It wasn’t like Jamie to hold back with her. If he was having trouble telling her what was on his mind, she feared she wouldn’t like what he had to say.