Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

“I won’t,” I lie.

There’s about as much chance of me leaving Elizabeth behind to save my own skin as there is of me falling out of love with her between here and the cottage’s front stoop.

16

Elizabeth

Bells tinkle as we push through the door into a tiny entryway sectioned off from the rest of the house by a thick green curtain. The air smells of sweet clove incense with a hint of lemony cleaning fluid beneath.

It is dim and shadowy, lit only by a small lamp on the table against the wall. Next to it, a hand-painted wooden sign reads, “Please remove your shoes and wipe your hands with the cloths provided before entering our sacred space. Welcome!” There is a vase of freshly cut wildflowers on the table, too, a box of wet wipes, and a bowl of individually wrapped pale green candies. The wallpaper is a floral motif—cheery daisies and bluebonnets that wind their way up to the wood-beamed ceiling.

It is not a scary room, and the faint classical music drifting from deeper in the cottage isn’t scary music, but my heart is still pounding, and when I swipe a hand across my upper lip, it’s damp with sweat.

I almost turn to make a run for it, but Jeffrey places a hand at the small of my back and bends down to whisper, “Do you want me to help you with your shoes?”

I blink at him, my mouth suddenly so dry it’s hard to speak. “My shoes?”

He doesn’t answer, he simply crouches beside me and reaches for the zipper on the inside of my boot. As if from a distance, I watch him drag it down and peel the soft leather away from my leg, only coming back into my body when his fingers wrap around my ankle, gently urging me to lift my foot so he can remove the shoe.

“Sorry.” I let him guide my foot out, warmth rushing through my chest as he sets the boot in one of the cubbies beneath the entry table and reaches for the other zipper. “You’re good at that. Very gentle.”

“Thank you,” he says, a smile curving his lips as he attends to my other boot.

“You’ll be a good dad someday, I bet.” The thought sends a flash of pain through my chest. Before I can sort out why, a husky female voice calls from the other side of the curtain. “We’re closing early to prepare for the new moon ritual tonight, but there’s still time for a reading or for shopping. If you’re here for a medical consultation, you’ll need to make an appointment for next week. Drabarni Barbara is out of town on a spiritual retreat.”

Pulse speeding again, I accept the wipe Jeffrey presses into my hands, cleaning my fingers as I answer, “We just had a f-few qu-questions. If that’s all right?”

I bite my lip and roll my eyes. This is why I’ve spent most of my life at home. Communication with non-family members is so…fraught.

“Of course.” The voice warms. “Av akai! Come in. We’re always happy to teach.”

I turn back to Jeffrey, who’s already removed his shoes and cleaned his hands, drawing strength from his steady gaze. He takes my wipe and tosses it into a small trashcan beside the table with a nod. I pull in a deeper breath, holding it as I draw the curtain aside, surprised to find a large open space filled with overstuffed couches and potted plants and flooded with natural light. I look up to find skylights set into the cottage roof.

“We break the rules sometimes.” The older woman from the street shuffles out from behind the checkout desk on the left side of the room, pointing a crooked finger at the ceiling. “I hope you won’t report us to the preservation society.”

I realize she means the skylights and exhale in a rush. “Oh, n-no, of course not. It’s lovely. Like you’ve b-brought the outside in.”

“Exactly.” She smiles. “The closer to nature, the healthier the people.” She motions toward a pair of faded yellow couches in the corner of the room. “Shall we sit? Would you like some tea? Water?”

“We’re f-fine, thank you. Right?” I glance back at Jeffrey, who nods and murmurs, “Fine,” in agreement. He’s letting me take the lead, even though it’s going to be harder for me to speak than it would be for him.

But he’s right.

This is my story. I have to be the one to tell it.

“Then sit, sit,” the woman encourages, leading the way to the couches, the hitch in her step more noticeable as she weaves around barrels filled with handsewn dolls, shawls, and child-sized musical instruments. “I’m Baba Dika. My specialty is the music, mysticism, and rituals of the Roma people, but I work with herbs and natural remedies, too.” She sinks into the couch against the wall with a sigh. “But I’m not a healer like our Barbara. She’s the jewel of our center. You’ll have to come back to visit her. You’re local, yes?”