This would be nestled in chapter 19, during the lag in time before the introductory dinner with the Higher Court.
* * *
NINA
* * *
On one of the many humid mornings, I find myself at a cafe up the street. It sits on the corner of a tiny intersection, and at eight in the morning, it’s deserted.
I lower into a wicker chair, the pink umbrella shielding me from the harsh morning sun. Behind me, Wesley stands about ten feet away, his back against the wall.
“Are you hungry?” I ask my bodyguard as a cafe waiter steps outside.
He shakes his head. “I’m okay.”
I huff at his brusqueness. The waiter, a round man in perhaps his fifties or sixties, patiently takes my order while I speak Maldanian. I can speak the basics almost fluently, but the casual, filler words take me by surprise. When I’m too confused, he switches to English.
He brings me coffee and I drape a napkin over the space in front of me so I can lean on the table without touching the surface. Who knows how long it’s been since it was disinfected?
I reach toward the empty table beside me and grab the newspaper. The top reads Kosita Daily, but the rest is in Maldanian. Reading a foreign language is a lot easier than speaking it; I sharpen the skill, anyway. I read about the local news—crime, new businesses, closing businesses, and even the comic strip section.
I can’t tell if I love Maldana because of the culture or because it’s different than what I grew up in. I’ve been here for weeks and I don’t feel homesick—except for missing my best friend.
In fact, the thought of going home fills me with apprehension.
The waiter appears at my side, startling me from my reverie. “Oh—ciao,” I stutter.
He leans in close, gesturing toward Wesley. “Would he, uh, like a seat?”
I glance back at my stoic bodyguard. He’s not looking at us, but I can tell he’s paying attention. I smile at the waiter. “He’s okay, thank you.”
When he’s gone, I ruffle the newspaper and say, “Wesley.”
I can’t hear his footsteps, but I somehow feel him walking closer. I plan to remain poised, to speak with confidence. But his shadow quite literally falls over me and his presence over my shoulder sends shivers down my spine. I brush my fingers over one of my burning ears.
“Stop—standing over me like a creep.” I clear my throat. “People are staring again. Sit down.”
Since the night we danced together, I’ve distanced myself. It changed nothing. I melt into a puddle at his daunting—yet oddly comforting—figure looming over me.
“I’m fine over—”
“I said sit,” I demand.
He deflates, settling in the chair across from me and folding his sunglasses over the top button of his shirt. I pointedly avoid his gaze and continue skimming the newspaper about a new bakery opening up in Milagro. Nerves bubble up my center at the weight of his stare. Is he trying to make me crumble? Because it’s working.
I shake it off as I reach a section describing the new exhibit that opened up in the royal palace. Other than this, there’s nothing about the royal family. If I accept the crown, I’ll surely be in the newspaper. It wouldn’t be a one-off thing, either. They’d feature Maia and me regularly.
Could this be something I want? And I mean really want. Like, dreaming-of-since-childhood want. Sure, my sister and I dressed up like princesses as little girls, but this is something entirely different. This isn’t a game of dress-up.
I let out a huff and set the paper down only to find Wesley already looking at me. “When you were a kid,” I say, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”
He recoils slightly. “Uh—I don’t know. A police officer I guess.”
I cross one leg over the other. “You guess?”
“A soldier.”
“A protector,” I offer.
He shrugs, but his face relaxes—telling me I’m right. “And you?” he counters. “What did you want to be?”
I twist my lips to the side, glancing down at my small coffee mug. “I didn’t have anything in mind.”
“Every kid does.”
I consider for a moment, thinking back to any childhood dreams. For a school project in elementary school, I wrote that I wanted to become president. But that was because I liked telling people what to do. Because that’s all I did. I remember being on the playground and worried Maia or I would hurt ourselves because I knew Dad wasn’t watching us. He was distracted and sad. He always was.
I shake my head. “No, it’s stupid.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Wesley watches me earnestly. I search his face for any hint of boredom or a possibility that he’s just being polite. All I find is patient curiosity.
“I—I can’t remember any specific job I wanted.” I inhale a brave breath. “I just… I really wanted my mom back. I don’t have a lot of memories to begin with, but I knew her death was why my dad kept pulling away. And then he stopped… taking care of us altogether, really. For a while, at least.”
I push down the memories of being nine years old and cooking dinner and ensuring Maia showered and brushed her teeth, of being twelve and stealing clothes from my school’s lost and found because Dad wouldn’t take us shopping.
I shake it off and look at Wesley, his brows creasing as he digests my words. It dawns on me that this was an innocent conversation of childhood dreams and I pull trauma into the mix. I clench my jaw, hoping to crush the embarrassment, and sit up straight. “I don’t mean to be depressing.”
“You’re not depressing,” he says instantly, then hesitates. “My dad left when I was about three, so I can’t relate.”
There’s something calming about imagining Wesley as a child. I can’t picture him being the reserved version I know of him now. There’s more to him, and I’m overcome with the desire to learn all of it.
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask.
“An older sister.”
I lift my brows. “She took care of you, then.”
“My mom, too. Grandparents.”
“It’s why you want to be a protector, isn’t it?” Which is something I can definitely relate to.
“I suppose. I haven’t thought of it that way.”
“What was your childhood like?” I press, and I have to pretend that the pointed look he gives me doesn’t turn me on. “What?”
“You’re prying.”
I smirk and lean my elbows on the table. “But you’ll tell me anyway.”
He clears his throat, his gaze briefly dropping to my cleavage. If he wasn’t from Maldana, I would chalk up his reddening cheeks to the heat. But no—he’s blushing. I don’t poke fun of it even though I’m aching to. Confidence surges through me; I wasn’t even trying to flirt. I prop my chin in my palm, waiting for him to proceed.
“It was a normal childhood,” Wesley says, his Maldanian accent suddenly thicker.
“You spent it in two different countries,” I remind him. He would’ve been an anomaly in my All-American high school.
“As normal as it could be. I never wanted to be in America. My life was here.”
“But wasn’t your mom in America?”
“She stayed for her parents, but we moved here full-time when they died.”
Before I can ask another question, the waiter returns and asks Wesley in English if he would like anything to eat or drink. He replies in Maldanian, and the two chat away too quickly for me to partake. The waiter gestures to the spot where my bodyguard was previously standing, and my bodyguard responds in turn.
I may not be able to translate much, but I know just how sexy it is to watch and hear Wesley speak his native language. The smooth words roll off his tongue and his deep rasp puts my stomach in knots. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from drooling.
Our waiter perks at the sudden ding from inside the cafe. He wags a thick finger and says, “Sperí, e momento.”
Wait, one moment.
He disappears into the cafe and returns seconds later toting a small plate with a pastry. He gestures toward me, but I didn’t order any food.
“Oh—! I didn’t—”
He simply smiles and proceeds to set the slice of tora di pomke in front of me. “Epi tu,” he says in Maldanian. “For you.”
I look at Wesley. “Did you tell him to—?”
A smile plays on his lips, but he shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”
I hadn’t heard the words tora di pomke or anything food-related during their conversation. All I could gather was about work and the neighborhood. Which means the waiter brought this just for me.
“That’s very kind,” I say, a hand to my chest. “Gracea mucho. Ke pino sta tu numerí?”
Despite my hesitation with germs, I outstretch my palm. He covers my hand with his and says, “Stari Stefano.”
I smile. “Gracea mucho, Stefano. Stari Nina.”
My heart warms at the twinkle in his eyes, and a sliver of dread crawls up my spine at the chance he’s trying to flirt. I’ll never forget the time I spoke to a sweet, unassuming old man who ended up trying to be my sugar daddy.
“Bueni kara, Nina,” Stefano says, his grin broadening. Although I’m grateful and touched he brought me a dessert—the quickest way to my heart—my shoulders slightly sag in relief.
“I can’t tell if I’m flattered or weirded out,” I mutter as Stefano departs.
“He’s not being inappropriate,” Wesley explains, and considering how protective he is over me, I believe him. “Maldanian men are very”—he gestures, unsure of the English word—“outward with their affection.”
I stare at him hard, daring to rake my gaze up and down his frame. “Are they?”
He flushes again as he runs a hand over his scruff. The slight breeze ruffles his shirt; I have to rip my attention from his chest. There’s so much about him that’s worth seeing, and not just physically. I want to understand how a man raised by his mom, sister, and grandparents came to be so broody and quiet—how his eyes can be so… empty. At the club, I remember his gaze shifting over my body for any signs of injury, concern written in his eyes. Then the empty rage when he hurt those men for touching me.
“What are some ways they show affection other than free dessert?” I ask, yearning for more variations of Wesley other than my grumpy bodyguard.
He lifts a shoulder. “My grandfather wrote a song for my grandmother. Then there are flowers, sometimes fruit.” With a knowing, unwavering look, he adds, “Dancing.”
My body hums; fireworks set off in my stomach. Is this his way of telling me it wasn’t in my head? That he was, indeed, trying to show affection that night we danced?
It’s my turn to blush. And sadly, I’m much better at it than he is. His eyes flick to my ears, probably at the redness considering they’re on fire. My throat suddenly clogs and I toss back a gulp of water. Wesley smirks.
I pick up my fork. “I should, um, I should eat this before it gets cold.”