He blinks, once, twice, as if worried he’s hallucinating. As if he’s been seeing me everywhere lately and wants to make sure I’m really here.
Suddenly, he shoots to his feet, ripping his microphone off his shirt as he darts from the studio. At first, Carly’s surprised. But when she peers out the windows, her eyes finding mine, she smiles. Then, being the opportunist she is, she waves a camera man over. After a brief conversation, he takes off running, a camera in his hand. Suddenly, the shot of Carly transitions to the backstage area, Anderson darting through the maze of a studio, people scrambling out of his way.
The crowd gets louder and louder as we watch him navigate through hallway after hallway, someone in a page’s jacket escorting him out of the stage door. Finally, he steps into an alley before turning onto the Plaza.
Knowing exactly where he is, I spin, the crowd parting so I can get through, my legs not carrying me nearly as quickly as I’d like.
After what feels like miles instead of mere yards, I turn the corner toward the Plaza and skid to a stop when my eyes fall on Anderson for the first time in two weeks. To most, it may not seem that long. To me, it was a lifetime.
His gaze focused on mine, he takes several slow steps toward me, chest rising and falling quickly, not a hint of the uneasiness he sometimes experiences when walking.
When he reaches me, he stops and smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I manage to squeak out. An electricity buzzes in the air between us. But it’s even more poignant than it’s ever been. “I though you—”
“Nora, I—” he says at the same time, both of us laughing nervously.
He treats me to that sly smile of his that’s always been reserved just for me. “You first.”
“I thought you’d be arrested if you told the truth. That’s why I left. Didn’t want you to have to come forward and implicate yourself.”
His expression remains stoic. “I know. But I couldn’t let you take the blame anymore. Not for something I should have disclosed.” He licks his lips, still standing a foot away. “Do you want to know why I didn’t fight harder for you when this all went down?”
I nod. “Because of your MS.”
“Yes. But there’s a deeper reason.” He steps toward me, but still doesn’t touch me. “Because I thought by saving you from a lifetime of being with someone like me, it would keep my conscience clear. So instead, I broke my heart.” He averts his eyes as he draws in a deep breath. “But how could I have a clear conscience when I allowed them to throw you to the wolves?” He smiles sadly. “So I did what I felt necessary to finally clear my conscience, once and for all.”
“And what’s that?” I ask shakily.
“Went to the police. Told them the truth.”
My shoulders fall as I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. “You didn’t have to. You—”
“Yes, I did.”
“Will they be arresting you?” I ask, although I don’t want him to answer. Don’t think my heart can take it.
His expression sobers. Then a brilliant smile tugs on his mouth. “No.”
I blink. “No?”
He shakes his head. “I did what the royal household didn’t want me to do. Told the truth. Despite everything I shared, the DA declined to pursue charges. Apparently, his sister has MS, too, so he’s more than aware of some of the complications. And thanks to the foundation I started last year was able to receive treatment she otherwise couldn’t afford.”
I blow out a small laugh. “With great power comes great purpose.”
He nods, advancing toward me and cupping my cheeks in his hands. “With great power comes great purpose,” he repeats, slowly edging his lips toward mine. “You are my purpose.”
I sigh, bringing my own hands to his face. “And you’re mine.”
He starts to erase the last remaining distance, but stops, something catching his attention. Taking my right hand in his, he exhales a tiny breath when he sees his ring prominently displayed.
“You’re still wearing it,” he says in awe.
“I couldn’t find the strength to take it off. Wasn’t ready to admit we truly were over.” I bring my hand back up to his face, and he melts into my touch. “Wasn’t ready to give up my faith.”
Closing his eyes, he momentarily basks in my declaration. Then he loops an arm around my waist, yanking my body against his. I faintly make out people in the assembled crowd begging Anderson to just kiss me already, but I tune them out, all my focus on this man. On the promise of his kiss.
On the promise of us.
“I’m going to kiss you now. And once I do, there’s no walking away.”
I run my hands through his hair, mussing it up. “Is that a promise?”
“You bet your arse it is.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he covers my mouth. The entire Plaza erupts in cheers, but I don’t care about any of them. All I do care about is this man who just flipped the game on its head. Who made a move everyone told him was foolish. A move that would cost him everything.
He put the king at risk to protect his queen.
And, in that one move, won everything he ever wanted.
Epilogue
Anderson
The comforting aroma of cinnamon and apples clings to the walls of the palace, growing stronger the closer I get to the private living quarters. This has always been my favorite time of year. The grand halls decked out in Christmas decorations, everyone in a more joyful mood. It was a time of year my mother always made special.
I remember spending hours in the kitchen with her frosting cookies, decorating gingerbread houses, rolling out dough for pies. The memories we made as a family over food was something I’d always look forward to all year long. As was the feeling I’d experience when we went to a local shelter to donate all the food we’d made to those less fortunate than us.
That all changed when my uncle died and we were ripped from the life we once knew. Then it changed again mere months later when my grandfather also passed away, making my father king and me heir apparent. There were rules about everything, from the way we styled our hair to the way we celebrated Christmas. There were no more hours spent in the kitchen baking and laughing with my mother. Instead, my family had to do what my grandfather did on Christmas, and his father before him, and so on — host a large dinner for the family and other important people on Christmas Eve, then attend midnight mass.
All my mother wanted to do that first Christmas was bake cookies.
She wasn’t even allowed to step foot into the kitchen. That wasn’t the way things were done around here.
If they knew it would be one of her final Christmases, would they have granted her this wish?
Based on centuries of always doing things the same way, I’d assume not.
As I step into the private residence, my heart warms at the unmistakable scent of cookies and pie, coupled with the sound of Christmas music and joyful voices. I shrug off my suit jacket and loosen my tie, tossing them onto the oversized sofa. I continue toward the sounds and smells, careful not to trip over the myriad of toys scattered around.
Approaching the kitchen I had built when we moved in earlier this year, I pause, leaning against the doorjamb, taking a moment to appreciate the scene in front of me, something I never imagined could be a reality years ago.