“Whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it, because it’s working.” Faith shrugged on a light jacket, then grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Monday?”
“We’re closed Sundays. Which means you, my friend, get a day off.” Faith let out a long breath that said she was just as exhausted as Carrie. “And thank goodness, so do I.”
A few minutes later, Faith and Carrie had finished locking up the shop, and they headed their separate ways. The long night—and next day—stretched ahead of Carrie with no plans. She couldn’t think of the last time her time had truly been her own, something she could fill any way she liked with no worries that someone was expecting her to be somewhere else, no guilt that she was ducking an obligation. Castle life was busy, with events piled on top of more events, with at least one representative of the royal family expected to be in attendance at all times. When she hadn’t been working in the vineyard, she’d been forced into donning stiff suits or ruffled gowns and pasting a smile on her face for the few royal events she couldn’t wrangle a way out of. Even in the castle, there’d always been maids underfoot, and people in and out all day and night.
And now she had a whole blissful day and a half? Totally, utterly alone?
Carrie started to drive toward her lake house, then saw a sign for the Winter Haven Library. Soft golden light still glowed in the small brick building’s windows and drew her like a beacon.
How long had it been since she’d been able to sit down and read an entire book from start to finish? Enjoy the story without interruptions from staff, visitors, events? The thought of doing something as decadent as just reading filled her with a warm sense of anticipation. She parked, then stepped inside the building and inhaled the slightly musty, slightly dusty scent of lots and lots of books. She’d hated boarding school—hated the boring classes, the endless rules, but most of all, hated being away from the wild land that surrounded Uccelli’s castle—but she had loved the library at St. Mary’s. It had been massive, and filled with every book one could imagine, and had made the boarding school experience more tolerable for a girl who would have rather been home in her beloved vineyards than memorizing algebraic equations. She’d spent her free moments curled up in a comfortable chair, lost in worlds completely unlike her own.
That’s what she needed now. A good book, something she could take back to that little nook in the lake house and enjoy with a cup of hot tea while the soft breezes from the water whispered around her. The prospect hurried her steps, and she headed into the first book-filled room she saw.
Almost immediately she realized she’d entered the children’s section by mistake. She started to turn around when she heard a male voice, a familiar low baritone. “Just one more book, Belle. Then we need to get home.”
“Daddy, I wanna read a princess story.”
A sigh. “What about this one? It’s about George Washington growing up.”
A matching sigh from much younger lungs. “No. I don’t want that one. It’s yucky. Read me a princess story.”
Carrie grinned. She recognized that stubborn streak and had heard that defiance in herself. Carrie took a couple steps forward and peeked around the bookshelf. Her gaze lighted first on a little girl with a headful of blond curls spilling around her shoulders like a halo. She had on a ruffled pink-and-white dress and plastic glittery shoes with a tiny heel. She had her little fists perched on her hips and was glaring at the man before her—
Oh, no.
A very exasperated-looking Daniel Reynolds. Carrie jerked back, but not fast enough. “Annabelle …” Daniel’s voice trailed off when he glanced up and noticed Carrie standing there.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” she said. Was she stammering? She never stammered. “I, uh, walked into the children’s area by mistake. I didn’t expect to see … well, see you here.”
His chiseled features met hers with a direct, intent stare. No surprise, just … assessment. “Nor did I expect to see you.”
“I’ll … I’ll leave you to your book.”
“It’s her!”
The voice behind Carrie startled her and she spun around to find one of her customers from earlier that day. The woman stepped forward, tugging her husband with her. “You’re the princess, aren’t you? The one from the wine shop?”
Carrie nodded and bit back a smile. People got such a chuckle out of her royal status. Carrie, who had lived as much out of the castle’s shadow as she could, found the whole thing amusing.
The woman yanked on her husband’s arm. “See, I told you she was here in Winter Haven. A real, honest-to-goodness princess.”
The little girl with Daniel stared up at Carrie, her blue eyes wide and curious. “You’re a princess? A real one?”
Carrie bent down slightly. “I am.”
The little girl’s mouth opened into a tiny O. “Wow.” She tilted her head and gave Carrie a curious look. “Where’s your crown?”
“Back home in Uccelli, where I come from.”
“But don’t princesses always have to wear a crown so everybody knows they’re special?”
“Princesses are special every day, Annabelle.” Carrie gave the girl a smile, then turned to her customer. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You, too.” The woman beamed. “We come to Winter Haven every summer for vacation. Have been for more than twenty years. I meant to tell you that I met your mother years ago.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh. She was telling people she was just an ordinary vacationer, but we knew better, didn’t we?” She elbowed her husband, who grunted a yes. “She loved this place.”
“She did, indeed,” Carrie said.
“I don’t blame her.” The woman let out a little chuckle and winked. “Maybe you’ll have the same amount of fun.”
Carrie smiled. “Maybe.” She exchanged a little bit of small talk before the woman and her husband left, promising to stop at By the Glass again before their vacation ended.
“Well, well,” Daniel said after the couple left the room. “Seems the princess angle is good for sales.”
She bristled. “That isn’t why I told people who I am.”
He arched a brow. “It isn’t?”
“Of course not.” She glared at him. “You always see the worst in people, don’t you?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you people are jaded and bitter and think everyone is lying.”
His face hardened and she knew she’d struck a nerve. “Well, perhaps if people didn’t tell us lies all the time, reporters wouldn’t be so jaded.”
“I’m not—”
“Here,
