Royal Chase

I did, but I couldn’t tell her. So instead I said, “She’s the kind of girl who would make a preacher mad enough to kick in a stained glass window.”

Someone called her name downstairs. “That’s my ride. I’m off.” She hugged me again with that excited smile, and I felt terrible.

Why couldn’t I just be happy for my two friends?

He took Genesis to Mexico, Michelle to Puerto Rico, and Abigail to St. Croix. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I couldn’t wait to see what beach he planned on taking me to. It would be so, so nice to escape this house and lie out on some white sand somewhere. I decided to think of it as a pre-wedding getaway.

As the days passed, my wedding date drew closer and closer. I sometimes pulled my invitation out of my purse and looked at the picture of Sterling and me. We looked happy. We were happy.

But it felt like I shouldn’t have to constantly remind myself of that fact.

I packed my bathing suits, shorts, and T-shirts, along with my sandals. I so needed this break.

I was driven to the airport and put on a private plane. It was not the royals’ private plane, and it wasn’t nearly as nice or as big. The crew assigned to me, men that I now knew as Mike, Steve, and John (only because they called one another by name), also came on board. They continued to film, although I didn’t think hours of me perusing a copy of SkyMall I’d found on one of the seats would qualify as entertainment. I wondered if Dante would be joining us, but the flight attendant told me to fasten my seatbelt and we took off without him.

A couple hours later, we were preparing to touch down. I pushed the button next to my seat, and the attendant appeared. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“Are we having troubles with the plane? Is that why we’re landing?”

“Not at all. We’ve reached our destination. I hope you enjoy your time in Colorado.”

Colorado? I turned to the crew, wanting an explanation, but they were how they always were—silent, stone-faced, and nonparticipatory.

Why were we in Colorado? This wasn’t exactly exotic.

A car waited for us and drove us to my favorite ski lodge, the Rocky Mountain Red Lodge. The one where I spent all my free time skiing during the winter when I was still in college. I wondered the entire way what I was doing here and why Dante had chosen to take me to the mountains instead of a beach.

He waited for me outside the lodge, and I was both happy to see him and thoroughly confused about what was happening.

After he kissed my cheeks hello and made my toes curl, I said, “What is going on? How come everyone else gets the beach and I’m here?”

Then he made everything better by saying, “We’ve skied my slopes, so I thought it was time to try yours.”

“Um, it’s May. Most of the snow is gone.”

He got a huge grin. “Leave that up to me.”

The lodge was empty of any other visitors, as they had closed for the summer. The woman who checked us in said they had a skeleton staff—she’d given us suites with their own kitchens as room service wouldn’t be available and the restaurant was closed. She kept trying not to look at the cameras directly. She wasn’t successful. They’d probably cut every shot she was in.

“I don’t have anything to wear for skiing. I only packed swimsuits,” I told Dante as we went to our rooms, which were side by side.

“You can ski in those. I won’t complain.”

I hit him for laughing, and when I opened my door, I saw all the equipment and clothing I would need. I looked back at him with a grateful smile and let my door close behind me. The room was large and luxurious, dominated by a king-sized bed. As promised, there was a small kitchen with a fridge, stovetop, and a microwave. There was an adjoining door between my room and Dante’s. I started toward it to check the locks, when I heard his door slam shut. He was already dressed! I hurried and changed, eager to get to the slopes.

He was waiting in the hallway for me. “Let’s go.”

We went outside the lodge and headed toward the medium difficulty slopes. I put my hand up to my eyes and realized the entire run was covered in snow.

“How did you . . .”