Page 73 of The Romance Adventure

When we part, I say, “Thanks for what you said about my painting. It means a lot. It’s nice when strangers admire my work, but it’s extra special when someone who knows me sees that side of me.”

I briefly recall the man who stopped by and practically ordered me to paint a mural at his resort. Then again, if it’s a Platinum Property, he’ll get the platinum price and I sure could use the cash.

Royal smooths a loose piece of my hair between his fingers. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who is ever at a loss for words.”

“Are you saying I talk a lot?”

He smirks. “But I see something else translated into the paint. Things that maybe you can’t say out loud.”

My eyes prick and I instantly remind myself of the rule: Pratt girls don’t cry. “Funny you say that, because for a long time I believed that if I painted enough, I’d remember more about my mother. All our family photos were destroyed in the fire.” I go on to tell him about how my mother was part of a commune.

“Bean and I have different fathers. We never knew them. They were doing some kind of ritual or something and a fire broke out—I was too young to understand the details and quite frankly, don’t really want to know. Our mom didn’t make it. A firefighter rescued Bean and me.”

We’d been talking, but I don’t need to hear words of consolation right now. Somehow, Royal knows that and pulls me into a hug instead. He takes the deepest breath like the ocean itself is inhaling. When he lets it out, flattening his chest, I exhale too and sink a little deeper into his embrace.

When we part, I say, “What about your parents?”

“My mother was a librarian and Dad was an art history professor. Though CJ would tell you otherwise.”

“What would he say?”

“We don’t listen to CJ. But we lost them to a boating accident. My brothers and I were always different from each other—opposites in many ways. We were competitive too. But tight-knit. It was family first. Then everything changed. They’re not coming back and CJ is an idiot for thinking otherwise.”

We gaze out toward the water. I find Royal’s hand and weave my fingers between his, giving a squeeze. Though I’m afraid that if I let go, I could lose him too.

Royal

CHAPTER 18

If this were one of Chip’s games of chess—the regular kind and not the one with the giant chess pieces—I’d like to wipe the pawns off the board. Those represent the nonsensical content of his will, the riddles and rhymes, because there is no reason. There never was.

The rook is the ongoing legal case against the Norris brothers.

The bishop is Gerome Glandman, who repeatedly tries to ruin my family.

I’ll keep the knights, my brothers, even if we hardly get along.

That just leaves the king and queen. The thing is, I’m afraid that Isla is drawing me in and I’ll be trapped. Once the king is captured, that’ll mean game over.

She and I are at the rental house, waiting for a storm to blow by the massive windows that span three walls overlooking the water. Magnus left the TV on after watching Ryan’s game. The Miami Riptide, his team, won. They always do.

Isla has become increasingly interested in the contents of my grandfather’s will, which makes me question my assessment that she doesn’t have anything to do with Gavin and Daxel’s crimes.

Perched on a counter stool with the wall of windows overlooking the water at her back, Isla is a pretty silhouette. An innocent one at first glance. But I never know who I can trust.

“So, tell me about your job,” she asks.

“It’ll bore you.”

“Then spice it up. Do you have high-powered executive meetings where you crush your enemies with your whiplash words of witty intelligence?” She leans her knuckles on the counter as if lording over a team of employees. “Watson, I wanted those reports yesterday. Explain exactly what Chip meant by the matches and the cleverest needing humbling.”

I don’t want to think about the will—second to Isla, it’s all I’ve been thinking about lately. And I don’t know. I don’t have answers. I have no idea what Chip meant about When right is wrong, what do you do?

Instead, I say, “You think I’m the cleverest?”

“Of course. Chip did too. He wrote, ‘The youngest would sooner dive than the shallowest go deep. But neither will find what they seek without the strongest softening and the cleverest humbling.’ If I’m not mistaken, he was suggesting a certain twin was in need of humility.”

“I’m plenty humble.”