“Hi,” she said when he approached. She scooted over a little on her branch and dipped her head toward it, inviting him to sit. “Clearing your head?”

  He dropped down beside her, stretched his bare feet out in the sand, and sighed. “Sounds like you know.”

  “Your mum’s in my bed,” she said. “I mean, in the guest bed.”

  “You know more than I do, then. My dad wasn’t talking.”

  “Is that unusual?” she asked quietly.

  He let out a long breath. “No. Probably not. Don’t think she’s ever walked out, though. Never that I know. And it’s never felt like this. Like tonight.”

  “Mm.” She was quiet for a minute, and he was, too. Then she asked, “What was it like with your grandparents? I mean, what were they like together? The same as this?”

  “You mean my mum’s parents? No, they weren’t. My dad’s dad . . . well, he was a hard man and no mistake. Granddad’s a softy in comparison. I realize you wouldn’t see it, not the way he is now, but he was different when my nan was alive. He was so mad about her, you could see it. When she was in the room, he’d be looking at her. Or looking over from time to time, like he needed to. Always looking out for her. I don’t think she ever . . .”

  “Doubted,” Nina said quietly. “Not like your mother is right now.”

  “But it’s mad,” he said. “He—Dad—he feels that same way about Mum, I’d swear it. So what’s he doing? Damned if I know. Why would you throw it away?”

  “I don’t know.”

  More silence, then, while the gentle waves lapped onto the golden sands, whispering their message of timelessness, and of time passing, all at once.

  “Granddad said something to me once,” Iain said, almost reluctantly.

  Nina looked at him from under her duvet, but didn’t say anything, and he went on. “It was when I was thinking about making a commitment of my own. And I asked him, how could you be sure it was right? And he said—”

  He stopped, and she didn’t ask him, “what commitment?” in the way he’d half-expected. She just asked, “What did he say?”

  “He said it was like a pair of shoes. Not what you were expecting, eh. Me neither. He said something like, ‘When you have those shoes that you’ve broken in, and they’re just right, fit you perfectly. Could be that they don’t look as flash as they once did, but you don’t care about that. They’re comfortable, like, and when you put them on, you can walk anywhere. They’ll carry you forever. It’s like that, but they never wear out. They change, of course. They’ll have some scuffs, even a hole or two, maybe, but they still work. And the thing about shoes is, there’s a right one, and there’s a left. They’re not exactly alike, but they’re a pair. They only work together. You lose one of them, and the other’s useless. Best shoes you ever had, and one’s useless without the other. That’s what it’s like.’”

  It was a minute before Iain could continue, and still, she didn’t say anything. He looked at the puffs of pink and blue cloud overhead. He listened to the murmur of the sea, and finally, he said, “Nan was sick already when he said that. He knew he was about to lose his other shoe. And he couldn’t stand it.”

  “Oh, Iain.” She was crying, he realized. Silently, the tears silver streams on her pale cheeks. “It’s so beautiful, and so sad. It breaks my heart.”

  “Yeh. Broke mine.” He cleared his throat. “She was like Granddad’s light, my nan. A bit of a light for all of us, you could say, but for him? She was like his sun, and when she went, it was like night came.”

  “But she’d have been so sad to know that,” Nina said. Her voice was trembling, but it was sure. “If that was how she really was, she’d never have wanted him to feel like that. She’d have wanted him to live. She’d have wanted him to be warm again. Surely, any woman who truly loved a man would want that.”

  “You think love is so selfless? Not so sure. Not always, anyway.”

  “Not always, maybe. But if it’s right? Then I think so. If it’s real.”

  She was there next to him, so sweet and strong herself. So real. He put a hand out, because he couldn’t have done anything else, and touched her cheek, the silkiness of her skin a revelation against the rough pads of his fingers, and watched her huge eyes in the soft light of evening. Not so much a sun as an evening star, Nina. Or a moon, maybe. Glowing soft, but glowing all the same. Or not a moon. Moons were cool, and Nina wasn’t cool.

  He gave up thinking about it. That wasn’t what he wanted to do. His hand was under her chin, tipping it up, and he was leaning down, brushing his lips over hers, and if her cheek had been soft? Her mouth was in some other dimension. Soft, and rich, and full, and he was kissing her more. How could he have resisted that? His arm had gone around her, was pulling her closer, and that was surely her own hand, he realized dimly, on his shoulder, holding him to her, holding him tight. Her mouth opened under his, and he was tasting her, and that was nothing but rich, warm sweetness, too.

  She was the one who broke it off. Of course she was. There was no way that would ever have been him.

  “Iain,” she said, and he realized that she wasn’t holding his shoulder anymore. She was pushing against it. “Stop.”

  “Oh.” He sat up and blinked. There she was, though, eyes wide, lips parted, and . . . bloody hell.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Not now. It’s . . . I can’t now.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You’re just on vacation,” she said. “I mean holiday.”

  “Yeh,” he said. “I am.”

  “And I’m . . . yeah.” She laughed, a short, uneven, husky sound, that voice of hers trying to drag him down into her sweet depths again. “It’s not the right time for me, either. So, no. But can I say . . .” She had her hand on his shoulder as if she couldn’t help it either, then was touching his face, nothing but gentle. “You are the nicest man.”

  His head jerked back. “Me?”

  She laughed, just that edge of roughness to it. “Yes. You. I’m sorry if it ruins your self-image. When I met you, I thought, The Incredible Hulk. And now?” She smiled, her face luminous. “Now more than ever. So much toughness. So much strength. And so much else. So much more.”

  “And yet,” he said, even as her words warmed him, “still no.”

  “Maybe because of that,” she said. “You’d be too easy to love. And I can’t afford to fall in love.”

  The word hit him hard, a dose of cold water. She smiled sadly and said, “Yeah, right? You can’t either. And I already knew that.” She got up, adjusted her duvet over her shoulders, and said, “So I’m going to bed. Or to hammock, I guess. But I hope you’ll still take me kayaking. I have to admit—I still hope that.”

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “You have to know I will.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to that.” She turned and headed up the track to her hammock, and he let her go, and sat on the branch, and wondered if his grandfather was the only man in his family who was ever going to get it right.

  No Princess

  Iain fixed his dad’s breakfast the next morning, and heard him say not much at all. Then he went for his workout as usual, stopping afterwards at Toad Hall in Motueka for a smoothie. He ordered, sat at a long wooden table in one corner of the garden near the fountain, and grabbed a nearby copy of the Christchurch Press.

  He didn’t start reading straight away, though. He should bring Nina here, he thought. For the pizza. Ha. Probably not. Or the real-fruit ice cream. Even less likely. He couldn’t see Nina selecting her fruits, then watching them being blended together with the rich vanilla ice cream and squeezed out into a cone.

  She’d be shocked at the idea of such decadence. Just like when she’d eaten melted cheese on her sandwich, or a lamb burger, and he’d seen her eyes nearly glaze over with pleasure at the rich tastes and silky textures. She wouldn’t order an ice cream, but he’d bet he could tempt her into taking a lick or two off his. That wouldn’t be bad to watch, either. Watching her eyes close, seeing her lick up that treat . . . no, that wouldn’t be bad at all.

  He needed to see if there were a way, somehow, that would work for them. He needed to take her kayaking again today, and then for ice cream. And maybe, tonight, to the back garden of the pub. He needed to tease her and smile at her and look into her eyes. He needed to drive her home and take her for a walk on the beach, to hold her hand. And to kiss her. He needed to kiss her so badly.

  He was still smiling as he picked up his smoothie, sipped at it, and finally looked at the newspaper. This afternoon, he promised himself. Kayaking first, and then—they’d see. His granddad’s party was tomorrow night, and it was true. Iain had a few more days before he absolutely had to be back in Auckland. He could spend them here. He could spend them with Nina. No matter how frustrating it might be, it would be better than being at home alone and thinking he should have tried harder.

  No princess. No bride, said the headline, and he glanced at it incuriously. Not exactly local news. And then he stopped with the straw in his mouth. There was a picture beneath that headline. A beautiful girl in a tiara, her smile radiant as the sun.

  Nina.

  It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

  He scanned the lines of newsprint, reading faster and faster.

  It was billed as the complete fairy-tale wedding, complete with golden coach, snow-white horses, and a guest list studded with European royalty and Eurotrash. Instead, Prince Matthias of Neuenstein announced today via a spokesperson that his wedding to top Milady’s Boudoir model Sabrina Jones has been canceled.

  The rumors have circulated furiously for a week, and been just as furiously denied. Today, there was no more denial possible. Sabrina Jones is officially a Runaway Bride, a no-show at what was to have been the royal wedding of the decade.

  Insiders have speculated on the would-be princess’s notable absence from the prenuptial festivities—even while her mother attended all of them. Sabrina was staying in seclusion in a remote hunting lodge. Sabrina was in hospital. Sabrina had met with an accident. And always, the whisper that Jones had run away rather than face marriage to Europe’s most eligible bachelor, or, worse, that she had run off with another man.

  That last possibility would have been an even greater shock to the Prince, those close to him have noted, after his mother’s notorious elopement with her sons’ swimming instructor in a scandal that rocked the monarchy.

  Iain read the rest, every single damning word of it, then stood up, the newspaper clutched in his fist, and went for the car.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was pulling to a stop above the house without any memory of having driven there, and was striding down the track and bursting through the doorway of the cottage.

  Nina was standing at the kitchen sink scraping carrots, singing softly. Her voice was sweet, but that wasn’t a surprise, was it? She always sounded sweet. She always looked that way. Because she was a model. She made her living from projecting an image.

  She turned at his entrance with her wide smile. Doing it again. “Iain!” she said, as if he were her birthday present, and it was just what she’d wanted. “Hi. You startled me.”

  He held up the paper to show her the picture. The one that showed that matching smile, the joyful look she could apparently turn on at will. “Sorry, Nina. Or should I call you Sabrina? Is the name as much a lie as the rest of you?”

  The color drained from her cheeks, and her carrot fell unheeded into the sink. “Wh-what?”

  He could barely say the words. “’Runaway Bride.’ This is you. That day in the airport, there was a headline like this. You left him at the altar, or near enough, didn’t you? Left him guessing, left him hoping.”

  “I . . .” It was barely a stammer. Her eyes were wide, shocked. Innocent.

  Well, no. Hardly that.

  “You left your groom,” he said. “You ran away, and you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell him you were going. Always so sweet. Always so scared. You aren’t poor, and you aren’t scared. You’re a bloody Milady’s Boudoir model! What is this you’re doing now, a publicity stunt for your career? The rest of it wasn’t enough? Now you have to find the most famous person you can scrape up and attach yourself to him? Pity it was only me, then. Pity it wasn’t Nate Torrance. But oh, wait. He’s not available anymore.”

  “Wh-what?”

  He flapped the newspaper at her. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the captain of the All Blacks. What kind of luck was that? Your seatmate’s the mum of an All Black, and as everybody knows, he’s even famously single. Are you planning to sell the story, then? ‘Two continents, fifteen thousand kilometers, two men? My life from princess to scullery maid to rugby WAG’?”

  She was still chalk-white, but her eyes weren’t confused anymore.

  “Why don’t you get over yourself?” Her voice might be unsteady, but it was angrier than he’d ever heard it. “I told you. I’d never heard of your little team. I’d barely heard of your sport. And why don’t you wait to hear what I have to say before you start accusing me? Why don’t you wait to hear my reasons?”

  He dropped the paper on the table. He was, suddenly, deflated. He was done. “I don’t need to hear it. I’ve heard it all before. I know all about cold feet. I know all about lying and being a coward. And I know all about how that bloke felt today, when he was ready to get married and you weren’t there.”

  His granddad had come into the kitchen sometime, he realized, was standing in the doorway, cane in hand, eyes grim.

  “Yeh,” Iain told him, trying to speak over the hot rage that was choking him. “Ask her why, Granddad. Ask her why she left. Ask her why she lied. Ask her why any of us should care.” And he turned around and walked out.

  Rough Waters

  Nina picked up her carrot in shaking fingers and started scraping it again, blinking away the stupid tears.

  Iain wasn’t wrong. He’d been cruel, and his words had hurt, but he wasn’t wrong. Her flight from the palace, the way she’d hidden ever since? It hadn’t been the right way. She knew that now. She hadn’t had enough guts to stand up to Matthias. She hadn’t had enough to stand up to anybody, or even to tell the truth. It had been the only way she’d been able to manage it, but that didn’t matter. She’d done what she’d done, and she had to live with it, and with everybody’s judgment, too. There was no way to explain it that would sound reasonable, and Iain wouldn’t believe her. She’d misjudged him, like she’d misjudged everything. She’d got it all so wrong.

  But right now, she was going to make this soup. What else could she do?

  When she heard Arthur’s voice behind her, she jumped. She hadn’t realized he was there.

  “Reckon you didn’t want to be a princess,” he said.

  She turned to see him standing at the table, the newspaper in one hand, his gaze steady on her.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  “Could be you had a reason for running away, too.”

  “Yes. I did. Or I thought I did.”

  He nodded. “I reckoned. Are you good with making that lunch? I’m hungry, so if you’re not, tell me, and I’ll finish it.”

  “No. I’m good with making it. Half an hour.” She might be numb, but at least she could stay upright.

  That was why she was still with Arthur in the kitchen, though, when they heard the clatter of shoes on the brick of the courtyard, then the scrape as the rolling door to the shed opened.

  “Off to ride his bicycle,” Arthur said, taking a sip of vegetable soup. “Same as always. When he’s got something to work out, ever since he was a boy, he has to go off and move. He’ll come back calmer, maybe, and you can have a better chat.”

  “A better . . . chat.” She couldn’t help the angry laugh. “Yeah, right. Is that what you call that?”

  “Nah. I call that lashing out because it hurts. Some people curl up when they’re hurt. Some punch back. He punches back. Not always the best, but being stubborn runs in the family, eh.”

  She couldn’t look at him, and she couldn’t eat, so instead, she held her spoon up, watched the soup trickling off it, and swallowed back the tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I didn’t feel like I had a choice, and I needed to get away so I could choose. So I could have time to think.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I thought it did.”

  Another nod, and that was all. He was picking up his sandwich again.

  Minutes passed before she asked, “Would it be all right if I made something simple for dinner tonight?”

  “I told you,” he said, “I don’t need a minder. Or a cook.”

  “It’s my job, though. If I don’t feed you, what am I doing here?’

  “Keeping me company. Keeping me from poking into the accounts of the business and driving Graeme mad. Keeping me from poking my nose into their personal business.”

  She had to smile, even as she felt the smile wobble. “That might not be enough to justify my existence.”

  “It’s enough. You don’t believe me, just ask Carmella.”

  She got up without finishing her lunch. “Right, then. I’ll clean up, and then I’m going to go out for a while. I need to . . .” Her shoulders jerked. “I guess I need to move too.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. She was scrubbing at her plate, concentrating with all her might.

  “Hasn’t known for months now,” Arthur went on. “Just like you don’t. Give it time. Least that’s what Madeline would’ve said. She’d have—”

  He stopped, though, and she forgot about her own pain for a moment. She turned around, grabbed a tea towel, then sat down again and put her still-damp hand on his. “What?”

  He scowled at her. “I’m not going to cry, if that’s what you’re worried about. Worry about yourself.” But he didn’t take his hand away.

  She ignored that. “What would she have said?”