Confessions of a Girl-Next-Door. Jackie BraunЧитать онлайн книгу.
to families and fishermen, his resort now appealed to naturalists and others embracing a greener lifestyle.
Winters were still pretty quiet. Only the heartiest of tourists ventured north during that time of year. But already he was making plans to attract more snowshoers, cross-country skiers and snowmobilers, which was why he had purchased another dozen acres of land just beyond what he owned now with plans to add trails and maybe even a few more cabins down the road.
His parents were impressed with the changes he’d made, even though he’d suggested most of them while they still owned the place. But the status quo had been good enough for them. He’d understood and accepted that. But within days of the transfer in ownership, he’d rolled up his sleeves and begun the transformation.
Now, business was up. Not just for his resort, but for other establishments on the island, thanks to a joint marketing campaign that he’d spearheaded. The head of the local chamber of commerce hadn’t been pleased, since Nate basically had gone around Victor Montague’s back. But everyone else was happy with the results.
Yes, he was proud of what he’d accomplished. Proud of what he’d made not only of the resort, but also of his life. Which was why it galled him to find himself glancing around his kitchen, another of his renovation projects, and wondering what Holly thought of his quaint home and simple life.
“Nate?” Hank gazed at him quizzically.
After another swig of beer, he muttered, “Definitely, she’s out of my league.”
Holly stood at the base of the steps. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on Nate’s conversation with Hank, but it was hard not to hear the men. The house was small. Their voices carried.
Out of his league?
She supposed she could understand how Nate would think that. He wasn’t the first person, man or woman, who had acted as if she were made of priceless spun glass. A number of her childhood friends had become overly deferential and awkward around her once they had finally grasped her status as their future monarch. She recalled how isolated it had made her feel. How utterly lonely.
“That’s just the way it is,” her mother had told her matter-of-factly when she complained. “They treat you differently because you are different. You’re special, Hollyn.”
Holly hadn’t wanted to be “special.” She’d wanted friends. True friends who wouldn’t purposely lose at board games or let her pick the movie every time they got together. Friends who would confide their secrets. Friends in whom she could confide hers and not risk having her private thoughts written up in the tabloids. That had happened when she was fourteen. She’d complained about an argument with her mother, who’d felt Holly was too young to wear makeup. The headline in the Morenci Daily two days later read: “Queen and her teen nearly come to blows over mascara.”
Her mother had been livid. Holly had been crushed, and, hence forward, very, very careful.
After that, the closest she’d had to actual girlfriends were her cousins, Amelia and Emily. As the second and third in line for the throne behind Holly, they understood what it was like to be in the spotlight, photographed, quoted—or misquoted as the case may be—and constantly judged on their appearance and breeding as if they were entries in the Royal Kennel Club’s annual dog show.
Yet, even with Amelia and Emily, the older they grew, the more she sensed a distance and a separation between them. And, yes, she could admit now, she’d noticed a certain amount of envy and bitterness that while Holly would have a prime place in Morenci’s history books, their lives would be mere footnotes and largely forgotten.
Their emotional defection had hurt. But not as badly as overhearing Nate’s assessment of her. He made her sound shallow, spoiled.
Spending money she hadn’t earned?
As far as Holly was concerned, she was always “earning” her keep. Long ago, her life had ceased to be her own, if indeed it ever had been. She was public property. Her photograph was sold to the highest tabloid bidder, in addition to being plastered on everything from teacups, decorative plates and biscuit tins to T-shirts and tote bags that were then gobbled up by tourists.
She told herself the disappointment she felt about Nate’s assessment of her was because she had so hoped to feel “normal” here. She had hoped to be treated as she had been treated as a girl coming to the island with her grandmother: Accepted for who she was rather than the crown she would someday wear.
A small sigh escaped. She was being foolish.
At least Nate hadn’t told Hank the truth about her identity. If it meant letting the other man and the rest of the folks on the island think she was some snobby socialite eager for a taste of the simple life, so be it. Anonymity in itself was a gift. One that she hadn’t enjoyed in more than a decade.
The men came out of the kitchen, both of them stopping with almost comedic abruptness when they spied her. Nate looked guilty, his gaze cutting away a moment before returning to hers. No doubt, he was wondering how much she’d overheard.
Hank, however, was grinning broadly.
“Hey, there, miss. I see you’re none the worse for wear after your unexpected dip in the lake.” He elbowed Nate in the ribs.
Nate flushed. So did she. Holly hardly looked her best. She’d changed into dry clothes, but they were wrinkled from their time spent in her bag. And while she’d combed the tangles out of her hair, it was still wet. She’d remembered a blow dryer in her hasty packing job, but she hadn’t thought to bring an adapter. And, of course, she smelled of lake water.
She fiddled with the ends of her hair.
“I wanted to take a shower, but I’m afraid I couldn’t figure out how to work the faucet so that the spray would come out.”
“It’s finicky,” Nate said. “I should have thought to show you before coming downstairs.”
“That’s all right.”
“I can show you now.”
“Thank you. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what to do with my wet things.” She’d hung them over the shower curtain in the bathroom.
“I can toss them in the dryer.”
She nibbled the inside of her cheek. The pants and jacket were both made of linen. The blouse was silk. “I don’t suppose the island has a dry cleaners?”
Nate shook his head.
“The town on the mainland does,” Hank supplied. “It’s right next to the grocery store. I can take them with me when I fly back tomorrow and drop them off for you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t want to be a bother.” She added an appreciative smile.
“It’s no trouble. None at all,” he insisted.
This was exactly the sort of deferential treatment she was used to … and did not want. “I’ll think about it,” she answered diplomatically.
“Come on. I’ll show you how to work the shower,” Nate said, as if sensing her unease.
She followed him back up the stairs to the bathroom, hurriedly snatching a pair of white silk panties and a delicate lace-edged bra from the curtain rod and hiding them behind her back.
Nate coughed. They both smiled uncomfortably.
“Um, about the shower. You, uh, turn this knob.” He demonstrated as he instructed. “The farther right you turn it, the hotter it becomes.” She was thinking something on the cool side. “You’ll probably want it somewhere in the middle. Then you flip this little lever on the side.”
Again, he demonstrated. The water sprayed out from the showerhead. Small beads of it ricocheted off the tiled surround and landed on his forearm. The hair there was bleached as light as some of the streaks on his head, alluding to his time spent in the sun. Indeed, he had a good tan going. In comparison, Holly