The castle…Hever Castle, is what our castle—my castle—the castle Royce Devlin picked for me to see, is actually called!

Ahh!!

It is also above and beyond my expectations of what a first castle should look like that my heart has galloped like ten racehorses fed only energy drinks ever since we arrived here. It’s so bad, that it’s possible any minute that my heart will simply flat-line.

Which is fine, I suppose, because at least I’ll be dying in a castle. Dying in a castle with a beautiful rockstar watching over me.

All good.

This place is so old and so covered in ivy. It’s got rock lined pathways and rolling green hills going off in every direction, sparkling clean, tall skinny windows, with secret gardens housing fountains and cool marble statues stuck all over the place. Time after time, I’ve caught myself of holding my breath, and I practically need to slap my own face to remember how to breathe. I’ve also become so certain I might be dreaming all of this that I’ve been afraid to utter one word, because I do not want to jinx this. Or wake up.

Which again, is fine, because…ahhh!

When we arrived, I found out that this castle is attached to a B&B.

Meaning, we’re going to stay here. This castle itself is our overnight destination.

Again. Aaah!

We’ve checked into a room located at the top back of the house, which was, according to the owner, the previous apartments that housed the butler. Back when butlers were sort of the acting bosses over all of `the servants, even though he was a servant himself. Everyone who was anyone (and certainly anyone who owned a castle) had a butler.

His quarters have been made over into a two room suite. It has it’s own back staircase, polished wood everything, and the most privacy in the whole place. It’s also located over the kitchens and the old stables and is separated from all of the other rooms and hotel areas. Royce also paid double to secure it, and it’s welcome privacy, for us by telling her that he and I were newlyweds.

Thankfully, the woman checking us in appeared to be in her sixties, seemed to love newlyweds and young love. She also didn’t seem to be the kind of person who would know the band Guarderobe, or who we really were, so she didn’t even stare at us past saying hello and calling us a lovely young couple.

The whole check-in almost went sour when we told her we didn’t have our passports, ID’s or credit cards with us. Her acceptance of what she’d said was very ‘out of the norm’ came only after Royce explained, how this was a last minute honeymoon, run-away-adventure. He’d lied, saying we’d been on a family reunion, and that we were the youngest couple without children so we’d been stuck babysitting a lot, and that we loved them but we’d decided to take a couple days and see a castle by ourselves by making a break for it on our way to the supermarket.

She’d laughed and said she did understand how, had we returned, we’d have been sucked back in, because big families can do that. And then she’d laughed again, calling us “poor dears.”

What really calmed her down, though, was that Royce had so much cash on him that he was able to pay in advance for the room, as well as leave a room deposit that was large enough to satisfy any of her worries.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” was all she’d said after Royce also tipped her about fifty British pounds for just being so nice to us and understanding the impulsiveness of young love.

When a bellman appeared looking for the luggage we didn’t actually have, beyond our tiny suitcase, Royce flipped him some of the cash in his wallet, too.

That’s how he secured us our promised Fish and Chips. They’ve just been delivered, having been motorcycled here from the nearest town pub.

The whole package was wrapped up in brown paper and newsprint. Apparently that’s very UK, and to me, it’s very cute.

Royce and I decided to hide out in here and eat until 6PM which is when the castle grounds will be closed to the day tourists. It’s also exactly when he and I, and the other few guests who are sleeping over in the main part of the B&B, will be allowed private access to the extensive property, mazes, pathways through what the owner called ‘the hedgerows’ beyond the gardens.

I’ve personally translated his UK ‘hedgerow’ word to mean: rows of hedges. But I’ve learned not to trust my ideas here across the pond because this place is tricky. Even though I pretended to know what these hedgerows are, hedgerow could also be the common word for wild ducks or something.

The castle grounds are so huge, there could easily be a petting zoo hiding somewhere on this property, but either way, we’ve got private access and that’s all we care about. We also found out by way of casual conversation, there are only a few other couples on the property tonight because it’s Sunday and off season. So if we’re careful, we won’t cross paths with anyone until breakfast time tomorrow.

When we first got to the room, Royce was talking about how he was slightly disappointed with the castle’s size. In his mind, I guess he’d wanted to take me to some huge, Medieval castle, way up in Scotland that he’d been to before, but told me this was the best he could do on short notice. He’s also already promised to take me to that one someday.

Like his promises to take me wand shopping while we stuff our faces with chocolate frogs in the imaginary future that is not going to happen, I’ve humored him again by telling him how going to see castles in Scotland would be…

Cool, great, amazing…

I’m not sure which word I’d actually muttered at him, because he’s now talking more about Scotland while I’ve unwrapped the steaming hot fish and chips and I’m biting in to the most amazing bite of breaded and fried fish I’ve ever tasted in my life.

I also lose all rational thought right then, because at the very same time that I have my second bite of this fried-fish-heaven, Royce takes his first bite.

The guy has paused mid-sentence to utter low-rockstar-voice-rumble out stuff like, “Mmm-damn—Robin—this is so good, huh?” All while talking with his mouth half full.

With every bite, he gets this dreamy-food-drugged happy look on his face which is something I’ve never seen him do before, which has me imagining how Royce Devlin might have acted when he was younger—which is really doing something to my heart because I swear, I suddenly feel like I know him really well.

He also keeps licking his lips and finger tips while explaining how gorgeous the coastline looks. I try to engage with what he’s saying, like now he’s going on about a place called the Isle of Skye, but all of his words are running together, because—cute—eating fries—finger-licking-good—wow.

And now, it’s all I can do but to keep chewing, keep my mask in place and hide my massive, I-think-I-love-you-way-too-much expressions from him. Because let’s talk about how gorgeous the ‘Isle of Royce’ looks right now. Can we?

Butterflies twist down low in my belly, and the part where I could already hardly breathe gets worse. That’s because instead of getting any sort of control, I’ve let my mind go. I’ve started contemplating how, when he’s happy and trusting—when he’s completely open or…free with me—like he’s being with me now, Royce’s eyes aren’t just silver-bright, they’re like fast-moving mini-comets. Every time he beams them at me, it actually feels like I’m getting painted with warm starlight.

While I chew through fish piece number three—yum—I’ve begun staring at how the sun’s last rays are cutting into our many-paned thick glass, iron framed window. The light gets split by the beveled edges on each pane, creating a prism effect on the walls and…yes, on to his skin.

Better, it moves through his thick, black curling hair lighting all of the blues and blacks and—yep, there it is. The dark magenta that’s hides on the edges of every curl is highlighted now, too.

My fingers itch to find paints or even colored pencils. All I want to do is capture how he’s being right now. How this light, the smile on his face, the way his laughter moves the cords in his neck, and even how his always tense and squared off shoulders are truly relaxed for the first time since…since I’ve met him, actually.

This late sunlight also has me contemplating how truly sexy it is when men can grow a five-o-clock-shadow onto their chins in just one day. Because…wow when the chin and jawline are all chiseled square it’s an A+ effect. His chin alone makes me crave the box of willow charcoals I have in the studio back in New York City.

Royce Devlin…swoon…he should be sketched drawn or painted every single day, right? I shake my head, half-checking myself back into his chatter—tracking that he’s still on the Scotland topic, which he is.

I manage a smile and nod, hoping I’ve done it at the right break in the conversation to make some sort of sense, then I almost laugh at myself as he quirks a brow at me—as though he knows I’m full of shit.

I toss him a little shrug and another forced smile which is when he stops talking, giving me one of his unreadable looks. I pretend to ignore that he’s caught me red-handed ogling him, by dragging more delicious salt-soaked fries off the newsprint and eat them.

When he doesn’t start up his happy chatter again I feel kind of bad because how he’s slightly frowning, and I’m wondering if I should try to take a turn and talk about something when he suddenly jumps up and walks to the window to looks out and says, “This moat doesn’t even go all the way around. Are you suddenly freaked out by us being here? Do you not like it? Or…what?” He flashes me a such worried look over his shoulder that I feel guilty for keeping silent for so long.

I panic then, because I realize my silence must have hurt his feelings. “Royce.” I start, forcing myself to pull in breaths. “How could I be bummed about any of this?”

He gives me this look like he doesn’t believe me. “But you’ve hardly talked since we walked in here. What’s going on in your head? Is it me? Is this about me—I’ve bummed you out or done something wrong somehow?”

“No. Um…no.” I decide to just tell him most of the truth. “I’m…uh…just overwhelmed. I’m humbled that we’re here. Honored you brought me to do this, and that it’s so amazing. I’m…quiet because I’m trying to memorize every second of it. You know, so I can keep the memory forever?” I grin, motioning around the room. “We’re in a castle, a real castle, and I get to sleep there,” I point at the ridiculous-velvet-draped-princess-looking hand carved bed. “And everything in here is more than one-hundred-years old, maybe two-hundred. And…”

I force my eyes away from those moon-beam things of his to crumple up the newsprint and the scraps we’d left behind. “I—I’m also trying to remember how the Fish and Chips tasted, and how this Persian rug looks so perfect in here against the old wood floors, and I want to record how we’ve set this very basic meal on a silver tray that is probably older than the bed.” I point at it, not mentioning the part where it’s really hard to talk when you’re going to share that bed with in a few hours. “And…” I suddenly feel way too hot. “Then there’s this part where we’ve set this food tray on top of a hand carved, little lion footed, billion year old, gorgeous coffee table?!!” I pull in a long breath, finally turning back to him. “See? I’m just so happy that’s all.”

“So…you get extra quiet when you’re happy? That’s what all of this silence treatment has been about?” He turns, quirking a brow, like now he’s trying to memorize…me. That or he wants to kill me?

“Yes. I guess.” I nod, laughing a little. “You were probably right to check in and see if I was okay, because I also get extra quiet when I’m over the line pissed off or really sad, too. So…”

“All good things to know. I like finding out more about you.”

“Me too. That’s why we’re doing this, right?”

“Right,” he echoes pacing around the room a bit, then returns to sit beside me on the couch. “Damn-me, but you’re the first girl I’ve even known that can make me feel this insecure.”

“I am? I do?”

“That and more,” he mutters so quietly I hardly hear him.

I’m hit with this unfamiliar twist of longing—but I don’t know for what. It’s so strong that it’s making me feel jittery. To hide it, I lean back onto the soft velvet couch, faking a yawn while patting my stomach, forcing the conversation away from us, getting to know each other as quickly as possible.

I glance at the time on my phone. “It’s after six.”

“Maze time, you down to do that first? Get really lost in it?”

“Yes, but we’ll need supplies.” I reach for the old-fashioned looking telephone sitting on a very spindly looking table and dial ‘0’. The owner at the front desk answers: ‘Hello.’

“I’m sorry to bother, but is there any chance you guys have flashlights for the maze, because what if it gets dark and we’re still in there?”

I pause, raising one eyebrow up high to Royce and making my challenge-fun smile, as the woman takes over the conversation.

“Oh, yes dear. I forgot to tell you both about that while you checked in, but we call them torches, love. Only you yanks say flashlight, because in fact…it doesn’t flash now does it?” She laughs at her own joke.

“Torches,” I repeat. “And you’re right flashlights don’t flash.” I laugh a little, too, drawing a smile from Royce.

The owner continues, “There’s a mudroom just off the left of the kitchen where you’ll be-havin’ breakfast tomorrow. Come down the butler’s staircase you two went up to find your room, pass by the very big landing, then take the servants stairs off the back straight down. It’s obvious which is which. That same staircase will lead you to the mud room and the backdoor access to the mazes, but please remember your keys to get back inside because I’m off for home in a few. Only phone if there’s an emergency, dear.”

“Oh. Um. Okay. Yes, and thank you.” I pull a face at Royce who’s pacing around looking curious.

The woman continues, “As for the torches, we strongly encourage that you do bring them. Please, gather them on your way out. Wi-Fi and internet work inside the maze if you can’t get out you can call us. Also down by the door you can find Macintoshes and—oh there’s Wellies. All for your use, as well.”

“Oh, thank you—we—uh already, ate and I don’t think we’ll need computers,” I answer, with a little shrug.

Her response is another laugh, this time longer, as she adds, “You Americans. Always making jokes. So precious.”

I hang up the phone, frowning a little. “All set. Flashlights in a mud room. As well as Macs and Wellies.” I shrug. “I think she means snacks—and…guest laptops? Logging on right now while we’re in hiding would be a bad idea, right?”

Royce cracks up, throwing his head back. “Robin. Macs are raincoats…and Wellies… are…”

“Not snacks?” I sigh, slightly frustrated at my inability to speak this UK English.

“Rain boots.”

“At least they’re not ducks,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Nothing.”