CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Rebecca

The moment that Nick left, my old life came roaring back and I fell into the routine. I cleaned the kitchen, took a long hot shower, got dressed, and opened the bar in time for the lunch crowd to straggle in.

When I say lunch crowd, I mean the five or six regulars who come in for their recommended daily allowance of grease, hops, and barley. The same five or six will be back for dinner and if the weather permits, drink until it’s time to close.

As I served the lunch crowd their usual beer and burgers, I caught myself glancing out the window. I knew that Nick was a proud man. He was a freakin’ prince, for Pete’s sake! He wasn’t going to come crawling back to try to convince me to leave with him. I had my shot. I fucked it up. As usual.

Besides, why would he want some bar maid from Snowcap, New York when he could have a real princess, or at the very least, a Hollywood actress or a Victoria’s Secret model!

I wasn’t ugly, but I was no Grace Kelly. And I sure wasn’t the kind of woman Nick Rostov was used to having by his side or in his bed.

After the lunch rush (rush, who am I kidding?) I checked the satellite receiver and was relieved to find that my phone, TV, and internet were working again.

There was no phone, cable, or cell service this far up in the mountains, so I was happy as a pig in mud when I found out I could get it all via satellite; at least when the weather is clear.

I fired up my laptop and Googled the name Nick Rostov.

“Son of a bitch,” I sighed as the search returned over a hundred thousand results. Nick’s gorgeous face popped onto the screen in a dozen photos. In the largest photo, he was wearing an expensive suit, his hair was perfect, his smile would put George Clooney’s to shame. He was standing on a red carpet next to Jennifer Lawrence. Seriously? Jennifer Lawrence????

The brief description next to his photo said: Nikolay II, Prince of Kosnovia… Nikolay II is the reigning monarch of the Principality of Kosnovia, and head of the Princely House of Rostov. Prince Nikolay is the son of Anatoly II, King of Rostov, and the former Katarina Andropov of Ukraine.

“Wow…” I said with a sigh. “He really is a prince.”

My eyes scanned the page of headlines that had Nick’s name prominently featured. Some of them were gossip reports, linking him to a bunch of different starlets and models. A few were press reports from various events he’d attended around the world.

Then, the last headline on the page caught my eye. The link had been posted six months ago by a reporter for the London Times. It read: Rostov Dynasty Predicted Soon To Fall.

I clicked the link and read through the story with a hand over my mouth. The story was about the people of Kosnovia demanding that the monarchy be put to an end. The country was ruled by a parliament patterned after Great Britain’s, but the monarchy was still in place, and still owned much of the land and controlled much of the wealth. Kosnovia was having all kinds of economic issues now, and the people saw the royal family as an outdated, unnecessary, and costly waste of money. Parliament was set to take up the topic at its spring session.

“Holy shit,” I said. I closed my eyes and recalled the conversation I’d had with Nick.

He said, “My father thinks that a royal wedding and a royal baby would endear the monarchy to the people again. Especially if I were to wed an American woman.”

“Why an American woman?” I had asked.

“My father believes the shallow Americans would stand with the Rostov family if the heir was half American. Like Princess Grace of Monaco. No one even knew where Monaco was until the Prince married the Hollywood starlet.”

“Whatcha doin’, Becca Boo?”

I looked up to find Carl standing in the doorway, shaking the snow off his coat. I glanced at the clock. It was only seven o’clock.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked, closing the laptop and tucking it beneath the bar.

“I skipped lunch,” Carl said as he dragged his feet to the bar. He rubbed his hands together and pretended to shudder. “And it’s colder than a witch’s tittie out there. I need to fill my belly with a little Budweiser antifreeze.”

“When have you ever touched a witch’s tittie?” I asked.

He slid onto a bar stool and gave me the toothless smile. “I was married four times, Becca Boo,” he said. “I know all about witches and their titties.” He folded his gnarled hands on the bar and pushed his bushy eyebrows up. “How about a burger and fries and a mug of beer to wash it down?”

“Coming right up.”

Carl always made me smile. I yelled his order through the pass-through, then filled a mug with beer and set it in front of him.

He took a loud slurp and sucked the foam off the tips of his moustache. Looking around the bar, he asked, “So, did that young man get off okay last night?”

I blinked at him for a moment.

Did he get off?

Yes, several times, thank you for asking.

I picked up a bar rag and started wiping the bar with it. I said, “Yes, well, actually he spent the night here and left this morning when you had the roads cleared.”

Carl gave me a sly grin. “Spent the night, huh? Well, I hope y’all were able to stay warm in the cold.”

“You’re a dirty old man, Carl,” I said, giving him a scolding look.

“I used to be a dirty young man,” he said with a sigh. “But time and age took care of that.”

I leaned back against the beer cooler and folded my arms over my chest. “Carl, did you talk to him at all while he was here?”

Carl licked foam off his lips and bobbed his head. “Little bit. Seemed like a nice young fella. Full of bullshit, though.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I hope you didn’t fall for his line about being a prince.”

I frowned at him, and played dumb. “He said he was a prince?”

Carl gave me a thoughtful nod. “Said he was a prince from somewhere in Russia. Damn Ruskies. Can’t believe a word those bastards say. There ain’t no princes left in the world. Everybody knows that.”

“What else did he say?”

Carl scratched his bearded chin and closed one eye to think. “He said in his country, when a man wants a woman he just grabs her and takes her home with him. Can you imagine that? They just kidnap the girl and force her to marry them? I told him if he tried that stuff over here it would land him in jail faster than he could say ‘kiss my ass, comrade’.”

The cook yelled, “Order up!’ and I brought Carl’s burger and fries from the pass-through and set it in front of him. He doused the fries with ketchup, then picked up the burger between his hands and brought it to his mouth. Before sinking what was left of his teeth into the burger, he paused to give me an inquisitive look.

“That Ruskie didn’t try anything on you, did he Becca Boo?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No, Carl, he was the perfect gentleman.”

I let Carl eat in peace and went to stare out the front window. The night sky rolled with grey clouds just a few feet above the tree tops. The threat of more snow was on the horizon.

I wondered what Nick was doing at that moment.

I wondered if I would see him when he passed by tomorrow on his way back to New York.

Probably not.

And that was probably for the best.