Oh kill me now...
My disgust must have shown on my face, because Harold soured sharply as he turned that piecing gaze my way. “Although I must say, I am a bit surprised at your choice of bed-fellows. I was under the impression that Ms. Wilder serviced you only in a professional capacity.”
He did NOT just say that!
My hands clamped down on the armrests as I flew forward in my chair, but Nick intercepted the awkward moment before it could get off the ground. He held up a cautioning hand, flashing me an apologetic grimace, then turned in supplication back to Harold.
“Abby and I were caught in an...unscripted moment, that’s true.” He paused for a split second, then his face shone with sudden emotion. “But the indiscretion was mine. I won’t have her punished for it. I couldn’t live with myself.”
Such earnest sincerity was rare for Nick. Even the impregnable Harold Oates was moved.
He froze quite still for a moment, then his eyes misted over and he bowed his head to his chest in a humble sort of nod. “As always, dear Nicholas, I am at your service.”
I slumped back against the recliner, and resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
The entire world had developed an insatiable fascination with the Hunter family, but Harold Oates took it to a whole other level. The man was obsessed. In my opinion—creepily obsessed—but Nick had assured me multiple times that the man was harmless.
Stockholm syndrome, no doubt. But I could hardly blame him. Ever since he was just a baby—Harold had simply always been around.
Half-public relations expert, half-confidant, half-babysitter, half-butler; the man was always there. Staring, listening, spying, watching, waiting, lurking, and generally just hovering about in the shadows—soaking in every possible detail. No problem was too trivial that it didn’t warrant his massively over-qualified attention. No hour was ever too late to call. When just calling hadn’t been enough, Mitchell had actually purchased him a small cottage down the street from the Hunter’s Hampton estate. In the off-seasons, he simply stayed in the guesthouse.
He worshiped them the way some people worshiped royalty. Revered them as some kind of modern gods—viciously territorial of anyone else who dared bask in their presence. And while he stood in open-mouthed awe of Mitchell, it was Nick who most often captured his eye.
Again—you could hardly blame the guy. Trying to ignore Nick, was like trying not to look at the fire in a burning room. The man was resplendent. That being said, dear ‘ole England stared a little too often, if you asked me.
At any rate, there was no one better at managing the chaotic and scandal-ridden lives of the rich and famous—and that was coming from me. One of the best in the field. If there was anyone who could guide us through the months to come—it was Harold.
Lucky me.
“So,” he pulled out a pen and paper (the man was too refined for the digital age), “where would you like to begin?”
Events. He wanted events. And color schemes. And flowers. And invitations. And a million other things for a wedding that neither one of us wanted to have.
I stiffened and leaned back in my chair, as Nick’s eyes fastened on the pen.
“Harry...” There was an imploring note in his voice, and he pulled out an old childhood nickname for the occasion. As rumor had it, Harold had been too difficult for two-year-old Nick to master. He’d shortened it instead. “Even you have to admit that my dad’s gone too far this time. To make me actually get married—all because of one ill-timed photograph?”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, before shaking his head. His shoulders wilted in defeat and he pulled in a shaky breath. As vulnerable and scared as that same two-year-old kid—reaching out to his trusty Harry for help.
“I can’t...I can’t do it.”
It was a beautiful performance. One for the ages. And it worked on Harold like a charm.
To see his beloved prince so broken and alone—forced into an unwanted match with some kind of commoner. It was almost too much for him to handle.
The fingers holding the pen trembled, and the edge of the mustache twitched. For a second, he looked ready to burn down the entire city—if that’s what it took to save him. He held on to his composure by just a hair. Clinging to it with everything he had.
Like a lion on the hunt, Nick zeroed in for the kill.
“You have to help me, Harold.” Those impossibly compelling eyes of his widened in desperation, trapping the man in his hypnotic gaze. “Please. You have to talk to him.”
If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.
It was quiet for a split second, then Harold lowered the pen with a soft sigh.
“Nicholas, you know I’d do anything for you...”
It was true. Nick had put the theory to the test long ago. Harold had literally passed with flying colors when he’d somehow procured a WWI biplane for Nick to joyride for the afternoon.