tomorrows that follow
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The Daily Mirror
July 19, 2020
PRINCE NIK — WORLD'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR
As Voted by You, Our Readers
Henrietta Stephens, staff writer
Follow: Henriett_Steph
It will come as no shock to our readers that Prince Niklaus of Britain has won our coveted slot as the world's top bachelor. The dashing Mikaelson beat out Lawrence Peters, star of HBO's hit drama Valor, Senator Thomas Winters, who has delivered his share of fiery speeches on the floor of the United States Senate, and his own brother, fellow royal Kol Mikaelson. Despite rumors linking Prince Nik to singer Camille O'Connell, Australian model Hayley Marshall, and of course, his longtime flame Aurora de Martel, he is, our sources have assured us, most certainly single.
The fairytale romance of his brother, Crown Prince Elijah, with Katherine Pierce has bewitched a captivated nation; their wedding, to be held at Westminster Chapel this fall, is certain to break international viewership records. It is highly expected that Prince Nik will serve as his brother's best man; and while we eagerly await the design of the wedding gown and the surprise of which of the Queen's beautiful tiaras Ms. Pierce will choose for her wedding day, the next most anticipated moment of the nuptials is surely the answer to the question: who will be Prince Nik's date?
London bookies currently place the odds at 3:1 for Aurora de Martel, 7:1 for Hayley Marshall, and 10:1 for Camille O'Connell. For the adventurous gambling spirit, 'Unknown' is 20:1 odds and 'Solo' is at 50:1.
Best of luck, ladies!
CLICK FOR COMMENTS:
Flora_Fauna: ugh he's so f-ing hot. Also who voted for Thomas Winters, dude's a total snooze.
ChillingMeSoftly: but where's the bachelorette list tho
RoyalStyleWatcher: smart money's on Katherine picking the Strathmore Rose tiara, if it's in decent enough shape!
Tiaras&Silk: RoyalStyleWatcher nah, she'll go with the Cartier Halo. Bet.
Flora_Fauna: Tiaras&Silk, RoyalStyleWatcher who cares, are you LOOKING AT THIS MAN? HOT.
Caroline's eyes open, as they had for the last week, at four am on the bloody dot to stare up at the vaulted ceiling of her room. Outside, the world is dark and quiet, deep under the veil of sleep—like she should be. Sighing heavily, she rolls over, as she had for the last week, in the vain hope that a new position will tempt sleep back, and waits hopefully for her eyelids to grow heavy.
Three minutes later, they pop back open and she rolls back over to lie flat on her back, staring despondently up at the tall ceiling that towers over her. "Great," she grouses softly, raising her head slightly so she can let it drop disappointedly back onto her fluffy pillow. "Just freaking great, Forbes."
And so, for the seventh morning in a row, she swings her legs over the side of the monstrosity of a bed and stares dejectedly at her running shoes.
The manor, situated as it is on top of a gently rolling hill, overlooks the village of Avondale; where, as far as Caroline can see from her tall window, only the street lamps are on. The rest of the town is wisely still asleep, unaffected as they are by the jet lag that somehow still plagues her. The last time she had made the transatlantic flight out of Jackson-Hartfield, it had only taken her three days to fully adjust, and even then, those three days had felt nothing like this.
Because this time it's permanent, a tiny voice whispers in the back of her mind as she bends over and touches her toes, letting herself linger in the hamstring stretch. The first time she had been here was simply to help the Fells in their house hunt, but now—now she is a resident in said house for the foreseeable future.
At her feet, Olive sits patiently, her tail thumping excitedly as Caroline slips the jalapeño harness over her paws and fastens it at her back. She rolls her eyes fondly at the dog's obvious excitement as she runs through her final checklist—keys, check; headphones, check; phone, check; and with a satisfied nod, she opens her room door as softly as she can.
Olive darts out and vanishes down the steps, Caroline tiptoeing down the long hallway after her. She dodges the creaky step on the winding spiral staircase, and with a backwards glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that she didn't wake anyone else in the household up, she moves as swiftly and quietly as she can towards the elaborate French doors, grabbing the leash on the way out.
Aside from being decidedly unamused at her lack of sleep, Caroline has always enjoyed the quiet of the early morning. There's a softness to the morning, her dad used to say, a blur around the edges where the world hasn't quite decided what it wants to be yet. She bounces on her toes to keep the slight nip in the air before slipping her headphones into her ears and blasting her Sleep Is For the Weak playlist at the loudest volume she can reasonably stand.
For the seventh time in seven days, she starts her jog at the top of the long circle drive; she's two songs in before she reaches the exit, turning her body sideways to slide out of the walking gate next to the larger one that walls off the driveway from the road. It's a route she knows well at this point: the road gives way, a rough mile or so in, to a main street that eventually—around two miles—leads to Avondale proper. In the heart of town, another mile later, the winding creek splits the town in half, with a cathedral on one side and a row of shops on the other. When she had first seen it, she had thought wistfully that Avondale was like something out of Beauty and the Beast.
In Northern England, the summer cools into autumn far faster than in Atlanta, and she watches in amazement as her breath takes shape in the air ahead of her. "Real smart, Forbes," she whispers to herself under her music. "Move to England, they said. It'll be an adventure, they said!" Right now, she'd bet her mother is curled up with a chamomile tea on the front porch, a blanket over her shoulders to ward off the slight chill in the air. You win, she thinks to Liz from thousands of miles away, I should have listened to you.
But the Fells' offer had seemed too good to be true. It's a lot to ask, Meredith had said apologetically, but you're so good with Fiona, and we'd just really love to keep you on for at least the next few months while we search for the best school. Meredith had left it there, but Caroline had heard what was unsaid—you're not doing anything else anyway, Caroline.
And it was true—since graduating from NYU, she had been forced to move back home. It's not like she had thought it would be easy—nothing worth it ever was, her dad used to say—but after four years of high praise from all of her professors, she had managed to convince herself that maybe it wouldn't be so hard for her.
Instead, after a year of auditioning during the day and bartending at night, living solely on discounted Ramen and the generosity of friends, she'd tapped out—temporarily. After all, Atlanta, while not exactly one of the theater capitals of the world like New York, wasn't exactly a backwater and Caroline refused to give up with her tail between her legs.
But since returning home, she had found herself winning only a smattering of lead roles at the local community theater and a part time talk show hosting gig on a public access channel. But otherwise? She was the literal opposite of booked and busy, and Liz was starting to hint that it was high time she moved out.
So why not accompany the Fells to England, hitching her grand adventure to theirs? At the very least it might help pay off the ample student loans she had racked up at Tisch. She'd drafted a pros and cons list, presented her case to her best friend Matt—student loans bills written in tight, neat cursive at the top of the pros column—and they had both ruled in favor of a European adventure.
The chill doesn't stop the sweat from beading on her forehead; cute, she thinks in growing disdain. In pure contrast, Olive is panting happily ahead of her, her ears perked and her tail wagging fiercely as she pulls at her leash excitedly, forcing her to pick up her speed. Despite the growing stitch forming in her side, Caroline welcomes it. The pounding of her feet against the pavement helps to stave off the awareness of just how very far from home she is.
I think it's a bad idea, Liz had said flatly when Caroline had told her of the Fells' offer. You went to school and got a degree, Caroline. Nannying was a job when you were a student, but glorified babysitter is not exactly what I'd call a viable career. The words had skated dangerously close to the fight they had had five years prior, when Caroline had announced she was going to NYU to major in drama. Acting is a hobby, her mother had snapped then, not a job. You know how many starving artists there are in one square mile of New York City alone, Caroline?
The memory of the words spurs her forward, desperate to drown them out under the sound of her pounding sneakers.
As her feet carry her from the secluded road upon which the manor sits down to the main thoroughfare, Caroline finds herself desperately missing her dad. He'd sneak her handfuls of twenty dollar bills every time he came to visit—get yourself some headshots, he'd said with a wink, just don't tell your mother—and she's positive he would be in her corner on this. She'd told her mother as much, had hurled the words at her with enough force that her cheeks still heat with the remnants of shame.
The unexpected prick of tears in her eyes makes her shake her head and rejoin the present. The main road, while secluded and quiet at this time of day, still requires more awareness than the more private road she had just left, so Caroline lifts her chin and lets Olive pull her down the pavement.
It's here, on the outskirts of town, that she passes a few small homes and shops. Dark and quiet, they fly by her as she runs: a travel agency, a real estate broker, a small Sainsbury's that she has already frequented a few times, and a dog grooming salon. Olive makes as though to stop at the last one, her long legs slowing in interest.
"No," she scolds lightly, tugging on the leash; undaunted, Olive darts ahead of her.
By the time the thoroughfare ends, the sun is beginning to slowly announce itself just beyond the horizon, the sky streaking into lavender and soft pink. She checks her watch and notes with no small amount of pleasure that she's beating yesterday's time—an unexpected surprise. Yesterday, she had pushed herself, desperately trying to outrun thoughts of her dad—would he support her decision to follow the Fells to England, what would he think of her languishing photography, and the one that hurts the most to brush up against, lingering like the ache of a bruise: would he be proud of her?
But today, she is only trying to keep up with Olive, her beloved and faithful failed attempt at fostering a rescue dog. Congratulations, the shelter manager had said with a grin as he handed over Olive's paperwork, you flunked foster parenting 101 and adopted your ward.
It had been her one condition to accepting the Fells' proposal—she wouldn't leave Olive behind. Meredith had blinked at her before breaking into a wide smile. We would never ask you to do that, she had said enthusiastically, and Fi loves Ollie! And it was true—six-year-old Fiona Fell adored the mutt, a love that was thankfully, blessedly mutual.
Her watch buzzes, alerting her of the three-and-a-half-mile mark, and Caroline takes a moment to take stock of herself: legs—burning; lungs—cold; Olive—thrilled; playlist—bangin'; and she nods as she heads down the final stretch towards the bridge.
It's on her way there that she passes the only other runner she's seen the last seven days. He's young—a little older than her, if she's not mistaken—and handsome, if not the slightest bit familiar looking.
The last few mornings, Caroline had given him the customary runner's nod—a hello, I acknowledge that I see you, my fellow runner; you acknowledge that you see me and here our interaction ends unless one of us requires an alibi witness—and he'd given it politely back. Today, however, he adds a half smile in recognition and she realizes with a jolt that he has dimples. She moves him squarely up from wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers to would bang like a screen door in a hurricane.
She wonders what drives someone so cute out of bed at this ungodly hour to run—if he simply enjoys it; or if he, like her, is trying to outrun the pervasive thoughts that won't let up.
But Olive won't let her wonder for long, pulling at the leash until Caroline's watch buzzes again. Four miles in thirty-eight minutes, a personal best that makes her smile, just a little, as she slows her pace before coming to a complete stop. She leans against the side of the bridge to stretch, Olive's leash wrapped around her wrist as she pulls her heel up to her bum. Olive trots over as far as the leash will allow to sniff at the brick of the bridge; Caroline follows her towards the water fountain at the edge of the bridge, turning it on so Olive can lap at the water that trails from its spout.
Leaning against the bridge, she watches as the breeze ripples across the creek, the pink and orange reflected in its depths as the sun continues its march into the sky. Avondale is beautiful, but she observes it at a distance, an outsider still in all the ways that matter.
Twelve weeks ago, Meredith had been offered the head of surgery at the large regional NHS hospital thirty minutes from Avondale; her husband, a pediatrician, had uprooted his practice to work at a private children's clinic nearby. We'd really love if you could come, Meredith had said when pitching the job to her, since Fiona is so attached to you and you've just really—well, you're basically part of the family, Caroline, and since adjusting may be hard for Fi, we thought it might help for you to be around. She had smiled, a little sheepishly. I'll be working a lot at first, and so will David, and we just really think it would help.
And so she had packed her bags, fitting her entire life into two rolling suitcases.
Caroline checks her watch again. It's nearly five and she needs to be back by seven, before Fiona wakes up for school. Sighing, she turns back to the street and leans her elbows against the bridge.
Down the sidewalk, a small street vendor is setting up and she debates the merits of grabbing a bear claw for the road. Her stomach rumbles at the thought and Olive looks up at her expectantly. The day before yesterday, she had bought a donut at the same cart, and the owner had slipped Olive a dog treat; Caroline wonders idly just how good a dog's memories are.
Good enough, apparently, that Olive tugs Caroline towards the cart expectantly. "Okay," she says with a tiny laugh, pulling her headphones out of her ears so that they dangle around her neck. "You win, Ollie girl."
"Mornin'," the vendor, an older man with bifocals and solid white hair, says cheerfully as he sets up his small till. He reminds her of her grandfather, his hands wrinkled and busy as he arranges everything to his liking. "Didn't see you yesterday, love, everything all right, then?"
Her face heats. "Oh, um—I didn't grab anything yesterday," she confesses. "Wasn't hungry."
The vendor tsks. "You're too thin," he admonishes gently as he dusts the case next to the till. "What'll it be this mornin'?"
Biting her lip, Caroline taps the glass in front of the bear claw. "It looked so good Wednesday," she says as he sends her a fond smile and reaches for his tongs. "Couldn't resist."
She reaches down to the small front pocket of her running leggings, fingers brushing past her house key—and then nothing. Her fingers slip on the empty pocket, skimming against nothing but the dry-wick of the fabric.
Oh, no. She distinctly remembers slipping her house key in her pocket, and she has her phone and headphones, but she forgot money.
"Um," she says, shifting nervously from foot to foot, "I'm really sorry, but uh, I think I—I forgot my wallet." She backs away a step in embarrassment, and feels solid mass at her back before turning, her face heating even further as hands come up to her forearms to steady her and Olive dances excitedly at their knees at the prospect of a new friend. "Oh god, I'm sorry—"
Cute Running Guy waves her off. "Put it on my tab, James," he says to the vendor, whose eyebrows rise just a bit before he smiles again, wider this time, and hands her the pastry.
"No, seriously, it's fine—"
He waves her off again, and there's a quiet thread of authority running behind the gesture, as though he's used to being obeyed. Her mouth shuts, and she's immediately annoyed with herself.
"For you this mornin', sir?" the vendor asks and Cute Running Guy glances down at the bear claw in her hand.
"The same," he says and, minutes later, she inexplicably finds herself walking with him, away from the cart, bear claw in hand.
"You didn't have to do that," she says, and almost as soon as she says the words, she could smack herself. "I mean, thank you, that was really nice, but also like, completely unnecessary—"
"Nonsense," he says easily, stopping at the edge of the bridge near the cathedral; she finds herself stopping too. "Come here often?"
"I've seen you like the last six—" seven, her brain corrects, but she doesn't acknowledge her error, "—days."
He laughs lowly, and the sound makes her insides warm. "Seven," he says and she hopes he can't see her blush under her lingering post-run red face. "You're the first person I've seen up at this hour."
"Yeah, I'm still a little jet lagged."
"American," he says, and it isn't a question.
"Yep, 'fraid so." She bites into her bear claw and tears a tiny piece off for Olive, who snatches it off of her fingers. "Got here Sunday, and my sleep schedule is still all out of whack."
"Melatonin," he says, and she watches as the morning sun catches the gold in his hair. The curl is just this shy of messy, and she gets the impression that if he left it to grow any longer, it would be downright unruly. She finds herself wishing that he would, this stranger. "The weary traveler's best friend, I've found," he continues. "Where are you from, then, in America?"
"Georgia. Atlanta, specifically." Caroline tilts her head. "What about you?"
His lashes sweep down over his blue eyes as he blinks. "I'm from England," he tells her gravely, and it's so unexpected that she laughs, startling Olive.
"Yeah, no sh—uh, obviously, Sherlock. Where in England?"
"London," he says, "but I'm here working for a few more weeks."
"What do you do for work?"
One of his eyebrows arches. "I'm a government employee," he says dryly.
"Oh, good benefits," she offers brightly before looking down the metaphorical precipice and deciding to jump. She sticks her hand out. "I'm Caroline, and this is Olive."
The eyebrow arches higher, just a bit, before he shakes her hand.
"Nik," he says, and then he squats down to let Olive lick his hand in greeting. "Pleasure to meet the both of you."
Her watch buzzes as her phone's alarm begins to sound in the headphones laying against her collarbone; a strange disappointment sweeps over her as she pushes herself away from the bridge. "Well," she says, tugging on Olive's leash, "thanks for breakfast. I owe you." She smiles up at him. "See you here at the same time tomorrow?"
Something flares in his eyes, but it's gone before she can pin it down and study it. "Or," Nik says, turning to walk with her, "you could go with me to dinner." He flashes her a smile that fully showcases his dimples and something twists low in her stomach. "Now that we are no longer strangers."
Dinner. Before she can overthink it and dissect all the ways this could be a bad idea—despite his quip, they are still very much real strangers, and for all she speaks the language and can trace parts of her family tree back here, this is still very much a foreign country—Caroline lets her mouth move ahead of her brain.
"Okay," she says, and his smile is slow and enticing.
—
"I met a guy," she tells Meredith in the kitchen; from the stove, Elena, the manor's chef, raises an eyebrow at the words. "Today. On my run."
"Wearing that?" Meredith asks distractedly as she scribbles notes on a pad.
Elena snorts from the stove and hands Caroline a spoonful of something that smells divine but looks atrocious—par for the course, she has found, with the manor's menu. "Try it," she instructs.
"Rude," Caroline says to Meredith as she blows on the spoonful. "Fair, but still. Rude." She sips on the black soup Elena had handed her and squints. "More garlic," she decides with a firm nod, handing the spoon back to Elena.
"You say that every time," Elena grumbles, stirring the pot.
"It's true every time," Caroline retorts.
"So who is he?" Meredith wants to know, dropping the notepad to the table and giving Caroline her full attention. "I need a full name, and ideally a headshot or photo of a valid driver's license. I did promise your mom I'd take care of you, after all."
The mention of Liz Forbes stings. "Nik," she says as she pushes it aside; Elena thrusts a bowl in her hands and orders, "Stir, gently, please." Caroline obliges and continues, "Great smile, very cute. Dimples. Charming—I think you'd like him, Mere." She raises an eyebrow at Elena. "Not sure you would though."
"Charming men are a disease," Elena says flatly and Caroline grins, vindicated.
"See?" she says, gesturing towards Elena with her elbow as she stirs. "He looked super familiar too, like I've seen him somewhere before?" She blows her hair out of her face in an exaggerated sigh. "Can't figure out where though. Maybe, like, a former boy bander or something?" Caroline turns towards Elena expectantly. "Quick, list all the members of O-Town."
Elena raises a single haughty eyebrow. "No."
"What did you say his name was?" Meredith wants to know. "Nicholas?"
"I guess. He just said Nik, and I'm meeting him at the bridge tonight at eight." She shoots Meredith a questioning glance. "As long as you're good with that—Fi is usually in bed by then, and I know how you like to be the one to tuck her in and read her her story."
Meredith opens her mouth, but Elena beats her to it. "I'll go, and hang back, in case of trouble," she says firmly, swapping the bowl Caroline is stirring with a new bowl. "Fold that, and be—"
"—gentle," Caroline says in unison with her. "I've been in a kitchen before, you know."
"Uh huh." Elena looks thoroughly unimpressed. "Where is Sir Charming Dimples taking you to dinner then?"
"It's called Chestnut & Thyme, I think?"
Elena's spoon clatters loudly against the pot; Caroline jumps in surprise and looks up to find both women staring at her, Meredith in astonishment and Elena in disbelief. "What?"
"Have you looked anything up about that place?" Elena demands.
"I literally came straight in here after I got home," Caroline points out practically. "Why? Is it gross?" Her tone turns low and conspiratorial. "Is it like, a mob restaurant or something?"
"It's the most expensive restaurant in the region," Meredith says gently. "By a long shot."
Oh.
"Oh," Caroline says faintly, all thoughts of folding ceased. "How—how expensive are we talking?" Her mind whirls as she tries to do the math—she won't get her first paycheck until this time next week, and while her expenses have dwindled down to nearly nothing considering that the Fells are providing her with food and lodging, she definitely can't afford to blow a pretty penny on something as unfortunately trivial as dinner at a fancy restaurant.
Meredith hesitates and her heart sinks lower. "I'm sure he wouldn't have asked you there expecting you to pay," she says; and Elena snorts.
"Charming men," she says again, shaking her head. "A disease."
—
That night, armed with both the newfound knowledge of the caliber of the restaurant and with the strikingly clear memory of Nik's face hovering at the forefront of her mind, Caroline puts on the nicest non-cocktail dress she had brought with her to Britain. It's a deep blue that hits just below her knees, with fluttering sleeves and tiny white daises printed on the fabric; and it had been on deep discount at Nordstrom Rack a scant three days before she had left for Heathrow. She curls her hair, applies careful eyeliner, and slips into her favorite flats.
Elena, who has promised to stay put at the tiny bookstore across the street, gives her a once over before they part. "You look very nice," she says assuredly, giving her a comforting smile. "Really."
Her heartbeat, which had been keeping a steady, even rate, begins to speed up.
Here goes nothing.
Or, she wonders, maybe something.
—
tbc
A/N: As always, I am on Twitter (sunnydaisy6) or Tumblr (little-miss-sunny-daisy)!