Princess Ever After (Royal Wedding Series)

  ACCLAIM FOR ONCE UPON A PRINCE

  “I didn’t just love this story, I wanted to dive in and live in it . . . If you are looking for a book to get lost within, this is it!”

  —USATODAY.COM

  “Hauck has created an enchanting novel featuring a charming hero and heroine.”

  —BOOKLIST, STARRED REVIEW

  “Well-developed secondary characters are entertaining in their own right, adding a quirky touch (as do cameo-style appearances by real-life royals). Hauck fans will find a gem of a tale.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW

  “Once Upon a Prince is a modern-day fairy tale that’s a delightful page turner full of fun, faith, and barbeque.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  ALSO BY RACHEL HAUCK

  The Royal Wedding Series

  Once Upon a Prince

  Lowcountry Romance novels

  Love Starts with Elle

  Sweet Caroline

  Dining with Joy

  Diva Nashvegas

  Lost in Nashvegas

  With Sara Evans

  Sweet By and By

  Softly and Tenderly

  Love Lifted Me

  ZONDERVAN

  Princess Ever After

  © 2014 by Rachel Hayes Hauck

  ePub Edition © January 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-31552-0

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hauck, Rachel, 1960-

  Princess ever after : a Royal Wedding novel / Rachel Hauck.

  pages cm. -- (The Royal Wedding novel ; #2)

  ISBN 978-0-310-31550-6 (trade paper)

  1. Weddings--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A866P75 2014

  813’.6--dc23

  2013037377

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  14 15 16 17 18 19 20 /RRD/ 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In loving memory of my aunt, Betty Jane Burnside Hayes June 9, 1925–October 16, 2012 See you soon!

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  She’d found bliss. Perhaps even true love. Behind the wheel of a ’71 Dodge Challenger restored to Slant-6 perfection.

  Fishtailing into turn two of a west side Tallahassee dirt track, Reggie shifted into fourth gear and pushed the car to its max, the thrill of the race electrifying her entire being.

  The engine rumbled with authority as the tires hummed over the track, churning up dust as if to truly bury yesterday. Firing down the straightaway toward pinkish-gold remains of twilight leaking through the tall pines, the last thread of Reggie’s lingering doubt flitted away on the cool September breeze.

  This was what she’d been born to do—restore junked-up, forgotten old cars to their original, classic beauty. And it only took her twenty-nine years to figure that out.

  Ha-ha. Come on, baby. Show me what you can do.

  The boys at the finish line—Al, Rafe, and Wally—flagged her home with their hats in hand.

  This was amazing. Simply amazing. She should’ve done this years ago. Jump from the corporate CPA ship onto the barely floating life raft of “pipe dreams.”

  In the last six months, she’d endured more than her share of sleepless nights since she traded her business suits for coveralls and entered into the car restoration business with Al, who was like a second father to her.

  Restoring the Challenger was their first big job. And their first test.

  Reggie checked the speedometer. The needle shimmied right at one hundred.

  “Wahoo!”

  She sped past the finish line. An air horn sounded. Male voices rose with hoots and hollers. She’d done it. They’d done it. And without leaving a trail of car parts littering the racetrack.

  Downshifting, Reggie aimed for center field, whipping the car in a series of donuts, mashing on the horn, gunning the engine, letting the 440 breathe and have its say.

  Oh mercy, building and installing this engine had given them fits. Those days were the ones most filled with doubt, when Reggie considered dialing her old firm, Backlund & Backlund, and begging for her job back.

  One last spin around the infield and Reggie stopped the car and hopped out, letting the engine idle. Rafe swooped her up, whirling her around. “We did it!”

  When he set her down, Al embraced her in his dark, teddy bear arms. “I’m so stinking proud of you, girl.”

  “No, you, Al. It was your idea.”

  “But you were willing to take the leap.” Al, a retired Marine master sergeant, and her daddy’s best friend all the way back in the ’60s at Sullivan Elementary School, was the brains and brawn behind opening the shop.

  When Al had approached Reggie with the idea six months ago, she had nothing to say but “Where do I sign?”

  Then he hired Rafe, a Marine who served with Al right before he retired. Rafe left the Marines after three tours in Afghanistan and hitchhiked from North Carolina to Tallahassee in search of “Sergeant Al.”

  Ole Wally arrived at the idling car last. “I do believe she’s plum beautiful. Reg, you drive better than Danica.”

  She threw her arms around the wizened old redneck with thin wisps of white hair sticking out from under his Jeff Gordon 24 cap.

  “Wally, your engine work is the best in the business, and I’d bet my firstborn on it.”

  “Reg,”—Wally spit, an old habit left over from his Red Man chew days—“don’t go banking money on an account you don’t have. Got to find a man, go on a date, get married so’s you can have a firstborn.” Wally sauntered around the car. “Rafe, did you hear something pinging with the engine? Thought I heard it long about the eight cylinder.”

  Wally—the car whisperer.

  “Let’s listen for it on the ride back to the shop,” Rafe said, leaning over the hood, listening for the ping.

  The shop was an old red barn Al had found way out Blountstown Highway. It worked because it was big and airy with a solid roof. But mostly, because it was cheap.

  “Say! Reg,”—a loud bass voice boomed across the infield with irritation—“what happened to seven o’clock?”

  Reggie squinted through the long angles of light and shadow as Mark, her date
for the evening, made his way toward her.

  “Mark . . . hey . . .” Reggie tugged her phone from the pocket in her coveralls. Was it seven already? No, it wasn’t seven. It was seven thirty. Seven thirty-one, to be exact. She was late. “I’m so sorry.” She met Mark on the other side of the car, glancing back at Wally and shooting him a goofy look. “We had to run the car one last time. Wally heard a ping in the engine.” Well, he did. “Danny Hayes is picking her up in the morning, and we have to be sure she’s running at one hundred percent.”

  “Wally and Al can manage a ping, Reg.” Mark swiped his finger across the dusty hood and made a grand gesture of checking his watch. “Because you and I are late.” He stared at her coveralls. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “Yes, it’s all the rage in women’s fashion this season in New York, Mark. Grease-stained coveralls.” Reggie raised her foot. “But I am changing into a pair of fancy boots. Won’t that look smart?”

  “That-a-way to give it to him, Reg.” Rafe nudged her in solidarity as he came around to slip into the driver’s seat.

  “Drive careful, Rafe. Get the car back to the barn and cleaned up, okay?” She unzipped her coveralls and stepped out. Underneath she wore jeans and a black, pleated V-neck top—perfect attire for a Wakulla County fish fry. Even if the guy hosting it was crazy rich.

  Handing her wadded-up coveralls to Rafe through the window, she winced at the worrisome sound of “overbearing mother” in her words. Nevertheless . . . “White-glove the interior, the exterior, even the wheel wells.”

  “Gotcha, boss.” Rafe grinned and gunned the gas while Wally hovered over the engine, ear cocked to the sound of the mysterious ping.

  Al motioned for Reggie to step aside with him. “Reg—” His voice broke, and when he looked up, a dewy sheen slipped across his brown eyes. He sniffed, raised his chin, and drew a deep breath. “We done good, girl.”

  “Yeah, we did.” A well of tears filled her own eyes. “I owe you, Al. Big. Now we just have to figure out where our next job is coming from. I was thinking—”

  “Have a good night, Reg.” Al grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. “I just wanted to tell you I was proud of you. Now, go. Have fun. Laugh. Enjoy your success.”

  “We are a success, aren’t we?” She smiled.

  “A one-car success, but yes, so far, so good.”

  “Al, say, what if we—”

  “Girl, go have fun with your beau.”

  “He’s not my beau.”

  “Fine. Just go. Enjoy. Miriam is waiting for me at home with the grandkids. It’s popcorn and Disney movie night for me.” Al’s bold laugh rang out. He was having the time of his life.

  “Well, okay.” She patted her hands against her legs. “Off I go.”

  “Good. Off you go,” Al echoed her intent.

  “Look, now, if you need anything, call me.”

  “Reg, what could we need at seven thirty on a Tuesday evening?” Al grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward Mark. “Have fun. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Master Sergeant Love.”

  Walking with Mark toward his car, she exhaled, pressing her hand over her middle. She’d done it. They’d done it. Restored a whole car.

  “We were down to the chassis when we started working on that Challenger,” she said to herself more than to Mark.

  “Old Mr. McCandless is going to wonder where I’ve been.” Mark aimed his remote at the late-model Porsche sitting at the entrance of the track. “What about seven was so hard to do, Reg?”

  “I was working.” She ran ahead of him, waving and cheering, chasing the Challenger as Rafe, Wally, and Al exited the track and headed for the shop.

  “Let’s go,” Mark called.

  Reggie met him at the Porsche and slipped into the passenger seat with confidence in her belly that she’d finally found her destiny.

  A mellow Hunter Hayes melody played over Mark’s speakers, his Porsche buzzing toward the Gulf Coast.

  Reggie nestled against the Italian leather and followed the brilliant red plume streaking the western horizon. Was it possible for life to be perfect? Or almost? For the first time since Mama died when she was just a kid, life made sense. Didn’t it? Sure it did.

  Working on the Challenger, going into business with Al, steadied her, harnessed her restlessness. Her heart stopped wondering, “Is there something more?”

  “I played golf with Eric Backlund yesterday.” At thirty, Mark was one of the top real estate developers in Florida. He ate lunch with congressmen and played golf with CEOs, moving farther and farther away from the skinny, sad-eyed, latchkey kid living in a rusted-out trailer.

  “Does he still have a seven handicap?” she asked. Her former boss took every occasion to let the office know how well he could hit a little white ball with a thin wooden club.

  “He asked about you. Wants to know when you’re coming back.”

  “When a blizzard buries Tallahassee.” She powered down her window. The dewy air swept past her face and cooled the heat rising from the conversation.

  “Reg, come on. You’ve got to be smart, think ahead. So, bravo, you restored a classic car.” He raised his hands from the wheel for a short round of applause. “Proved to yourself and everyone else you could run with the big dogs. Now it’s time to consider your future.”

  “Not quite with the big dogs yet. We restored one car, and I don’t care for your sarcasm.” Did he mean to exhort and deflate her in one single breath?

  Reggie ignored the knock-knock of guilt, of wanting to please, to acquiesce. But doing what others expected and asked of her was what got her into the CPA business in the first place. Daddy thought it would be a good career for her. He was right. For a season. But she’d learned her lesson. Now was her time. To do what she wanted.

  “A little sarcasm goes a long way in opening blind eyes,” Mark said.

  “Gee, it’s a wonder Jesus never used it as he went about doing good and healing. Look, Mark,”—she turned to him—“I’m not going back to Backlund & Backlund, even if restoring cars doesn’t work out. So get that out of your head. Or anyone else’s. I’d rather sling groceries at Publix.” She sat back and faced forward, her gaze fixed on how the headlights were cutting through the darkness, her comfort and sense of well-being evaporating.

  “Fine, forget accounting,” Mark said, his voice gearing up for Plan B. She’d known Mark for almost twenty years, and he always had a Plan A and a Plan B, C, D, and E.

  “But, Reg, for crying out loud, cars? Old cars at that? You’re too intelligent and talented, too gorgeous to be wearing coveralls all day and sticking your head in a smelly engine.” He slowed the car, leaning to see a blue rural street sign hidden behind a tree.

  “You’re good with people,” he went on. “They walk right up to you and tell you their stories. Remember that woman at my office Christmas party last year? She downloaded her whole life story to you in the buffet line. She still talks about you.” He shook his head and hit the gas, craning for the next street marker. “What about being a politician?”

  “Ha! Politics? I’d rather work for Backlund & Backlund, Criminal Public Accountants.”

  “Har-har. Backlund is reputable and you know it.”

  “Even if they weren’t, I’d rather work for them than be in politics.” She turned to Mark. “Do you not know me? After all these years?”

  “I do know you. Maybe better than you know yourself. Reg, you’d be a good politician. You’d care more about people than your own power or wealth.” He slowed at the next street sign, then jerked the car left, leaving the road and hitting a soft, sandy driveway. He downshifted with a low growl. “McCandless develops million-dollar complexes. You’d think he’d pave his own drive.”

  But he spoke too soon. The car broke into a clearing, easing onto a curved, pebble drive that circled under a high portico to the front door.

  Reggie peered out the windshield toward the second floor and the high-pitched eaves. “A palace out
here in the middle of Wakulla County.” She laughed. “I think I’ve seen it all.”

  “McCandless is a bit of an eccentric, but he knows real estate development.”

  “Let me guess. You want him to back you in something you’re doing.”

  “A development over on St. George.” Mark put the car in neutral as a red-vested valet scurried down the front steps. A second valet opened Reggie’s door. Her stomach rumbled as she stepped into the potent aroma of frying fish.

  “Valets,” she said as Mark came around to her side, watching the man drive off with his car. “Hoity-toity. That’s definitely not Wakulla County.”

  Wakulla County was rednecks, good ole boys and girls, her kind of folks. Not valets running down carved stone steps from the doorway of a . . . palace.

  “All this?” Mark slipped his arm around her waist. “This is going to be me one day, babe.”

  Babe?

  “Well, not me.” Reggie shrugged out of his embrace and moved ahead of him up an illuminated path. Maybe she was being paranoid, but more and more it seemed Mark was painting her into his rich landscape. One in which she didn’t belong. What was up with him? When did the air between them change? They’d been friends forever. Just friends.

  Though they did have a “date” pact. If one or the other needed an escort to a wedding, Christmas party, work or family event, and couldn’t scrounge up anyone else, the other would go. But Mark had a slew of girlfriends. The dating trail behind him was littered with gorgeous women.

  “Ever hear from Monica?” Reggie said with a casual air when he caught up to her. Mark had met the dark-skinned beauty at a congressional luncheon, and Reggie didn’t see him for four months. “I thought maybe she was the one.”

  “She went home and got engaged to her college boyfriend.”

  “Already? That was fast.”

  “I was her rebound and, frankly, I didn’t see a future with us.” Mark touched her elbow, lightly steering her down the path toward a white-haired, Colonel-Sanders-looking character—McCandless.

  Reggie, on the other hand, had never been in love. Not that she didn’t want to be, but, well, she’d not met him. The one. The love of her life.