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usually had too much going through her mind to relax and simply drift off. She’d tried the old remedies, such as counting sheep and listening to soothing music. Neither had much effect. Meditation sometimes worked. As did reading really, really boring accounts of her country’s gross domestic product.
    The royal physician blamed her insomnia on anxiety and had prescribed pills that she rarely took. They made her too groggy the next day, as if she were walking through a fog. She preferred to have her wits about her, even if it meant slumbering off sometimes during a dinner party. A picture of her with her eyes closed and her chin resting on her chest had graced the front page of a newspaper not long ago.
    “This is exactly the kind of publicity you need to avoid,” her mother had warned. “Royal or not, the press can turn public sentiment against you in a heartbeat.”
    Even so, Holly had been reluctant to take the pills. Still, she wondered if she would come to regret not bringing them with her for this trip.
    Nate stood at the glass door that opened to the deck, one hand in the front pocket of a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts, the other holding a beer. He’d taken a shower. She’d heard the water in his bathroom running not long after she’d shut off the water in the guest bath. His hair was still wet. He wore it on the long side, though not as long as he had as a boy. Back then, it had nearly brushed his shoulders. Now, it just grazed his collar. Thecolor had gotten darker over the years. It bordered on brown, but the sun had left its mark with the kind of highlights that women—and some men—spent vast sums of money at salons hoping to achieve. She couldn’t imagine him sitting still long enough to let a stylist work her magic.
    “It’s impolite to stare, you know.”
    Too late she realized that he’d been watching her reflection in the glass.
    “Yes. It is. I apologize.”
    She crossed to where he stood. Just as she reached his side, a bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed closely by a deafening boom. She jumped. Nate’s arm shot out, encircling her waist. Then Hank snorted and they broke apart, both of them turning to watch the pilot as he stirred, but only enough to roll over on the couch. He didn’t wake.
    “He sleeps like the dead,” Nate remarked, taking a pull of his beer. He seemed to remember his manners then. “Can I get you something to drink?”
    A cup of freshly brewed tea would have been lovely. And way too much trouble. She nodded toward the beverage in his hand. “A beer, please.”
    His brows arched in doubt. “A beer?”
    “That is what you’re drinking.”
    “Uh-huh. It’s a beer.” He stated the obvious, clearly expecting her to change her mind.
    “Then that’s what I’ll have. Please.”
    “Okay,” he said, sounding none too convinced. But he went to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a second long-necked bottle. Before handing it to her, he paused. “I’ll get you a glass.”
    “No need. I can drink out of a bottle.” Before he could protest, she took a sip.
    This American beer was less robust than the ales favored in her country, but she liked the taste. Even more, she liked the seeming normalcy of drinking a beer from a bottle and watching a storm roll over the big lake.
    “I’d forgotten how fierce the thunderstorms here can be.”
    “They pack a lot of punch,” he agreed. “It has to do with the water. They tend to pick up steam moving over the Great Lakes. The good news is they usually pass as quickly as they come.”
    “I remember. Tomorrow, when we wake up, it will be like it never happened,” she murmured.
    But Nate was shaking his head. “There will be plenty of fallout. And I’ll be out there cleaning up the debris. Everything has consequences, Holly.”
    “Are we still talking about the storm?”
    He shrugged.
    “You’re angry with me.” She said it as a statement rather than a question.
    “Angry?” The corners of