My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Page 4
the time, and official government meetings,” Phoenix told me. “Our real home is the castle in
Waldburg where we usually spend weekends. You’ll get to spend some time there after the
wedding.” She said it so casually, like everyone has a medieval castle as a weekend holiday home.
We had to skip a tour of the gardens (yeah, there’s more than one!) as it started to rain, but that’s just as well since my head was already about to explode.
And then this room! I really have stepped into a fairy tale. Any moment now I expect a fairy
godmother to appear and offer me a magical ballgown. My guest room is massive, big enough to fit
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two sofas, a writing desk, a dresser, an antique cabinet which I discovered last night conceals a flat-screen TV, and enough floor space left over for me to waltz in, if I knew how to waltz.
The bed isn’t one of those fairy tale canopied ones with drapes, but it’s still super-
impressive; solid, with wooden bed posts topped with giant carved acorns. Compared to the single bed which is all I can fit into my room back home, it’s big enough to throw a party in, and feels like sleeping on a cloud. I really must remember to ask Phoenix what thread count these bed sheets are.
I stretch, looking around the room, absorbing every detail just in case this is a dream and I wake up back in the same bedroom I’ve slept in the last thirty years. The walls are papered with a simple pattern of broad stripes in pale green and cream. No paintings or decoration, but on the ledge above the white-painted fireplace are two porcelain figurines of dancing couples. I slide out of bed and cross the cool, patterned parquet floor to the windows, pulling back the floral drapes that feel like silk under my fingers. The windows on this side of the palace are bigger, Phoenix explained last night, because they overlook the royal family’s private garden, so this wing has more privacy than all the others.
There’s a window seat and everything, so I settle on it, resting my chin on my knees as I
look out at the colorful flowerbeds below. The private garden is four times the size of the yard I dream of having one day, and it’s surrounded by a red brick wall that must be at least ten feet high.
Beyond the wall is a treed park, and then the roofs of the town, catching and reflecting the slanting morning sunlight. I itch to go exploring. This is Europe, full of history and culture and architecture that Vegas, with all its attempts to copy it, could never hope to achieve.
I would have loved to study history and art in college, but they’re just not practical for a
career unless you plan to be an under-paid teacher, so I’m studying accountancy and finance. With those majors I at least have a shot of getting an office job with a steady paycheck, regular hours, and windows. You might think that’s not particularly ambitious, but trust me, for some of us that’s ambitious enough.
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But here, for the next few weeks, I plan to indulge in all the art and history I can. For one
month, I will live the fairy tale.
My cell phone alarm buzzes, startling me out of my contemplation of the view. It’s time to
get dressed and go downstairs - and just like that the bubble pops and I’m no longer in fairyland.
I’m in the harsh reality of a world I’m completely unprepared for and not at all ready to face.
#
Remember how I said I’d jump through a ring of fire for Phoenix? Well that’s exactly how it
feels when I come down for breakfast.
“Jeans and tee shirts are fine,” Phoenix assured me over dinner in their apartment last night, but when a servant finally points me in the direction of the breakfast room, I baulk in the doorway.
I’m almost blinded by the silverware. And there are more porcelain plates and crystal glasses on the dining table than I’ve washed in my entire life. Did I mention that before I was old enough to serve drinks, my previous job was washing plates in a restaurant kitchen?
The room is big enough to fit a highly-polished wooden dining table that could seat at least
twenty. But it’s not just the size of the room that’s impressive. The walls are painted plain ivory-white, and when I look up, I realize that the ceiling is painted like the Sistine Chapel. At least, what I imagine the Sistine Chapel looks like, since I’ve only ever seen pictures during a long ago art class. Blue sky, clouds, and frolicking gods and goddesses.
I hover in the doorway until Phoenix turns her head and spots me. So does everyone else in
the room, and there’s rather a lot of them. They all look like they’re dressed for a Vogue fashion shoot. Phoenix is the only other person in the room wearing jeans.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks, her ready smile lighting up her face as I walk in.
“Not really. I guess it’s going to take my body clock another day to adjust.”
“You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. Breakfast’s on the sideboard.” I have no clue what a
sideboard is, but she waves toward a buffet at the far end of the room, where a heavily pregnant woman is dishing up scrambled eggs and bacon onto an empty plate.
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“Hi, I’m Rebekah,” the woman says, smiling at me in welcome as I tentatively approach the
buffet. “I’m Claus’ wife.” She nods at the fair-haired man seated beside Max at the head of the table. I was introduced to Claus yesterday. He’s Max’s Steward - whatever that means - and one of the main organizers of the royal wedding. Both men greet me, then their blond heads bend together again to pore over paperwork.
I’ve heard about Rebekah from Phoenix. She was Phoenix’s boss when she first arrived in
Westerwald, and they’re still good friends. I can see why. Rebekah has a kind, open face, smiling eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her nose, which make her look younger than she probably is.
Taking my cue from her, I head to the side table and pick up a plate then serve myself from
the buffet. The chafing dishes look tarnished enough to be real silver, and the range of choice is almost as good as the casino’s breakfast buffet. This is certainly a world away from my usual bowl of corn flakes eaten at the faux-granite counter in my mom’s tiny kitchenette.
Once I’ve dished up, I take my plate to the table, choosing the seat next to Phoenix. I set my plate down, sit, and then stare bewildered at the array of cutlery before me. I’ve only ever eaten with one knife and one fork. This place setting has four of each. Does it matter which one I use? Oh God, of course it does.
And there are real cloth napkins.
How the hell did I think I could do this? I can’t even get through breakfast without making it obvious I’m nothing more than a hick from Hicksville.
Trailer park trash.
If anyone dares say that to my face, I’ll claw their eyes out with my bare hands. Even if it is true. Not that trailer parks are as bad as their reputation. I’ve lived in one my entire life, and let me tell you, it’s a whole lot better place to grow up than many other places I’ve seen. But I also know on which rung of the social ladder it places me, and it sure isn’t the one I’ve woken up on today.
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Phoenix has already finished her meal, and further down the table Max’s private secretary,
the press secretary, and the Master of the Household are so engrossed in conversation that they’ve barely touched their food. I was introduced to them all yesterday, but in the haze of jet lag from my first ever airplane flight, I forgot their names as quickly as I was told them.
I’m still contemplating the cutlery when it’s as if a breeze stirs the air in the room and I feel rather than hear someone enter the room behind me. I know straight away who it is, and have to force myself not to turn around to look. My back stiffens.
The Best Man drops a light kiss on Phoenix’s cheek. “Hello, Gorgeous!”
“Hello, Charmer.” She smiles warmly back at him, and I’ll admit to being more than a little
surprised. Phoenix is usually a really good judge of character.
Then he turns his attention on me, and for a moment I freeze. He gives me the once-over
and smiles. I remember that smile. Full of heat and stripping me naked as it did back in that private room at the casino. Will he recognize me? But of course he doesn’t. Not even a flicker of
recognition. And why would he? Men like him don’t remember the hired help. I’m probably one of a thousand servers who’ve waited on him in the last year, one of a thousand women he no doubt
invited to his bed without even asking for a name. And I didn’t have this rather distinctive turquoise ombre on my hair a year ago. His gaze takes in the rather striking effect of my hair, and his smile turns to a cheeky grin. “You must be the bridesmaid.”
“Khara,” I correct, not smiling back.
He doesn’t seem to notice my frosty attitude. “I’m Adam Hatton. It’s a pleasure to meet
you.” The way he says the word pleasure makes my skin prickle. And not in an entirely bad way, though I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phoenix sit straighter, like a bloodhound, or a shark
scenting blood in the water.
When Rebekah joins us, I am so grateful for the interruption I could hug her. Adam circles
the table to give her a quick kiss too. “You’re looking good. Positively glowing.”
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She beams up at him and I roll my eyes. Then he steals a slice of crispy bacon off her plate,
and with another jaunty smile heads to the buffet to serve himself. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.
Rebekah sits across from us, lowering herself into the seat as if her pregnant belly weighs a
ton. She has my sympathy. I suffered through a couple of pregnancies with my neighbor Carly
before she followed her latest husband to Ohio.
As relaxed and comfortable as if she were eating in her own home, Rebekah unfolds her
napkin and spreads it across her lap. I copy her. Note to self: don’t tuck the napkin in your shirt like a bib.
Then she picks up one of the forks beside her plate, and I do the same.
I manage a few mouthfuls before Adam is back, sliding into the empty seat to my left, not-
so-accidentally brushing his thigh against mine, and for a moment an honest-to-goodness thrill shudders through me before I shift away. But he pays me no attention as he goes straight for the correct fork. Rich people make it look so easy. For the record, it’s not, when you have no clue what you’re doing and you’re terrified of screwing up and making your best friend look bad.
This may well be the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten, but it tastes like cardboard in my mouth, since I’m so busy concentrating on what to do, how to sit, how to hold my fork, while at the same time trying to completely ignore the man sitting right beside me. Which isn’t easy. He smells
heavenly. I mean, I have never met a man who smells like this before. If I had to give it a name, I’d say he smelled like pure male hotness. Not the sweat of manual labor, or kitchen grease, or the scent of after-shave, but a clean, crisp, heady, manly smell that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together.
Please, please don’t let Phoenix notice that my hormones are having a field day.
Thank heavens she has other concerns. She leans on the dining table, cupping her chin in
one hand while she studies the typed schedule she holds in the other. “This morning, I have a
meeting with the Department of Internal Affairs to discuss the final housing and security
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arrangements for the visiting dignitaries, then in the afternoon we have your dress fitting to fit you with your outfits for the wedding, then…”
“Outfits?” I interrupt. “As in plural? Surely I only need one bridesmaid dress?”
She shakes her head. “Church weddings aren’t legally binding here, due to the whole
separation of church and state thing, so we have a civil wedding the day before the big church wedding. You’ll need a separate outfit for that. Then you’ll need a dress for the gala dinner that night, and another for the ball after the church wedding.”
I swallow, choking on a piece of scrambled egg. Adam thumps me on my back, which
doesn’t help.
“And to think you…” This time I pretend to choke, because I was about to say ‘and to think
the last time you got married you wanted to do it in jeans’. I was the one who had to convince her to wear a dress that time. But I don’t know if anyone else at this table knows they’re already married, so I drown the words with a gulp of water from Phoenix’s glass.
On the plus side, my coughing fit attracts the attention of a maid in a navy and white
uniform who brings a pot of coffee to our end of the table, and I’m no longer the focus of
everyone’s attention. She fills all our cups, blushing when Adam thanks her.
Phoenix looks back at her schedule. “This evening we’re hosting a dinner party.” She flicks
to the next page. “Then tomorrow we have your photo sitting-”
“My what?”
“The palace will be making the official announcement of the bridal party in the papers the
day after, so we need to get you some official portraits that can go out to the press. Unless you already have a picture you’d like to send out to the papers?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, drowning it down with a gulp of hot, black coffee. She
knows very well I don’t. I hate having my picture taken.
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This is my last chance to back out then, before my name and my life go public. Before
Phoenix becomes a laughing stock for choosing me as her bridesmaid. “Can’t Rebekah be your
bridesmaid instead?”
The others laugh.
“Can you imagine me waddling down the aisle?” Rebekah asks. “Besides, I don’t think they
make bridesmaid dresses in tent size.”
You’d be surprised. The first time Carly married she was already heavily pregnant.
I change the subject away from weddings and me being on public display not just once,
which I’ve sort of come to terms with, but a gazillion times over the next few weeks. “I was
wondering - what thread count are your sheets?”
Beside me, Adam makes a noise as if he’s suppressing a laugh, and Rebekah’s eyes go wide.
My face flames. I said something wrong, didn’t I?
Phoenix doesn’t bat an eyelid, though. “I have no idea. But I’ll ask the housekeeper and get
back to you.”
I need another subject change. Stat. “Can we ask your secretary to schedule some time in
your diary so you can give me a grand tour of this town?”
Phoenix frowns at her schedule. “Things aren’t usually this crazy. It’s just all the wedding
arrangements… But we’ve got a girls’ day scheduled for Thursday. I was thinking of a spa day, but I guess we could do some sight-seeing instead.”
I was joking about having to book time in her diary, but Thursday… “that’s two whole days
away!”
I’m not usually this needy, I promise. It’s just that days off are rare in my life, and even
when I do get a day off I spend it running errands, or doing chores, or studying, and I have no idea what I’m going to do to keep busy while the only person I know in this town is in meetings…I
swallow down my panic and manage a smile. “Then maybe I can go out exploring on my own.” I
say it bravely, though I don’t feel very brave. Do the people in Westerwald even speak English?
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Phoenix eyes me skeptically. She knows I’m not big on adventure, and wandering around a
strange place on my own will most definitely be the biggest adventure of my life.
“It’s not much fun getting lost in a foreign city.” Her expression is wistful, though. After her impetuous, secret marriage to Max last summer, she ran out on him to backpack around Europe on her own. Or he ran out on her - the jury’s still out on that one. It’s kind of like the whole Ross and Rachel ‘they were on a break’ thing.
But that’s Phoenix, not me. She thrives on adventure, while stepping outside my comfort
zone is my idea of hell on earth. It’s one of the reasons I still live with my mother, even though she drives me batshit crazy.
“I’m sure we can find someone on the palace staff who can take you out and show you the
sights,” Phoenix says, but she sounds doubtful.
“I’ll take her.”
I jump at the sound of Adam’s voice far too close to my ear for comfort. He’s talking to
Phoenix, but the purr in his voice suggests his words aren’t meant for her.
Phoenix claps her hands. “That’s a great idea. You can go out this morning and see a bit of
the city while I’m in my meeting.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. Firstly, because I know from past experience
that she’ll win any argument we have, and secondly, because she’s paying for my whole damned
trip. What kind of ungrateful friend would I be to insist someone else give me a guided tour, when every member of staff is no doubt frantically preparing for the royal wedding?
“Thank you, that would be lovely.” I even manage a smile. But getting lost alone in a
foreign city no longer seems like the most dangerous way to spend the day.
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Chapter Four
Adam
When I come down the back stairs from the guest wing, Khara is already waiting at the private