My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Read online

  himself.

  Even unfinished, this dress is the most stunning piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. The design

  is deceptively simple - a fitted bodice with a high halter neck, and a full skirt that falls in soft folds all the way to my ankles. The only decoration is a high satin waistband the same color as the dress.

  It’s the royal blue fabric that makes this dress so special - I’ve never felt anything this soft before.

  “Crêpe-de-Chine silk,” Anton says, lovingly brushing his hand over my hip. “It matches

  perfectly with your hair and eyes.”

  “Don’t worry about the hair,” I say quickly. “It’ll wash out before the wedding. And of

  course I’ll be wearing it up.”

  “Why?” both he and Phoenix ask in unison.

  Do I really need to spell it out? Clearly I do. “Because you can’t have a bridesmaid with

  blue hair at a royal wedding.” Or frizz. I Googled royal weddings the day Phoenix called and asked me to be her bridesmaid, and everyone in the bridal parties looks sleek and groomed. If I had the

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  soft, bouncy curls of a L’Oreal commercial, I might get away with it, but my curls lean more toward wild corkscrew than artful curl. My hair has more kinks than Fifty Shades.

  “Nonsense,” Phoenix says. “This is my wedding, and I want it to be uniquely me, and that

  includes having a bridesmaid who is uniquely you. And I like your hair as it is.”

  I love her for that, but I shake my head. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to stand

  out. Back home, I see so many people with bright-colored hair that I blend right in, but this entire day I haven’t seen one other person with colored hair.

  Anton grins. “Did you know that this particular shade of blue is Westerwald blue? Everyone

  will assume your hair is a patriotic statement.”

  I bite my lip and turn to the tall gilt-framed mirror. The color is a really good match, and

  both the dress and the hair bring out the dark blue in my eyes.

  Phoenix moves to stand behind me, and I look at our reflections. “A crown of white flowers

  in your hair and a white bouquet, and you’re done.”

  “I still need shoes,” I point out, lifting the hem of the dress to reveal my worn but super-

  comfortable Keds.

  Anton laughs. “Cinderella does indeed need a pair of slippers for the ball.” He claps his

  hands and the assistants jump into action, bringing out an endless parade of shoes. I eye them in dismay. “They all have heels!” I don’t even know how to walk in heels. When you’re on your feet eight hours every day, trust me, a comfortable pair of flats is worth every cent.

  “I’ll give you a pair to practice in,” Anton offers.

  There are other dresses for me to fit, an A-line, knee-length cocktail dress with a deep V-

  neck in the same shade of blue for the wedding reception (“better for dancing,” Phoenix explains), a dusky pink babydoll swing dress patterned with grey roses for the registry office wedding, and a 1950s vintage-style dress of forest green crêpe for the banquet.

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  “You’ll need to wear your hair up with this one,” Anton says, “to avoid the colors clashing.”

  He twists my wild frizz up into an Audrey Hepburn style, and I hardly recognize myself in the

  mirror.

  “Do I get a fascinator to go with it?” I ask. I always wanted one of those. Something with

  peacock feathers to match my hair.

  Anton shakes his head. “Hats and fascinators are for daytime outdoor events only. Tiaras are

  for evening wear.”

  No way am I ever wearing a tiara. I am so not a Disney princess.

  “So what do you think of Adam?” Phoenix asks, when I’m standing like one of those human

  statues on a little podium. Anton is back on his knees, pins in his mouth as he nips and tucks at the stiff green crêpe.

  “I don’t think of him at all,” I lie.

  She arches an eyebrow at me. I know her well enough to know she won’t give up until she

  has a proper answer.

  “He’s cute,” I say. “But he’s a douche.”

  Somewhere around my knees, Anton chuckles.

  “You’ve barely met him,” Phoenix protests.

  Then why is she asking what I think of him? For at least the third time today I wonder if

  she’s trying to set me up with Adam, though for the life of me I can’t imagine why.

  I shrug. “I’ve met his type before. He’s the kind of man who thinks that just because he has

  money, he’s exempted from behaving like a decent human being.”

  “You’re being hard on him because he’s rich.”

  I remember the way he slid his room key card to me a year ago, assuming I’d go with him

  just because he has money. And not even bothering to ask my name. The anger I felt then floods through me, fresh as if it happened today. Or maybe it did happen today. The only reason he

  volunteered to take me sightseeing was so he could get into my pants. “I’m being hard on him

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  because he measures his worth by how much money he has, and how many women he can score

  with. He’s the type who uses and discards women as if they’re nothing more than objects for his personal gratification. He thinks money can buy him anything and anyone he wants. It can’t.”

  “You should give him a chance. Get to know him and you’ll see that, deep down, he’s a nice

  guy.”

  I turn to eye her, and she grins cheekily. “It’s not as if I’m suggesting you marry him.”

  As if.

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “That you should relax and have a little fun. That’s what vacations are for. And you need to relax. You’re so tightly wound. When did you last do something just for fun?”

  I shrug, and Anton scowls at me. “Stand still!” he orders.

  “I have fun!” I protest. Admittedly, I haven’t dated for a while, not since Raúl and I broke

  up, but… actually, there is no ‘but’. I can’t even remember the last time I did anything except work or study.

  But if I wanted to blow off steam with a man, it certainly wouldn’t be Adam. What I feel

  around him is definitely not relaxed.

  When the shoe parade starts again, I hold up both my hands. “Enough! I can’t take any

  more.” I look at Phoenix. “Isn’t it your turn?”

  Back in my comfortable jeans and Keds, I relax on the couch while Phoenix models her

  wedding gown for me.

  It’s the kind of dress that Disney princesses dream of, made of thick ivory silk crêpe covered in a gauzy layer of soft silk tulle. The bodice is embroidered with an intricate pattern of roses and decorated with freshwater pearls.

  Anton proudly holds out the veil for me to inspect. “It’s made of hand-made Belgian lace.”

  I gently finger the veil. “Is that a dragon embroidered on it?”

  He nods. “The dragon and rose emblem of Westerwald.”

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  I remember the signet ring Max used in place of a wedding ring the first time they married -

  a blue stone carved like a dragon’s head and surrounded by a pattern of silver roses. I had no idea at the time what that ring signified. Did Phoenix?

  “What are you wearing for your civil wedding?” I ask.

  “Did you pack the dress I asked you to bring?”

  I nod, and she grins. “That’s the one I want to wear when we marry.”

  It’s the same dress I loaned her for her first wedding to Max, in that Vegas chapel more than

  a year ago. More Marilyn Monroe than Anton Martens, but if anyone can make it look classy,
it’ll be Phoenix.

  Next she models the dress that Anton is still working on, an ice-blue, lace-and-chiffon outfit that looks like something a 1920s flapper would have worn.

  “My going away dress,” she explains, doing a twirl.

  I frown. “Where are you going away to?”

  “That’s the dress the bride wears to leave the wedding reception, ostensibly to go away on

  honeymoon, though we won’t be taking time off for a honeymoon until Christmas.”

  My mind is reeling, especially when I consider the cost of all of this. When I met Phoenix

  she was just as broke as I am. “Who’s paying for all of this?” I ask, waving my hand at the rail where all our other dresses are hanging.

  Anton makes a choking noise, reminding me I’m not supposed to talk about money, but

  Phoenix just smiles. “Max’s family.”

  Wow, just wow. I got my first job so I could buy a prom dress, because my own mother

  refused to pay for it. Admittedly, she was between jobs at the time, as she was all too often

  throughout my childhood. She was always leaving jobs because she thought she could do better

  somewhere else. Her attitude toward men wasn’t much better. She left all the good ones, and had her heart broken by the ones she left them for, the ones who promised her the world then left her high and dry.

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  That, more than anything, is why I know what damage a man like Adam Hatton can do.

  Because I’ve watched my mother chase that brass ring enough to know what happens when you let

  a man like Adam into your life. Men like that are after only one thing, and the moment they’ve had it, they’re gone.

  So if Phoenix plans to set up the best man with her bridesmaid, then she can think again.

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  Chapter Six

  Khara

  I have never seen so many beautiful people all in one place. They’re all so slim! Sure, there are a few men carrying a little extra weight over the belt, and some of the women could be called curvy rather than thin, but with one look I can tell this isn’t a crowd that lives on fast food or instant microwave meals. Even the wait staff are gorgeous.

  The guests have a buffed and polished look to them, and there’s so much bling it’s blinding.

  I’ve never felt plain before, but tonight I do. Though I spent more than an hour taming my wayward hair with a hair straightener and half a can of hair spray, and I’m wearing a dress supplied by Phoenix’s stylist, a conservative high-necked dress with a frilled skirt that goes to mid-calf, everyone looks at me as if they can sense that beneath the dress, my underwear is from Walmart.

  It’s there in the way the women’s gazes slide over me, darting away as quickly as possible, as if they want to pretend I’m invisible. And it’s there in the way the men’s gazes linger too long, their hungry speculation. I know those looks. It’s the way Adam’s cousin looked at me. As if I’m an

  object.

  It’s like being back in high school all over again.

  I wish Phoenix were here with me, so I’d have someone to talk to, instead of feeling so

  spare. Even better, I wish I could slide behind the bar, where I belong. At least then I’d have something to do with my hands.

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  But Phoenix and Max are playing host and hostess, greeting the never-ending stream of

  people who seem to be arriving, filling the Yellow Drawing Room with the buzz of conversation.

  This massive first story room, named for its yellow silk wallpaper and gold-leaf decoration, is getting warmer as more and more people fill the space. The jet lag must finally be hitting me, because the room has a surreal, spaced-out feel to it.

  I hover near the tall sash windows, pretending to be absorbed in the view out over the

  gardens. Though it’s nearing seven o’clock in the evening, mellow sunshine washes the garden and illuminates the room. I would much rather be down there in the garden, breathing in the scents of rose and lavender, than in here with all these beautiful strangers.

  The guests gather in little groups of three or four, everyone sipping from crystal glasses of

  champagne. They all seem to know each other, but I don’t know a soul. Not even Claus and

  Rebekah are here; they returned to their home in Waldburg this afternoon. Hovering alone on the sidelines is only infinitesimally less awkward than joining one of those groups. Could I escape back to my room without Phoenix noticing?

  “You look like you could use a drink.” Adam materializes at my side, holding two full

  champagne flutes. He offers me one. Damn, the man looks fine in a tux. But he still hasn’t shaved.

  Three day old scruff suits him even better than two day old scruff.

  “No thanks.” I turn away, looking desperately across the room to where Max and Phoenix

  are in deep conversation with the latest arrivals.

  “It’s just a drink.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Don’t you work in a bar?”

  With a sigh, I face him. “Precisely. Can you imagine how good I’d be at serving drinks if I

  was stumbling around drunk myself?”

  “You’re not working now.”

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  “When you’re surrounded by alcohol eight hours a day, it loses its appeal.” Or more

  accurately, having to deal with drunk people eight hours a day kills the appeal.

  He grins. “Then more for me.” He drains one of the champagne flutes, then the other, and I

  watch, intrigued despite myself, as he tilts his head back and swallows. Never in my life have I thought that the mere act of swallowing could look sexy. I hurriedly look back out the window, hoping I’m not blushing again.

  “What are you wearing?” Adam takes a step back to take in my dress, as if he’s only just

  noticed it. “Should we have a moment’s silence for my grandmother’s curtains?”

  The fabric is rather hideous, dark and patterned with small blue flowers. Even though he’s

  just said exactly what I was thinking, I bristle. “It’s from a top British designer. She’s very popular with celebrities.” Not to mention that I peeked at the price tag before the stylist cut it off. This dress cost more than I earn in six months. I restrain myself from mentioning the price.

  “Celebrities aren’t exactly known for having the best taste,” Adam mutters, shaking his

  head.

  Quite a few not-so-surreptitious glances are coming our way now, especially from the

  women in the room. Since there’s an element of hunger and envy in those looks, rather than just condescension, I assume it’s Adam they’re looking at, but oddly not all the looks are friendly.

  Adam doesn’t seem to notice. Either that, or he doesn’t care. He summons a passing waiter and

  snags two more glasses of champagne.

  “How much have you already had to drink?” I ask him suspiciously.

  “Not nearly enough to cope with all these bores.” He hands me one of the glasses, and this

  time I take it without objecting. I figure it’s a public service.

  “Nobody’s forcing you to be here. You could just leave.”

  “I wish. But then there’d be an odd number, and Phoenix wouldn’t be happy if I upset her

  table.”

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  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but… “If you can’t leave, then I guess I can’t either.”

  I sigh.

  “We could leave together. That way there’ll still be even numbers at the table.”

  For half a second I’m tempted, but then I think of his boast about always leaving palace

  parties with some woman, and I clamp down on the little ray of hope that I can get out of this torture. I will not
be one of those easy women who fall at his feet. I have my pride.

  “What’s the occasion for this party anyway?” he asks, looking around.

  “It’s a thank you for the benefactors of the new pediatric wing at the Neustadt hospital.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “So in other words, an excuse for Europe’s rich and titled to get

  dressed up and mingle.”

  “The information was on your schedule,” I point out primly.

  “I’m not very good with schedules. I don’t like to be told what to do or when to do it.”

  Typical! To stop myself from saying something I’m sure to regret later, I take a tentative sip of the champagne. The taste tickles my tongue, the bubbles exploding in my mouth, more sour than the champagne we drank the night Max and Phoenix got hitched in Vegas. The flavor improves as I take a second sip, and then another.

  “My two favorite people at this party!” Phoenix appears beside us, looking effortlessly

  elegant in a figure-hugging lavender-colored sheath dress. With my curves, if I wore a dress like that I’d look like a ten dollar hooker, but she looks like the princess she now is. Max is half a step behind her, his hand resting at the base of her spine. Be still my beating heart. Between Max and Adam, both looking better than James Bond, and with the sexy accents to match, it’s not just jet lag making me feel as if I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.

  “You must be drunk,” I joke back. “It’s only me and Adam.”

  She loops her arm through mine. “Exactly. I can count on Adam to be amusing, and I can

  count on you to be honest.”

  “Amusing?” I squint at Adam as if trying to see it, and both she and Max laugh.

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  It’s hard to make conversation as we are interrupted again and again by people wanting to

  talk with Max and Phoenix. Adam also seems to know most of the guests, and the conversations

  flow around me like swift-moving water around a dull, unmoving rock. Phoenix has always had the magical gift of getting people to open up to her and like her, but I’m in awe. I wouldn’t have a clue what to say to all these strangers, but she seems to know exactly the right things to say.