The Crown Jewels Boxed Set (A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy Series)

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The Crown Jewels Boxed Set (A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy Series) Page 75

by Melanie Summers


  “Yes, actually I am,” she spits out.

  Finn shakes his head and chuckles condescendingly. “Awesome. I can’t wait to see how this plays out.”

  Tessa throws her shoulders back, which causes her rather intimidating chest to stick out. She pokes Finn on his shoulder. “You know what? I've had just about enough of your crap, Finn. No, wait—in fact, I've definitely had enough of your crap for a lifetime. The next time you call me stupid or make any other type of reference to what a disaster I am, I'll have you thrown in the dungeon! Yeah, you probably don’t think I can do that, but I can. Just try me.”

  Finn, who looks slightly taken aback, but not enough for my liking (or my wife's, for that matter) says, “Relax. I was just having a go.”

  “Oh, I know what you were doing, and I’m telling you it’s time to cut it out. Now! None of the things you say to or about me are jokes. A joke is something where everybody's laughing, not just you.”

  “I find him rather amusing,” Noah says.

  “Well, I don't,” Tessa says, her teeth gritted.

  Evi bustles over, carrying the tray of teenie weenies. “Now boys, that's enough of teasing your sister. She's clearly not in the mood for it.”

  “Thank you, Mum, but I don't mean just while I'm pregnant. I mean I’ve had enough of their bullshit, full stop. I’m done with the demeaning comments.”

  “Tessa, watch your language in front of the children.”

  “They’ve heard it before from their idiot fathers!”

  Evi gives Tessa the ‘stern mum’ look. “Enough of that. They tease you because they love you. That's how brothers are.”

  Tessa shakes her head. “Not true, Mother. Look at how Arthur is with Arabella. Always kind, always respectful.”

  “Yes, but that's just because he's a prince. He was born with good manners.”

  “Bollocks! He was taught them. Unlike the boys you raised,” she says, plucking the tray out of her mother’s hand and storming off to the corner of the room to eat the teenie weenies alone. I’d never say this out loud, but she really does resemble a pregnant Gollum at the moment, the way she’s holding that tray, her furious eyes shifting around the room. I can almost hear her hissing, “My precious,” as she gobbles up those weenies.

  I stand awkwardly by the bar, feeling a little more than terrified and not knowing whether to follow her or not. When I glance over at her again, I realize the answer is ‘not.’ She very clearly is not in need of company at the moment. Mr. Whiskers wanders over to her, flicking his tail, then winding himself through her ankles. To my shock, Tessa says, “Get lost, cat. I still haven’t forgotten what you did to my dress.”

  Note to self: As soon as you have a moment alone, make sure to Google how to induce labour and/or calm raging pregnant woman.

  ****

  We sit down to a lovely dinner that Evi has spent the afternoon preparing, or more accurately, micromanaging the kitchen staff (bringing me another group of people who will now require compensation for pain and suffering on top of their Christmas bonuses).

  Isa smiles at Tessa. “Have you finished the nursery yet?”

  “Not yet,” Tessa says, taking a sip of her juice. “Although, the cribs arrived today and Arthur's said he’ll put them together this weekend, so that’ll be a huge relief because I could go into labour any moment now.”

  Ruben, who's still chewing some potato, says, “Artie, I didn't know you could build furniture.”

  “Yes, well I can read, so I imagine I should be able to follow some simple instructions.”

  Ruben laughs even though I wasn't joking, then says, “I'll be around in case you need help. I built my fair share of cribs in my day.”

  “That's a very kind offer, but I'm sure I can handle it.”

  Irene, who has somehow managed to squeeze herself into a spot to my left, touches my forearm. “I'm more than sure you can handle it.”

  Yikes. How does Bram not see that his fiancée is hitting on his brother-in-law? And if he does see it, why the hell hasn’t he dumped her yet?

  THIRTY

  Mr. Whiskers, Destroyer of the Present, Past, and Future

  Arthur - 37 Weeks

  When my alarm goes off at seven thirty on Sunday morning, I am nowhere near ready to wake up, having been kept awake by my wife's snoring again for the better part of the night. To be honest, I’m in a shit mood myself. I hate to complain, but my life has become a hamster wheel of handling mounds of work, tiptoeing around my wife all evening, then listening to her snore all night.

  I roll out of bed and throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, then make my way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I then read over the instructions for the crib whilst I eat some toast. Tessa is still fast asleep, which I suppose is a good thing, given her mood this weekend. I wouldn’t mind if she slept right through until she goes into labour, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree with me on that one, even though there is no fucking way I’d ever say it to her.

  Dexter gets up and joins me in the kitchen, staring up at my plate hopefully.

  “All right, Dex, I'll make you some toast, but don't tell anyone. The vet said you're supposed to be off carbs for a while.”

  By the time the two of us have eaten, I'm thoroughly confused by the crib instructions and find myself searching for how-to videos on YouTube, none of which seem to be very useful, as nobody has recorded themselves building the exact model and make of crib I'm faced with. As far as I can tell, my wife has purchased the most complicated crib on the planet to assemble. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the fact that it turns into a toddler bed and then later a double bed, and not at all because I have no building experience.

  After an hour of watching videos, I walk down the hall to the nursery to get started. I glance out the window to see it's a gray, snowy day outside. A perfect day to spend in bed, but not for me. Dexter, who followed me in here, lays down in the corner of the room and stares at me.

  “You don't think I can do this, do you?” I ask. “But I can, and I will. There is no way these poorly written instructions are going to foil my efforts. This is simply a matter of engaging my common sense and my physical dexterity. Mark my words—by lunchtime, these cribs will be done.”

  I set to work, whistling the theme to Indiana Jones because not unlike Indy, I’m a very manly man who can use a drill and hammer and fight treasure-stealing Nazis...well, probably. I guess I’ll find out (not about the Nazi-fighting, the tool management thing). And yes, I know this isn’t running the Iron Man or something, but there's a strange feeling of pride associated with the ability to build something with your own two hands that your children will then benefit from.

  If I'm really honest, I would say that completing this task alone will serve as proof that I will indeed be a much more involved father than the one who raised me. Not to mention, I'll be able to prove to my father-in-law that I'm not completely useless when it comes to construction.

  Within a few minutes, I have all the parts of the crib laid out in front of me in neat piles exactly as they are pictured in the instruction booklet. “Well, we've got all the right parts, Dex, so that's a good sign, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I'd say it's a good sign,” Tessa says giving me a hint of a smile, which is the closest thing to anything resembling happiness from her in days.

  “Good morning. How did you sleep?” I ask, glancing up at her and then sifting through the baggie of screws to select the length I need.

  “About as horrible as every other night for the past month.” Tessa sighs, then walks into the room and peers down at the progress I haven't made. “You sure you don't want some help?”

  “Wouldn't dream of it. Besides, you're supposed to be resting.”

  She walks over to the rocker and sits down with a small groan. “I didn't mean me. My father would really like to help. Or perhaps Xavier or Ollie knows how to build cribs...”

  I stiffen slightly at the notion that I requi
re assistance, then say, “I've got it, thanks.”

  “No need to get defensive about it.”

  “I'm not defensive. I'm just sick of everyone thinking I can't do this.”

  “Well, it's been two hours since you got up, and all you've done so far is take everything out of the box.”

  “I didn't know I was on a deadline.”

  “I thought maybe we could spend some time together today once you finish.”

  “Well, in that case, perhaps you should let me get this done and stop distracting me.”

  “Fine,” she says in that tone that means none of this is fine and I'm going to pay for my snippy comment later. She struggles to get out of the rocker, then makes a little huffing sound and does her best to stride out of the room quickly. “I'm going back to bed.”

  “Have a great sleep.”

  Two hours later, my stomach is starting to growl and I'm realizing it's rather difficult to build something like this without having an extra set of hands to at least hold things whilst you screw them into place. I tried getting Dexter to help, but as smart as he is, he’s also lazy and lacks opposable thumbs.

  Speaking of thumbs, I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose the nail on my left thumb, having smashed it with a hammer about forty-five minutes ago. It's now wrapped so I don't get blood all over the carpet in here. I'm sure that wouldn't go over well. I abandoned whistling a long time ago and am starting to feel the slightest bit of regret that I’ve been so insistent on going this alone.

  My phone buzzes, and I pick it up off the change table, then swipe the screen. It's a message from Arabella. That awful cat of Evi and Ruben's has managed to get into the throne room. You may want to see it for yourself. Or not.

  I close my eyes for a second and let out a long, frustrated sigh. “That fucking cat better have at least nine lives because when I get a hold of him, he's going to be down one.”

  Oh now, please don’t get all offended and call P.E.T.A. on me. I would never actually do any harm to an animal, but that particular spawn of Satan needs to get the fuck out of my palace as soon as possible. I storm out of the apartment and make my way across the palace to the throne room, where I find Gran, Arabella, Evi, Ruben, and several staff members surveying the damage. And believe me, there is a fuck load of damage to be observed here. Both thrones—my father's and the one my mother used to sit in—have been ripped to shreds so now the white stuffing that used to be inside the red velvet cushions is splayed across the floor as though we’re preparing for a Christmas play. Somehow, that bloody cat has also managed to pull down a five hundred-year-old tapestry that used to hang behind the throne bearing my family's crest. It has been reduced to an enormous ball of string on the floor.

  “We are so sorry,” Evi says, rushing over to greet me. “I have no idea how he got out. We've been so careful the entire time. It must've been when the staff was clearing up from our breakfast.”

  Ruben pulls his Valcourt United check book out of his back pocket. “What do I owe you, Artie?”

  I swallow my irritation and manage what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “We insist. Evi’s a whiz at recovering chairs, and we can replace that wall hanging if you tell us where you got it.”

  “Not to worry. As talented as Evi is, we do have a furniture repair company on retainer for the thrones. As to the tapestry, you’d first need to acquire a time machine so you could travel back to the mid-fifteen hundreds and make a trip to Naples to visit Charles the Fifth, the Holy Roman Emperor at the time. Ask if he’d be so kind as to offer another gift of gold-wrapped silk from his private stock to my family. I have to warn you, though, you may have to wait there for the better part of a year if he doesn’t have any and needs to send a ship to China for the silk. Once you return, you’d then need to find thirty or so of Avonia’s most talented loomers who would require sixteen months to complete the tapestry.” As I talk, the smile never leaves my face, even though my tone rises with every sentence until I’m almost yelling.

  Ruben lets the hand holding his checkbook drop to his side. “I see.”

  “Do you?” I ask, raising one eyebrow.

  “Yes, I think I do,” he turns to his wife. “We’ve worn out our welcome, Evi.”

  “You think?” I say in a tone curt enough to shock even me.

  Evi whispers, “I’m sorry, Arthur, Arabella,” then starts toward the door, tears brimming in her eyes.

  Arabella, unable to stand scenes like this, steps in. “No, please don’t cry. Arthur was only joking! I’m sure we have another tapestry we can put up. We have loads of them all over the palace. That one was getting ratty anyway.”

  Ruben gives Arabella a small smile. “You don’t have to do that, dear. We know enough to know we’re not welcome here anymore.”

  “The strange part is, you’re just figuring this out now,” I say. Turning to Bellford, I say, “Please arrange to have a guard at Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe’s door to watch that that…animal doesn’t escape again.”

  Ruben takes Evi by the arm, and the pair slink away whilst I watch. Good riddance.

  Evi turns to me, clutching Mr. Whiskers close to her chest. “We’re very sorry, Arthur. We’d do anything to make it up to you if we could.”

  “Sorry about what, exactly? Sorry about interrupting me constantly to give tours of my office to every person you've ever met? Sorry that you're driving our staff insane giving them ‘helpful pointers’ on jobs they've been doing for many years? Sorry you want to set my father up with some hot-to-trot middle-aged divorcee who spends her time crocheting and playing Candy Crush? Sorry that you've been absolutely awful to your daughter her entire life and favoured your sons so much, she doesn't even know her own worth? Which is it exactly, Evi? Because as far as I can see, there's a long list of things you should be sorry for, not just allowing your horrible cat to ruin my family’s priceless throne room!”

  Ruben takes a step toward me. “Now listen here, you! I don't give a good goddamn who you are, nobody talks to my wife that way. And for someone who’s supposed to be so well-mannered, you certainly haven't learned a thing about how to treat your mother-in-law with the respect she's owed.” Turning to Bellford, Ruben says, “No need to post a guard outside our door. We'll be gone within the hour.”

  Grabbing Evi by the elbow, he stalks away, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind them. Bellford clears his throat a little and then excuses himself, leaving me alone with Gran and Arabella, both of whom look absolutely shocked.

  Arabella, who looks as though she's about to start crying, just shakes her head at me and walks away. Gran opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up one finger. “Not now, grandmother.”

  “Put that bony finger down before I snap it off your hand. And don't even think to tell me what to do ever again. Now, I know you're under a lot of pressure, but that is absolutely no excuse for treating your in-laws so horribly. The world expects more from you, Arthur, and your children will need more. If you’re going to start giving in to fits of ill-temper, you’ll be no good as a father or a king!”

  “I'll be just fine as soon as they're gone.”

  “If you actually believe they are the problem, you really are turning into your father.” With that last jab, she exits the room, leaving me alone with the cleanup crew, none of whom will make eye contact with me–not that I’d want to at this moment.

  I storm out of the throne room and back to my apartment. Going straight to the kitchen, I grab a six pack of beer out of the fridge, then walk into the nursery and shut the door behind me.

  “Now, let’s get back to building these fucking cribs.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Don’t Know What You’ve Got ‘Til It’s Gone

  Tessa

  I wake up from a nap feeling sweaty, hot, hungry, and thirsty. Heaving myself out of the bed, I slowly make my way to the washroom to go pee and brush my teeth. When I catch sight of myself in the mirr
or, I realize that being on bed rest probably doesn't really mean I need to stay in my pajamas with unwashed hair all day. Besides, what if I go into labour right now? I can’t very well show up at the hospital like this. Oh, please go into labour. Please, please, please. I try to will my uterus to start contracting, using imagery in the manner of an elite basketball player visualizing executing the perfect three-pointer.

  Oh, wait. Don’t do that until you’ve had a shower, Tessa. Make yourself presentable first, then visualize your way into labour. I take a long shower, then spend forty-five minutes blow drying and straightening my hair and applying some makeup. When I leave the bathroom, I look hospital-ready in my cozy but cute maternity snowflake sweater and some dark jeans. I even managed to get some socks on by leaning against a chair with one hand, lifting my leg behind me and stretching back as carefully as possible to pull them on, one at a time.

  A buzzing sound on my cell phone interrupts me on my way to the kitchen to make a bite of lunch. Picking it up, I see that it's Bram calling. Not in the mood for his crap, I let it go to voicemail.

  Seeing I have a text from earlier, I swipe the screen to find Arabella has written to me. Heads up, Tessa. Arthur is in the worst mood I think I've ever seen. You may want to steer clear of him for the next few hours.

  Just as I’m about to call her to ask what she’s talking about, a text from Bram pops up. What the hell happened over there? Did you go all hormone ragey on Mum and Dad? They’re moving in with Irene and me. Call me NOW before it’s too late.

  Me: Hormone ragey? I WAS going to help you but now I think I won’t.

  Bram: Okay. I’m very sorry. I’m just panicking. They’re already on their way!

  Me: What are you talking about? Are you sure they're not just coming over for a visit?

  Bram: They are DEFINITELY moving in with us. Whatever it is, can you please fix it? The engagement ring has brought out the wild side in Irene, if you get my drift, so having mum and dad here really isn't what I need right now.

 

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