by Meg Cabot
But he only expressed dismay about his sister’s betraying his confidence and said not to worry: Lars had told him that J.P. had “volunteered” to go work on a Russian icebreaker in order to “clear his head,” and wouldn’t be back to the United States for several months, possibly years.
“Michael,” I said skeptically. “Volunteered? That doesn’t sound like J.P. at all. He hates physical labor. And none of this explains why you don’t want to go to Argentina for your bachelor party.”
“I already told you,” he said, climbing into bed. “I don’t want a bachelor party. If I go to Buenos Aires to have steak, it’s only going to be with you.”
It was hard to argue with that.
Oh, speak—or write—of the devil: Michael’s just come in to check on me. He looks so handsome in his morning suit! When I was coming down the aisle and saw him standing there, looking so nervous—partly because of the many camera people buzzing all around us, shining their extremely bright lights directly into our eyes—I could hardly believe my luck.
But of course luck had nothing to do with it. We both have worked very hard—and have been through a lot—to get to this day. We should get some sort of hazard pay just for putting up with Grandmère these past few weeks. There were several times I thought I might actually pack up and run off to Bora Bora to live under an assumed identity to escape her.
After tonight, though, it will be all over.
At least for two weeks, while we’re on the yacht, and we don’t have to listen to her constant yammering about how every single solitary thing we do is wrong . . .
“Why aren’t you resting?” Michael wants to know.
“I am resting.”
“Writing in your diary is not resting.”
“Really? You’re going to criticize me, too?”
Once you become pregnant—especially with twins, apparently—all anyone cares about anymore (including your partner, sometimes) is what is growing inside your uterus, especially if you’re a person of royal heritage. Once they realize the tabloids were right all along, and you really are carrying twins, all anyone wants to know is:
• What sex your babies are. (Michael and I don’t even know. We’ve requested to be surprised.)
• What you’re naming them (and they will have plenty of suggestions, even though you didn’t ask. We have our own ideas for names, even better ones than Luke and Leia, such as Frank and Arthur and Helen and Elizabeth. But of course everyone will hate these, so we’re keeping them secret).
• Touching your stomach, either for luck or just because you’re the new “People’s Princess” . . . which I guess will make the twins the “People’s Babies,” which is good. But seriously. Boundaries. Boundaries!
• Offering advice, from parenting tips to how much you ought to be resting, what you ought to be eating or not eating, drinking, doing, wearing, etc.
But it’s good to be liked, I guess.
Michael grinned and sat down beside me on the bed, slightly jostling Fat Louie.
“I’m not criticizing,” he said. “I’m taking care of you. That’s my new job, besides following two steps behind you at all times, protecting you with my life, and calling you ‘ma’am.’ ”
“You don’t actually have to call me ‘ma’am’ until after the coronation,” I said, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. “How are they doing down there?”
He nodded toward the open balcony doors, through which I could hear our parents and siblings, all the groomsmen, bridesmaids, visiting dignitaries, and other wedding guests—but most especially Grandmère—raucously laughing and enjoying their champagne and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (I did win on those. But there’s no taco or nacho bar. We are, however, having lobster mac and cheese later this evening) in the royal gardens below.
“You can’t tell by that racket?” he said. “They’re having a terrible time. Just awful. The ceremony was a disaster.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I’ve been watching it.” I held up the remote. “It’s recorded. They showed it on CNN. Do you want to see?”
He groaned. “No. Why would I want to see my enormous head on CNN?”
“Your head isn’t enormous. Lana’s husband’s head is enormous.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “I know! Have you seen that guy? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know, but if our babies have heads that big, I’m getting a C-section for sure. I totally understand now what Lana was talking about when she was telling me why she got one.”
“That is cold,” Michael said. “What else do girls talk about, besides their husbands’ enormous heads? Wow, I just heard that come out of my mouth, and it sounded way dirtier than I meant it to.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know I’m starting to feel infantilized. When am I going to be allowed to bust out of here and rejoin the party?”
“What did the doctor say?”
“The doctor said two hours. Tina said the doctor was being reactionary.”
“Oh, and Tina has her medical degree, so we should definitely listen to her.”
“Well, I think Tina is feeling a bit better than she has in a while.”
“Yes, I think you could say that,” Michael agreed with a grin, but he was too much of a gentleman to add, I told you so.
Tina was not the only one who’d been surprised to discover Boris P. was the “top-notch live entertainment” Grandmère had lined up for the reception instead of the DJ Michael and I had requested.
I was a little miffed at first. Was I to get nothing I wanted at my wedding?
Well, except a groom who’s the man of my dreams, of course. And my parents, happily together for the first time in my memory. And a new little sister, and all of my best friends showing up, as well as what’s turned out to be a truly gorgeous gown, Sebastiano having de-emphasized my belly by raising the waistline a little, and adding diamond Ms—for Michael and Mia—instead of bows as the “pickups” Lilly had suggested. They not only “pick up” the full tulle skirt, they pick up the light and glitter outrageously!
But even Boris being here has turned out all right, because he’s agreed to sing every single song on Michael’s playlist, and also—quite dramatically, at last night’s rehearsal dinner in the grand reception hall, no less—showed Tina that the photos of him and that blogger were, indeed, Photoshopped, as he had insisted all along.
“Look, they’re of you and me,” he insisted (which, if she’d ever bothered to look at them, like Lilly and I had encouraged her to do, she’d have known). “Remember the ones we took that weekend in Asheville? She cut and pasted copies of her own head over yours. I don’t know how she got hold of them. Hacked my phone, I guess. You always told me I needed a better password than the one I use . . . Tina.” He blushed. “I guess it wasn’t that hard for her to figure out.”
This, of course, mortified Tina—she didn’t want any of us knowing she and Boris had nude photos of each other.
But I thought it was sweet . . . and it also allowed me to be able to sagely point out, “Let he—or she—who does not have a set of nude photos cast the first stone.”
(This did not amuse Grandmère, however, especially since I said it in front of the pope. But I think it must have amused him, since it’s currently one of the top quotes on social media, I noticed a while ago.)
“Maybe the next wedding we go to,” I said, reaching up to adjust Michael’s pale gray tie, “will be Tina’s to Boris.”
He considered this. “Maybe . . . I think it’s more likely to be your dad’s to your mom.”
“Another royal wedding?” I tried to raise my arms over my head in a dramatic gesture to show my frustration, but doing so caused the bodice of my wedding gown to slip, exposing more of my cleavage than I intended.
That’s when Michael stood up and began removing his jacket.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Making myself more comfortable,” he replied. “Aren’
t I supposed to wear something different tonight, anyway?”
“Yes. A tux. But that’s in like four hours.”
“This isn’t a tux?”
“No. It’s a morning suit.”
He shook his head. “I’m never going to get used to this royal thing. So many rules. Too many . . . that’s what your sister says.”
“When did she say that?”
“Earlier, when your grandmother told her to be less liberal in her throwing of the flower petals from her basket.”
I groaned some more. “She wasn’t even supposed to be a flower girl! She’s too old. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid.”
“It doesn’t matter. I think she was really happy today,” he said, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “She told me just now that she loves her new school. She’s taking art lessons.”
“Well, that’s good.”
I’m the only one who isn’t wild about the Royal Academy, and that’s because Madame Alain, from the consulate, is the headmistress, which is totally my own fault. I’m the one who asked for her to be transferred back to Genovia.
How was I supposed to know it was going to be as headmistress of the school my long-lost little sister was going to be attending?
Now I still have to see Madame Alain all the time, like whenever Olivia has a school concert or horse-riding competition.
But whatever. Olivia’s happy, and that’s what matters.
Michael began stripping off his tie, and then his shirt.
“Michael,” I said curiously, leaning up on my elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Joining you.” Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he bounded onto the bed beside me, greatly disturbing Fat Louie, who gave him an offended stare and retreated to the opposite side of the mattress. “If you have to rest, so will I.”
“But, Michael—you’ll miss the party.”
“No, I won’t,” he said, lifting my left hand and kissing the new ring on my wedding finger—this one having once graced the finger of my royal ancestress Princess Mathilda. “The actual reception doesn’t start for four hours. You just told me that. And the only real party is wherever you are, anyway.”
“Aw, Michael,” I said, my eyes filling with tears at his sweetness.
But then of course nearly everything makes me cry these days, even commercials for Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches, and of course when all those sweet little Qalifi children held that tea party for me on the deck of their cruise ship, to say thank you for finding their families a home (even if it’s only a temporary one, until we can locate housing for them on dry land) and also to wish me luck as both a bride and the new reigning monarch of Genovia.
Even Paolo made me cry earlier, when he did my hair before the wedding, and leaned down to ask, “So how those diamond shoes fitting today? Still too tight?”
I’d lifted my skirt to show him. “Swarovski crystals,” I said, smiling. “But they’re feeling pretty good, thanks for asking.”
Michael dropped his lips to my shoulder, which happened to be bare, as the bodice of my dress kept dipping lower and lower every time I gestured, which I happen to do a lot.
“Isn’t there some royal rule that the bride and groom have to show proof that they’ve consummated the marriage?”
“Michael,” I said, my voice slightly muffled, as he’d lowered his lips to my mouth. “That’s not necessary. First of all, it’s the twenty-first century. And second of all, I’m already pregnant.”
“Oh.” He looked down at me, his adorable dark eyebrows furrowed with disappointment. “Well, I think we should do it anyway, just to be on the safe side.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes, I do.”
I grinned at him. “Who do you think you are, anyway, bossing me around like that, a prince, or something?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Moscovitz,” he said, and kissed me. “I do.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Meg Cabot was born in Bloomington, Indiana. In addition to her adult contemporary fiction she is the author of the bestselling young-adult fiction series The Princess Diaries. More than twenty-five million copies of her novels for children and adults have sold worldwide. Meg lives in Key West, Florida, with her husband.
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BOOKS BY
MEG CABOT
HEATHER WELLS SERIES
Overbite
Insatiable
Ransom My Heart (WITH MIA THERMOPOLIS)
QUEEN OF BABBLE SERIES
THE BOY SERIES
She Went All the Way
THE PRINCESS DIARIES SERIES
THE MEDIATOR SERIES
THE 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU SERIES
ALL-AMERICAN GIRL SERIES
Nicola and the Viscount
Victoria and the Rogue
Jinx
How to Be Popular
Pants on Fire
AVALON HIGH SERIES
THE AIRHEAD SERIES
ABANDON SERIES
ALLIE FINKLE’S RULES FOR GIRLS SERIES
FROM THE NOTEBOOKS OF A MIDDLE SCHOOL PRINCESS SERIES
For a complete list of Meg Cabot’s books,
visit www.MegCabot.com
CREDITS
Cover illustration © by Shutterstock images
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
ROYAL WEDDING. Copyright © 2015 by Meg Cabot, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-237908-5
EPub Edition JUNE 2015 ISBN: 9780062379078
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