To Steal a Groom

by Cora Caraway

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “None of them are going to be flawless. We just need a dress.”

  Damon thrusts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. I don’t know if he’s hurt or fuming. Or both.

  “You can always come back another day,” Jess says. “That might give you time to think about which gowns you liked. I know the dress is more important to some people than others,” she looks between me and Damon, “and it can take a while to decide on the right one. That’s okay. Everyone finds what they’re looking for eventually.”

  I look at the clock on the wall and stifle a groan. We’re officially on the wrong side of eventually. I’ve spent hours climbing in and out of satin tubes with nothing to show for it.

  “Yes,” Damon says, “we’ll come back again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Grace?”

  He’s lucky I don’t kick him in the shin.

  We make our way back to the roof, Jess waving us away. I feel terrible for wasting so much of her time.

  “Would you like to go to lunch?” Damon asks. “I know a place.”

  I grimace at the thought of being dragged through the city. I was looking forward to crashing on that nice leather seat in the jet. “Can we just go home?”

  He puts on a forced smile. “Of course.”

  I can tell he’s disappointed, but after lugging ten tons of dresses back and forth, I think I’ve earned a rest. I’m so frustrated that we’re leaving empty-handed, and I need a long nap before I can even contemplate repeating that process.

  We board the jet, and Damon slumps into a seat. Even though this was his idea, it’s taken a toll on him too. I wonder if it’s wise to try to get married as soon as possible. Maybe a big wedding isn’t a great idea, at least if we want to survive the engagement.

  I take the seat next to him. I hope he doesn’t mind.

  The engines rumble, and the jet lifts into the sky. Damon is silent for a long while.

  I’m about to fall asleep when he sighs.

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I’ve been imagining my wedding day for a long time now. Getting married was never a choice for me, do you understand? It was never if I got married, but when. So yes, I have thought about what my bride would wear, and what I would wear, and where we would get married, and what flavor of cake we would have.

  “But I never imagined you until you walked into my life. And I didn’t realize until then that the bride is the most important part of the equation. Who we marry isn’t typically a choice in my world, but when it comes down to it, I choose you no matter what. Because you’re funny and sweet, and bold enough to steal from me. Because you’re Grace Sparrow. All I want is you. Will you forgive me?”

  I blink back the tears forming in my eyes. “What kind of cake are we having?”

  “I think I’ll let you decide.”

  As if wanting to ensure our privacy, clouds roll over the windows as he brings me in for a kiss.

  4

  I sink my fork into my specially requested Belgian waffles, hiding a yawn. We were already reprimanded for being late for breakfast, and I don’t want to draw the king’s ire a second time. Personally, I don’t think breakfast should be mandatory or on a strict schedule, but Damon’s father has been especially choleric since our announcement and it’s not the time to argue with him.

  At least I can console myself with my waffles, which are heaped with strawberries and loaded with syrup. Under the table, I touch my leg to Damon’s. I’m rewarded with the hint of a smile on his lips. Last night when we arrived home, we retreated to Damon’s room. I guess it’s also my room now, though it’s still strange to think of it that way.

  We were too tired to even fool around, and fell right asleep. I’m not sure whether that was good or bad. I’m going to have to face my demons someday. Speaking of demons, I haven’t seen Marc or Natalia since yesterday morning. That’s a relief. They could still show up at breakfast, though I doubt the king would yell at Marc.

  Eris slides into an empty chair next to me. “I heard you went shopping. How was it?”

  “You don’t even want to know.” I try to keep my expression neutral, in case the king happens to look my way.

  “Come on, tell. It must have been breathtaking. Lady Fortuna’s is the finest shop in this hemisphere.”

  “For you, maybe.” I stab a waffle, harder than necessary. “I wish you had been there with us. I’m lost among all the cuts and hemlines and fabrics.”

  She fiddles with a cloth napkin. “I… If you’d like, maybe I could draw up some concepts for you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I’ve never known her to be at a loss for words.

  The prince leans over, deciding to join our conversation. “We really appreciate the thought, Eris, but we don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Damon!” I hiss.

  He pats my knee. “I want to give you the best.”

  “Of course, Highness.” Eris rises abruptly, curtsying. She clears the unused place setting before her, as if that was her intention all along.

  I’m sure she’s upset, but she hides it well. For now, I’ll have to hide my irritation with Damon. Doesn’t he know how important dressmaking is to her? I stare at my plate, making patterns in the syrup. We can talk about it later. At the moment, there are too many people within hearing range, including the king. I don’t want him thinking that Damon and I are in trouble, or that either of us can be talked out of getting married.

  “Let’s get married in a month,” Damon says. “Maybe late August. What do you say? Is that too soon?”

  My stomach lurches. A concrete date makes it all seem so real.

  “I know that doesn’t leave much time to plan,” he says, “but don’t worry. I’ve recruited some help.”

  I take a deep breath. Damon is the man for me, and I’m not going to let a date or a short engagement scare me away. “All right. Late August it is.”

  “Perfect. I’ll inform my father when he’s less ... volatile.”

  Maybe we should be making plans for a few decades out.

  That afternoon, I find myself at a round table with a corps of volunteer servants, a wedding planner and her three assistants, and even the queen, who keeps sighing like she has better places to be. Damon is taking care of other arrangements, though I’m not sure it’s fair that he’s escaped this torture by committee.

  We’ve only begun planning, and the details are already driving me crazy. Who cares which species of lily we use? Apparently, there are vast sociopolitical implications. We can’t use ones from Cyprus, because lately they’ve had a tense relationship with the city. Some kind of fishing rights dispute. We can’t use the gorgeous poppies native to the city, because they symbolize death.

  Damon plans to ask his father for permission to use his mother’s roses, but I think everyone knows how that will end. Feeling drained, I suggest daisies, but that sparks a new round of discussion. I lay my head on the table. I’d be happy with clumps of moss, if only I could get a consensus.

  At this point, I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a princess. If royal wedding planning gives me headaches, how will I handle larger problems? The talks have moved onto issues of diplomacy. At the recent Bogdani wedding in Albania, Damon was given a place of honor, and the favor needs to be returned somehow. Though the Lion family has closer ties to the Krajncs of Slovenia than to the Horvats of Croatia, all members of both families must be invited to prevent any accusation of a snub.

  The committee continues down a rather intimidating list of family names, discussing who to invite from Austria, Hungary, Slovakia, and Switzerland. My head throbs. Do they plan to invite the whole of Europe? It seems that all royal relations must be in attendance, no matter how distant. The queen waxes poetic about how she is one of the closest relations to the Lion royal house, through blood and not just marriage. She’s still going after fifteen minutes, and I contemplate stabbing my eyes out with some of the flower samples. I’m sure that would excuse me from wedding planning, at least fo
r today.

  We finally return to the list of names, which I no longer try to keep straight. Everyone asks my opinion on who to include, though I’ve never even met most of these people. The closest I came was impersonating Clara Dubois of Belgium at a royal ball, but I’m not sure that counts. Just because I’m the bride doesn’t mean that I have a grasp on the thousands of royal connections under discussion. And I may be getting married, but I didn’t want all this. Damon is much more eager to decide the miniscule details. I’ll try to suck it up for him, but my enthusiasm is dying by the second.

  My mind wanders as a debate begins about the number of guests to invite from Italy. Instead of being stuck at these mind-numbing talks, I wish I could be tracking Marc and Natalia. I know they’re up to something. They aren’t nice enough to throw an engagement party for us without ulterior motives. So what are they planning? Are they going to ruin the night somehow? Will Natalia try to give Damon a lap dance? Worse, will Marc try to give me one?

  Actually, either of those possibilities might be better than enduring another of the queen’s diatribes, this one on the merits of real over fake flowers. I contemplate dropping to the floor and army crawling from the room. Sarina is so in love with the sound of her own voice that she might not notice anything else.

  There’s a rap on the door. I sit bolt upright. Is someone going to rescue me?

  “Sorry,” Natalia says. “I need to borrow Grace.”

  In any other instance, I wouldn’t let her drag me away. Today, I could kiss her.

  The queen bristles. “Whatever for? We have important work to do.”

  “I don’t want her to miss her own engagement party. It’s going to be unforgettable.”

  Sarina frowns. Clearly, there is no time in her world for parties when there are color swatches to be chosen.

  “You have much more experience in royal event planning, Majesty,” I say. “I trust your choices in the matters we’ve discussed today.”

  “Well.” The queen practically preens. “I do have impeccable taste.”

  “Then please excuse me.” Pushing out my chair, I curtsy as fast as I can. Willing myself not to run, I follow Natalia from the room.

  “Nice job with the flattery,” she says. “Maybe you can make it as a royal after all.”

  “Thanks.” Maybe Natalia isn’t as bad as I’d thought. “And thanks for rescuing me.”

  “Any time.”

  She leads me out of the palace to an idling limo. As we descend the front steps, I see Rashad in the driver’s seat. He tips his hat to me. I’m glad there’s a familiar face. That definitely assuages my fear that this could turn into some elaborate kidnapping.

  One of the back doors swings open, and Marc steps out. He takes Natalia aside.

  “Where’s Damon? We need him here for this to work.”

  “That was your job,” Natalia snaps. “Your only job.”

  Marc stuffs his hands in his pockets. “He’ll show.”

  “He’d better.”

  Someone waves from inside the limo. “Hey, Grace!” Eris calls. “Want to get in?”

  I peer inside. It’s easy to make out the huge form of Nic next to her. He gives me a curt nod. I don’t recognize any of the other people splayed on the long interior seat.

  “I think I’ll wait for Damon.”

  As if on cue, an engine roars. A canary-yellow sports car flies up the drive, impossibly fast. With a flick of the wheel, Damon slides his car next to the limo.

  “Get in, Grace.”

  I happily obey.

  “Don’t you want to ride with us?” Natalia asks.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Damon says, “after we beat you there.”

  “You don’t even know where we’re going!”

  “Tell me, then.”

  I can tell that Natalia finds him infuriating.

  “The Platinum.”

  “We’ll see you there. Try to keep up.” Damon steps on the gas. I let out a whoop as I’m pressed against my seat. I think Natalia tries to slip in a retort, but the engine drowns out her words.

  The guards must be used to Damon’s tricks, because the gate is open wide enough that we don’t have to slow. The palace shrinks in the rearview.

  “Whose car is this?” I yell over the din of the engine.

  “My father’s. I’d let you take a test drive, but…”

  I understand. The king would hate that for so many reasons, and Damon would probably be banned from borrowing cars. I’m openmouthed with amazement as Damon weaves through traffic. It’s like the rest of the world is frozen in time. The prince finds every possible opening. In his hands, the car practically floats. It’s like he’s leading it in an intricate dance.

  This machine is nowhere near as nice as the Galeocerdo I crashed, but it’s amazing how much the prince enjoys driving it. His happiness is almost childlike, and I don’t blame him. As a member of a royal family who needs to have every toe in line at all times, when else does he get to be this free?

  Then it hits me. This is what I should get for him, to try to repay him for all of his grand gestures. I can replace the Galeocerdo that I totaled. How much did he say it cost, 4.8 million? I’ll have to check my bank account to see whether I have twenty or thirty dollars to my name. It’s a start. How on earth does anyone go about acquiring a car legally? I could easily get one my way, but I don’t think Damon would appreciate the gesture as much. This might be a problem for another night. I’ll solve it eventually, though.

  When we reach the center of the city, the sheer number of cars forces Damon to slow.

  “So what’s The Platinum?” I ask. “A strip club? A high-end crack den?”

  “It’s the nicest hotel in the city. See that building ahead?” He points to a glittering tower in the distance. “Stop worrying, tonight will be fun. I know you don’t trust Natalia or Marc, but they’ll throw us a great party. It’ll only reflect poorly on them if they don’t.”

  Damon brings us to a smooth stop in front of the golden lobby doors. As he exits the car, he flips a spare key to the valet. The man gulps, intimidated either by the prince or the insanely expensive machine he’s about to handle.

  The prince walks around to my door, offering his arm to help me out.

  “There’s no need to worry,” he tells the valet. “All our cars are insured. That doesn’t mean that my father enjoys the paperwork, though.”

  Bowing, the valet climbs into the car. The engine purrs as he inches toward the garage.

  A doorman holds a gleaming door open for us as we step into the lobby. The interior is unimaginably swanky. The entire front of the building is glass, allowing the sinking sun to saturate the space with orange light. The atrium extends to the glassed roof fifty stories above us. Interior balconies ring the walls in crescents, parting at the center for two great glass elevators.

  “Marc said that they’ve rented out the entire hotel for the evening,” Damon says.

  This could actually be fun. I’m glad I listened to Damon and let them throw us this party. Maybe tonight will go a long way toward healing old wounds between us. I’d love if Natalia and Marc would put their resentment behind them.

  The limo pulls up outside, and the passengers spill out. Marc and Natalia direct them into the lobby. Three other limos pull up, each full of passengers.

  “Do you know all of them?” I ask Damon.

  “A handful. Some are Marc’s friends, the rest must be Natalia’s. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I see Rashad pull Gabe from the depths of the limo.

  “Not really. They invited all my friends. If they were the only guests, it would be an awfully quiet party.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Damon puts a hand around my waist. “Besides, you’re the only one I need.”

  His words fill me with warmth, but I still can’t resist teasing him. “You’d better not let Nic hear you say that.”

  “I think he’d be all right.” He turns to watch Nic and Eris, waltzing outside w
ithout any music.

  Natalia stands on the front desk. “Attention, everyone!”

  The crowd quiets, gathering around.

  “We’ve rented rooms so that no one has to worry about getting home. You can collect a key to your room when—or should I say if—you get tired.”

  Marc jumps up next to her. “There’s no need for designated drivers tonight, so I expect everyone to drink to their full capacity. That’s the bride,” he points to me, “and that guy next to her who’s too proper to put his hand on her ass is the groom.”

  The crowd cheers, clapping for us. I wave, hoping my face isn’t turning too red.

  Natalia leans an arm on Marc’s shoulder. “That’s really all you need to know for this evening, but if anything comes up, please direct your questions to me or Marc.”

  “Let’s get this night started!” Marc raises his arms. Music begins to pump through the walls, so loud that the bass pounds in my chest.

  Dancing, Marc and Natalia lead us into a grand room. There’s a stage on one side, a bar on another. Almost immediately, a server hands me a drink. This isn’t so bad.

  A troupe of dancers takes the stage. Half of them are in masks, the other half in tutus. A song comes on that weaves mechanical beats among classical music. The masked dancers are robotic, their moves perfectly synchronized. The ballerinas leap and pirouette around them. The mechanical notes crescendo, and the ballerinas seem to lose their strength. They’re pulled into the orbit of the masked dancers, and their movements become more robotic. But then the classical music surges, and the ballerinas try to convert the masked dancers. Both seem to vie for dominance. In the end, all the dancers but two fall away, a couple able to dance in both worlds together.

  I clap as the dancers take their bows. The stage is clear and my glass empty, so I head to the bar for a refill. The bartender tells me that they’ve created a drink in our honor called Car Crash Love. I don’t catch what’s in it, but I’m guessing it’s around 500% alcohol. No one drinking these should even touch a Matchbox car.

  I planned to stop drinking after that, but people keep toasting us. Every time I see the bottom of my glass, Natalia or Marc pushes another drink in my hand.