by Aven Ellis
I take one of my hands and place it over his heart. “There will be moments when I feel I need to act to suit the occasion, but that doesn’t mean I’m changing. Please remember that.”
“I’ve had people come into my life and change because of who we are and what we are supposed to be,” Christian says. “I don’t want to lose you to them, Clementine. The monarchy changes people, and I can’t bear the thought of it changing anything about you. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s how I feel.”
I see fear in his eyes. I don’t know who he is talking about, but my gut tells me this has happened to him before. Maybe a former love changed once she was in the presence of the family business, as Christian likes to call the monarchy. Or friends began wanting access to this side of his life once he let them in the golden door.
“I promise you,” I say, “I’m never going to change. Might I be more formal in front of your parents? Of course. But I’m still going to come to you at the end of the night and borrow one of your Arsenal T-shirts to sleep in and leave the cap off the toothpaste, whether that’s in your room in Cambridge or at Kensington Palace. I’ll still sing songs from the Shrek soundtrack when I’m driving. And I’ll never like tea.”
“If you ever say you like tea, I’ll know it’s over,” Christian says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’ll never hear it,” I promise.
“I still can’t believe this room,” I say, looking around the empty ballroom. “I can only imagine the parties the king and queen would have had in this room. The waltzing in gorgeous gowns …”
My voice trails off as I picture a room filled with royals and elites and the whirling of women in beautiful gowns and men in tuxes.
“Have you ever waltzed?”
I snap out of my mental movie and turn back to Christian. “Noooo.”
“Not just no, but noooo?” Christian says, his eyes dancing at me.
“I have no idea how to do a proper dance.”
“It’s easy. You start with a box step.”
“I was always at the pool as a little girl, not dance class. I have two annoying left feet.”
Christian leads me out to the center of the ballroom floor. “I can teach you. Mother made all of us learn so we could be proper princes at business events where dancing is involved.”
I place my hand on his shoulder, my palm resting against his crisp dress shirt. I feel his sculpted muscle underneath it, followed by the warmth radiating from his skin. Christian takes my other hand with his, holding it gently.
Oh, swoon.
“We’ll do the waltz box step,” Christian says. “All you are doing is making a box. It’s a three count; very easy, Ace.”
I feel butterflies form in my stomach as Christian begins to count me through the step. “Back with your right. Side with your left …”
I hesitantly step backward and listen to Christian’s rich British voice guide me through it.
“Now close with the right. Now forward with the left.”
Before I know it, we’re doing the box step in the grand ballroom.
“I’m waltzing!” I cry excitedly as we begin to pick up the pace.
“Your first waltz,” Christian says, smiling down at me.
“I’m glad it was with you,” I say, my heart full of joy.
“I’ve never danced with a woman I love before,” Christian murmurs, his expression going soft. “Now I know what I’ve been missing. You.”
The moment is pure magic. Dancing in Christian’s arms in a royal ballroom, I see nothing but love in his eyes as he leads me in the box step, and I know this is a moment I’ll always treasure. Just me and Christian.
My first waltz with the man I love.
Life couldn’t be any more perfect than this.
“I cannot believe you,” my mother sobs into the phone as Christian drives us back to Cambridge. “You’ve run off to England with a prince? What is happening here? This sounds like a Hallmark movie! Except I don’t have a script in front of me assuring me he’s a sweet prince. He’s a hoarder. That is a mental illness, Clementine. You can’t fall in love with him and think you can clean his apartment and make him all better. Oh God, what are you doing?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel a stress headache coming on. My lovely waltz has been followed up with a hysterical phone call from my mother, who left me a ton of voicemails and texts begging me to call her ASAP while I was at Sandringham.
It’s only nine o’clock in the morning in Phoenix.
“Mom, you need to listen to me. I did not run off to England to heal a prince with a hoarding problem.”
Christian snorts, and I can’t help but smile when I see the amused look on his gorgeous face.
“Paisley said you met him online. How? How does one meet a prince online?”
“By talking about art,” I say. “Mom, I didn’t know Christian was a prince when I met him. We became friends. I talked to him more than I have any other guy I’ve ever dated before I met him.”
“This is crazy. I forbid you to run off to England for a prince. Do you follow the stories of royals in Dishing Weekly? You are going to get your heart broken!”
“Mom. If I were dating Xander, then yes, my heart would be broken. But that’s not the prince I’m dating. I’m dating the hoarder with curry tubs, remember?”
I glance at Christian, who shoots me a side-eyed look. I must turn away before I burst out laughing.
“How can you date someone you don’t know?”
“How do you know I don’t know him?” I ask, prickling with annoyance. “I know Christian better than my last three boyfriends combined. This isn’t some game to us, Mom.”
“Just because you have become enchanted with a prince—dear God, I can’t believe I just uttered those words—doesn’t mean he is with you. Are you telling me you’re going to uproot your life for him and give up everything and move to England on the minuscule chance this might work out?”
“You don’t know what we have.”
“How would I? You’ve kept him a secret!”
“For this very reason. I knew you’d get upset and freak out and tell me I’m wrong to follow my heart. All you want to do is protect me. I need to live.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic.”
“No, you’re just not used to me doing something you don’t approve of. But you know me; I wouldn’t do all this if Christian wasn’t exceptional.”
“Clementine, you aren’t being rational. He’s a prince. Don’t you think that is clouding your judgment?”
“No.”
“How can it not? Doesn’t every girl dream of finding a prince? And you got one.”
“Wrong. I found a man who is perfect for me, in every sense of the word, and once you get to know him, you’ll feel that way, too.”
“How can you possibly know that? You met him online. And then you flew off to Europe under the pretense of soaking in estate culture because you didn’t want to tell your parents. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. You’ve never been so reckless in your entire life, and quite honestly, I’m alarmed. I think you need a psychologist.”
“I do not need a psychologist!” I yell angrily. “This is why I said I was going to look at estates. You would never think I was mature enough to make my own decisions. Quit treating me like a bird that needs its wings clipped. I’m not a bird in a cage; I’m your daughter. Don’t you trust me?”
“Not when you are acting so out of character, I don’t!” Mom cries, her voice cracking. Then I hear Dad take the phone from her.
“Sweetheart, we aren’t mad,” Dad says, trying to reframe the conversation. “But you aren’t acting in your best interests. You are being far too reckless with your emotions. I’m sure some of this is driven by all the stress of the scare a—”
“Okay, stop. Stop it. This has nothing to do with me having scans this winter. This is me making my own decisions. For once in my life, I’m not letting you protect me. Why can’t
you trust me?”
“Trust you? When you lie to us and run off across the pond to some man we’ve never heard of? You even roped Paisley into covering for you, which we are none too pleased about.”
“You leave Paisley out of this.”
“Enough. We are flying over there to get you,” Dad says sternly. “We’ll discuss this back at home.”
“You will do no such thing. If you come over here,” I say, my voice shaking, “I will not go with you. I will talk to you when I get back to San Jose, but this conversation ends right now. I love you, but you need to love me enough to let me be an adult.”
“If you gave us reason to believe that, we would,” Dad says angrily. “But right now, you’re acting more like a love-sick teenager than an adult. One who is defying logic and running off to play romantic games with a prince? This is not the daughter I raised.”
His words feel like a slap across the face. This is the first time I have ever defied them. Disappointed them.
Hurt them.
The parents who went through hell and back with my health are now suffering because of my actions, and part of me wants to make it right.
But then I look at Christian, and I know what I need to do.
“I’ll call you on Saturday,” I say to my dad, my voice thick. “I love you both.”
Then I hang up the phone.
Silence hangs between me and Christian, and I blink back tears. The English countryside blurs in my eyes as we drive back to Cambridge.
“Are you okay?” Christian asks softly.
I sniffle. “I’ve hurt them.”
“I’m sorry I put you in this position.”
I turn to face him. “No, I put myself here, and I don’t regret it, not for a split-second. For the first time in my life, I’m doing what I want. And what I want is to be here, with you.”
“Would it help if I called them when we got back?” Christian asks. “FaceTime with them? Show them a video of the house so they know I’m not stashing curry takeaway tubs and buried in rubbish?”
I manage to laugh. God, I love how he knows what I need.
“Maybe tomorrow. They need to calm down. So do I.”
“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. I guarantee you I could get Father to talk to them if that would help.”
I’m trying to imagine my mother taking a phone call from the King of England, and I start laughing.
“What?”
“My mother would die if Arthur called her,” I say, smiling at Christian. “I can’t imagine her sitting in her big comfy chair doing that Tom Hiddleston needlepoint while the king calls her up to assure her the Golden Prince is a doting boyfriend. Surreal.”
“Tom Hiddleston on a needlepoint pattern is still odd.”
I snort. “No, odd is your face on a needlepoint pattern.”
“I don’t want to know if that exists.”
“It does.”
Christian begins to turn red in embarrassment, and oh, how I love this man and his modest nature.
“Let’s put all this aside,” I say. “We had such a wonderful day, our first waltz, and I want to enjoy the rest of the evening with you.”
“I love you,” Christian says softly.
“I love you, too,” I say.
I resolve to deal with my parents when I get home. Christian and I deserve this time to be a normal couple in love, without my parents interfering. I don’t know what the future will hold for us, but if things go the way my heart tells me they will, Christian will ask me to move to London after I graduate from Stanford.
And I already know my answer will be yes.
Chapter 20
Where Do We Go from Here?
The week has gone by far too quickly.
Sadness washes over me as I unload the things I bought this morning from the Cambridge Market for our picnic lunch. My throat swells as I think of having to say goodbye to him tomorrow. I don’t want to go back to California. My heart physically aches as the thought of boarding the plane fills my head.
The only way I can leave him, I think, is knowing I’ll be coming back in June.
Not only to Christian, but to this amazing country I’ve fallen in love with this past week.
While Christian was in class, I explored England and became enraptured with the place he calls home. It’s incredibly rich in tradition and history, and my art-and antique-loving soul immediately felt at home here.
Emma was kind enough to take me to two magnificent estate homes. I saw stunning silks from the eighteenth century in bedrooms with elaborate, carved canopy beds. There were gilded sofas and an exquisite silver cistern to chill wine. It made me want to work at one of these historic estates, curating collections to share with the world.
Christian promised me I’d have access to much more in his family’s various homes.
Places like Buckingham Palace.
Absolutely unreal. Even though I was in Sandringham and experienced royal life first-hand, it’s hard to believe that when Christian goes home on breaks, he goes to Buckingham Palace to drop his duffle bag and have a home-cooked meal, prepared by an esteemed chef and a whole kitchen staff, of course.
I shake my head and add a wedge of Christian’s favorite cheese to the picnic basket while continuing to reflect on the past week. I went into Cambridge on my own and toured the King’s College Chapel, one of the most breathtaking buildings I have ever been inside, with its majestic stained glass and incredible fan-vaulted ceiling. I explored the shops and the outdoor market and marveled at so many things during this life-changing visit.
Christian spent time with me whenever possible. He took me on a tour of King’s College, and then to my delight, we spent an early evening punting on the River Cam, which was incredibly fun. The punt is a small, flat-bottomed boat, and Christian is quite good at it, as he expertly used the pole to guide the punt down the river. We went along the Backs—which is the back of the colleges of Cambridge—and under bridges at dusk. He told me stories about Cambridge, and pointed out his favorite buildings, and I loved seeing his world through his eyes. We took long walks with Lucy along the Backs, too, and I can still smell the scent of the fresh grass and clean air of the countryside from those outings.
We cooked dinner at home, sharing the work from grocery shopping to cleaning the kitchen afterwards. Christian made his specialty—spag bol, which is spaghetti with Bolognese sauce—and said the palace chef taught him how to make the perfect sauce.
It was in those moments—cooking a meal, loading the dishwasher, watching TV together—that I knew this is what our life would be like. Behind closed doors, sharing bottles of wine with our friends, playing board games with Stephen and Emma, reading books side by side on the sofa—this is us.
Love replaces the anguished feeling in my heart. I remember seeing him look at me with affection as I sampled his sauce. The way he looped his fingers through my hair as we watched TV. The way he smiled as he listened to me recount my day exploring England. How he brought me a cup of hot chocolate every morning before he darted off to class, parking it on the nightstand next to me and waking me by dropping a kiss on my forehead.
I hear a car pull up in the drive, and I know it’s Christian. He’s off the rest of the day now, and we’re going to make the most of our last day together. Lucy runs to the door, as eager for Christian to be home as I am. I hear the door beep, meaning the security card has been used, and then I hear Christian talking to Lucy.
“Here’s my girl,” I hear him say to Lucy, and I smile as I picture him bending down and petting her affectionately. “Let’s go find Clementine.”
“In the kitchen,” I answer.
Christian strolls in with a flat white box in his arms. “Hello, Fiona, how was your morning?”
Emotions overwhelm me the second I see him because I realize this is the last lunch I’m going to have with him for a long time. Tears fill my eyes, and I quickly turn back to messing with the picnic basket so he can’t see I’m about to
cry.
I clear my throat. “I hope you’re hungry. I bought half the market today for our picnic.”
“I have something in this box for our picnic, too,” Christian says, moving next to me. “You didn’t cheat and buy dessert, did you? Because I told you I was going to handle that one.”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t.”
He leans down closer to me, and I inhale the scent of his clean cologne as he noses around in the basket.
“Champagne … strawberries … ah! Brilliant,” Christian says, picking up the double Gloucester.
“Your cheese, sir,” I tease.
He grins. “What else do we have?”
“Grapes, scones, jam, clotted cream,” I say, rattling off the contents. “And mini quiches.”
“You do English very well,” Christian says, his eyes dancing.
“I think I do, too,” I say.
He drops a sweet kiss on my lips. “Let me get a blanket, and we’ll go sit in the garden.” He trots up the stairs, with Lucy eagerly dashing behind him.
As I watch him disappear, despair fills me. What if he thinks it’s too soon for me to move to London? What if he wants to do long-distance even longer? How can I do this, when all I want to do is be with him? What if this conversation doesn’t go as I hope? I’ve been positive, but what if this is all me?
What if I’m ready to leap, but Christian is not?
I turn back to the basket, irritated with myself for being insecure. I need to believe in what we have. In Christian.
In us.
“Got it,” Christian says, trotting back down the stairs. “You can carry the bakery box, but no peeking.”
“I promise I won’t even try to steal a peek,” I say.
He lifts the basket off the counter, and we head out the back door, to the private garden filled with blooms of purple and yellow and white. Trees tower overhead, with sun shining through the leaves, and best of all, we have it all to ourselves.