by Holly Rayner
Poppy
My phone pings while Max is still in the shower. It’s the lawyer, with the message that everything in the contract looks good.
I didn’t know I was nervous about the contract until now, when I learn I’m in the clear in that area. Sighing in relief, I fall onto my back on the couch.
A giggle escapes my throat. I can only imagine what the lawyer thought when he first set eyes on the contract for marriage obligations between a Jersey girl and a Scandinavian prince.
Checking the time, I see it’s right after dinner in New Jersey. Laura could be busy getting the kids ready for bed, but if Oscar is there to help out, I might be able to snag a quick chat with her.
Still reclining on the cushions, I call her up. A few rings go by.
“Oh, hey, Princess Poppy,” she answers.
“Stop,” I chastise.
“Why?” She laughs. “Have you gotten yourself kicked out of the kingdom already?”
“No, not yet.” Sitting up, I glance in the direction of the hall. I can still hear a shower running on the other end of the cottage, so I have some time before Max is back.
“How is it?” Laura asks. “Tell me everything.”
“I don’t know if I could tell you everything even if I had all night. I did get the contract back, though. And it looks good. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“You’re welcome, but is that really the news you’re gonna throw at me? Tell me what you’ve been doing there. Or who.”
“Laura!” I laugh.
“Don’t act coy, sis.”
Sighing, I wiggle around on the couch. It’s a comfy one, but I can’t seem to get settled. I’m too worked up.
“Nothing like that has happened between us,” I whisper. “You know it can’t.”
“Correction. You said it can’t.” There’s the sound of a cabinet shutting, and then what I think is the dishwasher running. She must be cleaning up after dinner.
“And it’s for the best, although…” I press my lips tight together. I shouldn’t have said anything, but it’s too late.
“Although what?” she asks, the question dripping with suspicion. “Poppy?”
“We had a really great night last night. Like, amazing.” Shaking my head, I close my eyes.
Max was in my dreams all night long, but they were mostly replays of our evening together. Apparently my subconscious couldn’t think of anything to add, except one thing.
In my dreams, we kissed on that bench by the ice rink, and it was absolutely the most romantic and sensual experience of my life.
“That’s great,” Laura says.
“His mom died eleven years ago. When he was eighteen. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. I read it online.”
I twist a strand of hair around my finger. “It’s so sad.”
“Our mom died,” Laura points out. “And our dad. I’ve never heard you ask for people’s sympathy.”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“How so?”
“His dad is still alive, and they don’t have the best relationship. From what I’ve heard, it sounds awful.”
“Well, he has a lot of expectations,” Laura says, “being a king. He wants his son to live up to some pretty high standards.”
“I think it’s more than the royal aspect.”
“What else would it be?”
“I dunno. I’m not a therapist or anything…”
“Clearly,” she scoffs.
“But maybe it’s some old stuff. Like resentments from when Max’s mom was alive, or from around when she died.”
“Hm.”
I wait for her to continue. “Hm?” I encourage.
“I don’t know if it’s that. Unless—did he tell you he holds something against his dad?”
“He’s said…” I try to remember Max’s specific words when talking about Otto. “He doesn’t seem to want to say much. He’s just told me that he doesn’t like how his father wants to control his life.”
“Hm.”
“Another hm?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not telling me something,” I say.
“You’re not telling me something!”
“Okay, fine!” I throw up the hand not holding my phone. “I’m wondering if I’m doing the right thing helping Max trick his father. What if it’s not what he really wants? What if he gets away from his dad, and then something happens and Max regrets ever pushing him away?”
“Something meaning like his father dying.”
I cringe. It’s hard to say, but… “Yeah. Exactly.”
“Wow. You are worrying a ton.”
“Laura,” I say. “Help me out here. Please.”
“I am, and I think you’re freaking out when you really don’t need to be.”
“But what if—”
“Nu-uh,” she interrupts. “You and I had a good relationship with our dad. Not perfect, sure, but it was better than what most people seem to have.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “True.”
“But Frank wasn’t king of a small country.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She gets that Laura-quiet again, like she’s waiting for me to figure out what she’s hinting at.
“Please go ahead and say it,” I say.
“You’re doing a good thing by helping Max out. There’s nothing to regret here. Max doesn’t want to deal with all that palace hubbub, and you’re giving him a hand. Plus, you’re getting paid, so there’s that. It’s a job.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I haven’t told her about the exact amount I’m being paid yet, and I feel like now’s not the time. I’d like to get some money in my bank account before going around saying I’m rolling.
“You don’t sound sold.”
“I think I need to meet King Otto first,” I say.
“When’s that happening?”
The question makes my pulse race. “Soon. Real soon. Max is getting ready now.”
Laura squeals. “This is crazy.”
“I know. I think I’m going to throw up. Unfortunately, we didn’t go over the royal etiquette of what to do if I barf on the king’s shoes.”
Laura laughs. “Oh, whatever. You’ve got this. Hey, Dad always said we could do anything we put our minds to.”
My heart melts. It’s a bittersweet reminder.
“Yes,” I say. “He did, but I’m sure he never thought I would be having dinner with a king and queen.”
“You know what, though? I bet he’ll be there with you tonight.”
Tears spring in my eyes, and even though I’m hurting, I’m also smiling. “Thanks, Laura.”
“You’re welcome, girl. Anytime.”
A door opens and closes on the other side of the cottage, and I sit up straighter. “I should go. I think Max is coming out. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Call me as soon as you can, okay? I want to hear everything.”
“I know, and I will. Bye.”
We hang up, and I put the phone down right as Max walks into the room.
At least I think it’s Max.
The man standing in front of me doesn’t have the thick, dark beard the one who went down the hall a short while ago did. His face is clean-shaven, showing off a strong chin and dimples in each cheek.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice his dimples before. Even with the beard in the way, I should have spotted them, they’re so prominent. With his face clean-shaven and his hair slicked back, the only word I can think to describe Max is the one thing he probably doesn’t want to hear: royal.
He looks like a prince.
Chapter 13
Max
Poppy’s face is unreadable. She sits on the couch, staring at me, her hands in her lap.
“What do you think?” I spread my arms. “Do I clean up well?”
She blinks.
My chest constricts. I shouldn’t have shaved. She doesn’t like the new look. I thought it would be a good idea to get rid of the bea
rd in order to appease my father, though the very thought made me angry, and it looks like I should have kept it after all.
If Poppy doesn’t like how I look, what does it matter?
It’s an odd thought. I didn’t even know I was that desperate for her approval.
Until now, with her staring at me like she’s speechless.
I start to make a joke about going and putting the beard back on, but she stands.
“You look amazing,” she breathes.
My shoulders sink with relief. “Thank you.”
She looks down at her dress. “I feel so silly in this now.”
“No.” I close the space between us and take her hand. “What are you talking about? You look beautiful.”
“It’s a cute dress, sure, but you’re…” She gestures at me.
“Wearing a tuxedo?”
“To dinner with your family,” she laughs. “And you look amazing.”
I touch my lapel and shrug. I could probably get away with a blazer and a button-up, but I wanted to go the extra mile tonight.
“I do have a dress for you,” I say.
Poppy’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“Yes.” I hold up a finger. “Although not because I think there’s anything wrong with the way you dress. I like it an extreme amount, as a matter of fact.”
Poppy shakes her head. “It’s okay. You’re not offending me. So you got me a dress, huh? Did you pick it out yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I did.”
I haven’t had time to go to any stores, so I had a palace assistant bring me a selection of ten dresses that are currently in style, and I picked one of those.
“Really?!” Poppy asks.
“Yes. Why are you so surprised? You think I don’t know what looks good on a woman?”
She folds her arms and gives me a pouty look. “I’m very curious to see what you think looks good, is all.”
I can’t take my eyes off those lips. They’re so full and red, curved like a heart and begging for me to kiss them. If she’s wearing makeup, it’s not off from her natural color. Her lips are perfect the way they are, always looking like she’s just bitten into a strawberry.
My hands itch, and I have to clear my throat and look away. If I’m not careful, I will do something regrettable. Poppy has made it clear enough that she is interested in me no longer. If she were, she would have kissed me on the bench last night.
“If you don’t like it,” I say, going to the closet near the fireplace, “we can have another one sent for you.”
“There’s no time for that.”
“We can make time.” Hand on the closet’s doorknob, I look over my shoulder at her. “I have people for that.”
“Of course you do.”
She’s making fun of me, smiling away, and again it’s too much for me to handle. If I catch one more look of those sparkling eyes, I might decide to skip dinner with my family and stay here with Poppy. We could order something in and watch a movie. Nothing else need happen. I simply have an ache to be near her.
But I can’t do that. I need to grit my teeth and get through tonight. After that, Poppy and I will be free to do as we please. Whatever that might be.
Opening the closet, I pull out the evening gown. It’s floor-length, lavender, and with the tiniest of sequins going down the skirt.
Behind me, I hear her gasp.
Smiling, I hold the dress up for her inspection. “What do you think?”
Her hand is halfway up to her mouth, like she was about to cover it in shock, or she already did, and I missed it.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
“The top you wore the night we met was lavender, so I assumed you like that color. It also looked particularly good on you.”
Her expression softens. “Max,” she says softly. “That’s really sweet of you to remember that.”
“It’s not something I could easily forget.”
Her cheeks color, and I grin. One of my favorite things about her is how easily her emotions show. She’s not good at hiding anything.
“I believe it’s the right size,” I say, “but you should try it on to make sure. That way, we can get it adjusted while your hair and makeup are being done.”
“My what now?”
I study her reaction, not sure what it means. Did I just displease her?
“Only if you want,” I clarify. “You always look beautiful, so I think if you go as you are now, you will leave an impression. I only thought that, if you wished to go all out tonight—”
A knock on the front door cuts me off.
“That would be them,” I say. “I can tell them to leave if you wish.”
“A hair stylist and makeup artist? Are you freaking kidding me? Bring them in!”
“Your wish is my command.” Crossing the living room, I lay the dress across the couch and open the door.
Upon seeing me, the hairdresser and makeup artist both immediately curtsy. They’re not from the palace, though I did have Henrik put out feelers for them. I’m tired of using palace staff for everything and want to keep any little bit of my life that I can separate from royal affairs.
Both women’s eyes are wide as they enter with their clear bags stuffed full of sprays, powders and brushes.
“Your Highness,” the older of the two says, “it is an honor to be here.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’m grateful to you for coming.”
“Is this the beautiful lady?” she asks, her attention going to Poppy.
“It is.”
The woman presses her hand to her heart. “I do not see much that can be improved upon.”
“Indeed,” agrees the younger woman. “But we can bring out even more of that natural beauty.”
“Natural is perfect,” I say. “You are most correct. Poppy is amazing as she already is.”
Poppy’s growing pinker by the minute, but from the way her lips are twisting as she attempts to stop a smile, I can tell she also likes the attention.
“How does the guest bedroom work?” I ask, showing them the way.
They take the dress in with them, and the door closes with a click, leaving me standing alone in the quiet hallway. I can hear them talking on the other side, and one of them must say something funny because Poppy and another one of the women laugh.
I check the time and decide we are doing well.
Going into the living room, I pour myself a glass of bourbon, but I take one sip and end up pacing with the drink in hand instead. I told my father I am bringing a special guest to dinner tonight, but that was all. It was a message I sent, not spoken in person, and I left him to wonder what “special guest” means.
Tonight is everything. If Otto likes what he sees and is convinced that having Poppy in my life means my priorities will fall into the order he deems appropriate, the entire dynamic will shift. I know my father. He gets riled up about things, but convince him something is as he wants, and he will fall for it. He’s used to people doing as he says, so he never thinks to question a situation too much.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out I find a text from my friend Jorge.
“How are you doing being home? Still alive? Do you need me to come and rescue you?”
Smirking, I put the phone away. I’ll text him back later.
No one, other than my lawyer who himself would be sued out of practice were he to speak of my personal affairs, knows about my marriage to Poppy. I haven’t mentioned it to my two best friends yet, and I’m not sure why.
I will have to tell them about it at some point, and they will be understanding, I know. They have met my father and will immediately twig why such a charade is necessary.
Poppy is an amazing woman. She makes heads turn wherever she goes, and on top of that she is smart, courageous, and kind. I am the luckiest man in the world to call her my wife.
Even if she is only my wife in title, and not in all the ways that matter.
That is
the problem, I realize. I do not want to tell Alex and Jorge, or anyone else, about Poppy because I do not like the reality of the situation. I need this fake marriage, and it is advantageous to her as well, but the more time I spend with her, the more I get the sickening feeling that I’m doing something wrong.
What could have been between the two of us if I had not proposed this deal? Or if we had not gotten married in the first place?
Would she have gone back to America, and we would have never seen each other again? Or could something have happened? A visit here and there? A true relationship in bloom?
There is the sound of a door opening, and I look up from my brooding to see the makeup and hair artists enter the room. They’re both glowing.
The older one speaks up. “If there is anything you don’t like about her look, Your Highness, say the word and we will change it.”
I look past her, but there’s no sign of Poppy. “Where is she?”
“Come on out, dear,” the woman calls.
Poppy emerges, and I must be imagining things. My head, suffering from anxiety and desire, is making things up.
She can’t be real, because a real woman cannot be this beautiful. Right?
The dress fits her perfectly, covering up her feet and grazing the ground. Her hair has been curled and pinned so that it exposes her neck and falls gracefully against her back. I don’t know what they did to her face exactly, because there’s not much makeup on it that I can see, but whatever magic they worked it’s divine. Her eyes seem larger, her lips somehow even fuller. Long, dark lashes flutter, mimicking the movement of butterfly wings.
My jaw drops. There are no words.
“Do you like it?” Poppy asks. “The dress fits perfectly.”
She spins, the skirt flying out in a circle.
I have to swallow a few times. “You are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
All three women beam.
“Good.” Poppy purses her lips in pleasure, and I know I’m grinning ear to ear, probably giving way more away than I wish to, but I cannot stop.
I turn to the other women. “You did an amazing job. Thank you. I will be recommending you to anyone who needs your services.”
They curtsy and thank me profusely. I pull out my wallet to tip them, and even though they turn the money down two or three times, I make them take it anyway.