by Parker Swift
Josh flicked his hand dismissively. “Oh, whatever, any customers can wait till tomorrow. We need our Lydia time, and we have to hear everything. An elopement? A possible pregnancy? A scandalous kiss on the side?” I had my face in my hands as he spoke, part mortified but mostly laughing. Josh had a way of deflating the situation of all of its seriousness and finding the fun in it. “I mean hello, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to office gossip anywhere.”
Fiona shoved him aside and brought me into a hug all her own. “Ignore him. I think it’s insanely romantic, and I loved what Dylan had to say in that article, and I want every detail.”
I looked at them both and my chest just filled with love. These were my friends, and I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I needed to bring them into this, to share this whole craziness with them.
“Also, we brought you this,” Fiona said, opening the large white box on the counter. Josh was jumping up and down with excitement, and I looked at them both warily. Fiona stepped aside to reveal a three-tier bright red wedding cake with a cardboard-cutout picture of Dylan and me on top, and around the top layer it said in very nonprofessional-looking frosting writing:
Royal Congratulations to Lydia and London’s Most Shaggable Man Who Probably Has a Huge Nob
“The writing was Josh’s idea!” Fiona held up her hands in self-defense as I gripped my stomach in laughter. “Now tell us everything.”
“Thank you, guys. I will,” I said, still laughing and clearing my throat. “And said shaggable man will be here to pick me up in an hour, so you can congratulate him in person.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Josh, digging through his man bag and pulling out a knife. “We have to eat this bit before he gets here.” He immediately started to cut into the word nob on the cake.
I turned down the shop lights, we moved to my office, and for the next forty-five minutes, we ate cake and I walked them through everything. I told them about the Eric kiss, about Dylan showing up, about all of it. Josh got up to bounce or exclaim something barely intelligible at least three times, and Fiona seemed genuinely thrilled. Their impromptu celebration was the perfect antidote to the paparazzi horror show that had started the day.
* * *
“That was rather remarkable,” Dylan said once we were seated at dinner. He’d come to pick me up at the shop only to find Fiona and Josh and me full of cake and still laughing. “I’ll never cease to find it amazing how quickly you make people fall in love with you.” I gave him a roll of my eyes. “I should know,” he responded defensively. “I fell harder and faster than anyone else.”
“I love you too,” I said, taking a sip of my water just as the waiter arrived with our steaming plates of Indian food. Dylan had wanted to take us to a fancy restaurant in Covent Garden, but I’d felt like comfort food instead. So we’d ended up at a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant Will had shown us one freezing February night.
“So what was the news from your meeting this afternoon?” I asked. After the first time I’d brought up Dylan’s association with MI6 in a public place and he had stopped everything, turned around 360 degrees to make sure no one was listening, and then proceeded to call his security people to do something in reaction, I’d learned quickly that one does not say MI6 in public, at least not if you’re actually involved with them.
Dylan paused as he was sweeping up creamy sauce with his naan and didn’t look at me when he gave his reply. “The date is set for a week from Friday.”
When I dropped my own fork he finally looked up. He knew I didn’t want this happen. He also knew that I was proud of him, that I understood why he was doing it, and that there was no way I’d say anything to get in the way of it.
“Okay,” I said. “So can you tell me more? Do you know more?”
He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, stroking the top side with his thumb. “Baby, I know this is the last thing we need, but at least it will be over with. And, damsel, I got this.”
Alpha-male idiot.
Didn’t he understand that’s what all men who fancied themselves to be Thomas Crown or James Bond or Batman or whoever all thought: I got this. The good news was that I was an optimist, and even if I thought he was being at least partially a moron, I believed in statistics, and I figured the odds of this not going well were low. MI6 wasn’t going to put one of Britain’s most beloved aristocrats in real danger, right? I mean, they wouldn’t risk it. So it would be fine. Not because Dylan thought he could karate chop his way out of anything—let’s be honest, even if a decade of private kickboxing classes in a Knightsbridge studio gave him a sculpted body, it probably didn’t offer much in the way of any real self-defense skills—but because I’d had enough crap in my life already, there was no way I could lose him. At least that’s what I was telling myself.
“I know,” I said, and squeezed his hand back. “Let’s just get it over with—one less thing on our plate.”
“Also, how would you feel about hiring Frank again? Just for a bit?”
“Frank?” I asked, remembering the burly man Dylan hired last year while I was being harassed.
“Just until the wedding is over, until things settle down. I never want you to feel afraid to leave our house.” He looked at me seriously as he said this. “The paparazzi really are just acting like piranhas over that article. And there really shouldn’t be any risk associated with the MI6 business, but it will make me feel better. The last thing I want is someone thinking they can get to me through you, and it’s not your job to be on the lookout for that.”
I fought Dylan the first time he’d hired security personnel for me. It seemed ridiculous at that time. It didn’t seem ridiculous to me now. I got it. In fact, I was relieved. One less thing to worry about.
“Okay. Sounds smart.”
Dylan lowered his gaze and scrunched his eyebrows in curiosity. “What? No protests? No assertions about how you can vote and walk and run for office without my help?”
I interlaced my fingers, put my elbows on the table, and rested my chin there, batting my eyelashes at him with exaggerated sweetness. “Nope. I’m all for it.” Dylan looked suspicious. “What can I say? I’ve missed my babycakes.” I’d loved my routine with Frank, pretend flirting to get Dylan’s goat.
Dylan growled, I laughed, and I was so relieved to see the waiter returning with fresh glasses of wine.
* * *
That night, I lay in our bed, the sheets pulled around us, Dylan’s heavy warm limbs wrapped around me so completely that I could feel his pulse against my skin. We’d forgotten to close the curtains, and light from the moon cast a column of brightness across our bodies. Dylan’s breathing was rich and rhythmic. I looked at him, felt him, and allowed my anxiety about the MI6 operation in, just for a moment. If I opened the doors to it completely, it would engulf me, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen. I understood why he had to do it—in some fundamental way, he felt it would make up for so many of the things his father had done, and it was the quickest way of distancing himself from the wreck his father had made of Hale Shipping and the estate. And the fact that a friend, Jack, was in charge of the whole thing relaxed me—there was no way his friend would put him in danger. But there was still a small part of me that was scared. I loved him, I loved my future with him, and the possibility, no matter how slim, that I might lose him crushed me.
Chapter 25
Dylan
The rest of that week was decidedly insane.
I’d spent the next couple of days at Hale Shipping in conversation with the board and various VPs. They were aching for leadership—the staff were getting antsy, a few had resigned, feeling uncertain about the company’s future. It was time to step up and provide direction. I’d ended the day with my head in my hands, a clear vision of where the company needed to go and absolutely no desire to get it there myself. Fucking hell.
And it was nearly three on Friday by the time the meeting with the International Olympic Committee was
over. After a series of scandals involving the banking of tracks in velodromes, we’d have to expand the floor of the west stadium. Fucking nightmare. Couldn’t remember how or why I’d agreed to do this, except that they’d given me free rein, initially anyway. The truly shite part was that I was going to have to be in Auckland for three weeks that summer for final tweaks. No way around it. It wasn’t for another month or so, and I’d do my damnedest to make sure Lydia was with me, but I was ready to get back to normal. I wanted days to begin with my mouth on my naked wife, include a healthy day at the drafting table, perhaps a run around Regent’s Park, dinner somewhere deserving, and to end the day the way it’d started.
Instead I was sitting in my office up to my eyeballs in corporate international Olympic bullshit.
“Sir.” Thomas ducked his head in my door. He’d gotten a bit cocky recently, lost all his fear towards me. Gotta say I kind of missed the days when he hid behind his desk—this version was all too brazen for my taste.
“What is it, Thomas?”
“Her Majesty’s secretary is on the line for you, and your wife called…” He paused to smile. I was pretty sure my having a wife was allowing him to live out some kind of Mad Men–related fantasy of being an assistant, about which I did not want to know the details. “And she said she’d invited…” He paused to look down at the paper. “Your sister, over for dinner. I think she wanted you to call her back.”
“Thank you. Also, Thomas?”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple shifting nervously. Bingo. “Please remember to knock.”
“Of course, sir.” He closed the door and scampered away in the most satisfying manner.
I straightened my tie and sat up in my chair as though the queen would somehow know, via her secretary and over the telephone lines, that I had been slouching during this conversation.
“Hello, Mr. Randolph,” I said, ready, eager, accommodating, as I’d been trained to be my whole life.
“My lord.” Anyone from the palace, from the butlers all the way up, said titles the same way, as though we needed to be reminded we were lords before the conversation continued, lest we forget the obligations it entailed. “Her Majesty wishes to convey her gratitude for your contributions at His Royal Highness’s charity gala.”
Was that all? “Of course. I’m glad she is pleased.” I relaxed a little, picking up a pen and doodling a vision I was having for an extension to the hideaway house.
“Indeed, sir. In fact she is hoping you may be willing to provide some assistance of a different nature. She is requesting that you accompany Prince Richard on his travels this summer. He is obliged to visit Vancouver, Cameroon, Johannesburg, and Sydney, and whilst Her Majesty is aware that this is a rather…” Mr. Randolph paused, searching for the right word. “Unusual request of someone outside the royal family, she believes you’d set a rather good example for the prince.” In other words, the palace didn’t trust Richard not to paw his fiancée in public or otherwise fuck up his first royal tour. “Her Majesty trusts you, my lord, and is hopeful that you won’t mind.” Bloody hell. It was a fucking world tour. “She is aware that you’ll be in Auckland in preparation for the Olympics, so surely it won’t be an inconvenience.”
“I’d be honored, of course.” I delivered the acceptance as I should, with grace, etc. But fucking Christ. I’d be gone most of the summer. What a disaster. “When are these trips meant to occur?”
“I’ve forwarded the schedule to your assistant, Lord Abingdon. Also, I’d like to add that the queen sends her warmest congratulations on your nuptials.” Ahh, of course. If I was a good boy, she wouldn’t put up a fuss at us having eloped and the accompanying scandals. Hell, this woman was a genius with her diplomacy. No wonder she was trusted with an entire commonwealth.
“That’s too kind.”
I retrieved the schedule from Thomas, displeased to discover I’d be departing the day after the operation with MI6—in a bloody week—and assuming I didn’t have the chance to come home between any of the stops, I would be gone until the week before our wedding.
I ran my fingers through my hair, drawing my nails against my scalp, pressing my thumbs into my temples. The only silver lining was that once it was done, it’d be done.
I’d just have to convince Lydia to come with me. I rang her mobile immediately.
“Damsel.” She’d answered the phone on the first ring.
“Hey. How’s your day going?” I could tell she had the phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, could hear the rustling and muffled sound of her shirt rubbing against the mobile.
“Can you be available for two months starting a week from Saturday?” I had a pencil in my hand, continuing to build on the sketch I’d started earlier, an addition to the house Lydia called my hideaway. I could just imagine how the addition might be connected to the main building, how if we had kids, as they grew, there’d be room for them right—
Lydia’s sarcastic laughter interrupted my multitasking.
“What?” I asked.
“Two months? Dylan, don’t be ridiculous. I was just gone for a month. If we take a honeymoon, I’ll be gone from work again in August—we should talk about that at some point. Emily’s been hounding me about it. Hannah and the investors just upped the budget for the Manhattan store, and have asked me to take a couple of short trips to supervise. Fiona’s jewelry line launches in two weeks. There’s no way I can abandon her. Not to mention, we’re getting married, which apparently takes a lot work, which I’m finding rather shocking given that we’re already married.” She was breathy and stressed; her American accent came on so strong during these rants. I had to admit I loved it—it always reminded me how delightfully not British she was. Obviously what I had thought was going to be an immediate Yes, Dylan. Of course, baby, I’ll go anywhere with you was not so simple.
“Wait, why are you asking?” She had stopped moving on the other end.
“The queen’s secretary called, and I’m afraid, damsel, that I’m going to be doing some travelling this summer with Richard and Jemma—Johannesburg, Cameroon, Vancouver, and Sydney.”
“When? For how long?” I could hear the resignation in her voice, and it fucking killed me. I wanted her with me. Eventually I’d want her to be able to come on these trips, and I was suddenly extraordinarily happy that she’d begun considering a career wherein she was self-employed.
“Starts just week after next, on either side of the Auckland trip, I’m afraid. I’d be back just before the wedding.” She sighed, an exhale that meant she wasn’t going to tell me how what I’d said had just made her shoulders fall.
“Well, bring me back something nice, okay? A stuffed kangaroo or a picture of you with a koala or on a whale watch or whatever.”
“Is that what you think happens on these trips?” I laughed.
“No, but I’d prefer not to imagine you away for that long with whatever vile Olympic volleyball players are going to be like swooning over you.” She sighed again. “Okay, well when you get back can we hide from the queen’s secretary for a while?” She imitated my accent when she said secretary in a way that made me love her just a little more.
“Absolutely, damsel. I think this will be the last of it for a while. I’m afraid I’m a bit indebted after beating Tristan Bailey to a pulp in her Butler’s lounge and then eloping without informing the palace.”
“Fair enough.” I heard more rustling—she’d resumed whatever she was doing. “Also, Emily asked me what we were doing for a rehearsal venue and whether we wanted to book out rooms here in London or near Humboldt for guests?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I haven’t the faintest idea. The point is, she is on top of this. Dylan, really, you should see her. She’s incredible at running this show. She’s hired staff.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t even know. I’m not sure I even care. All I know is that she’s a force. I’ve handed the planning entirely over to her. You know, Dylan, you might
ask her for some help—I have a feeling she is capable of far more than planning weddings.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure. But there are more important matters.”
“Like what?” I heard something louder being moved around on her end, probably a box of some sort—she had to get better at delegating this nonsense.
“Like is your office door closed?” The rustling stopped again.
“It is now.” Her voice had shifted to the pliant soft tone that made my dick hard.
“Good girl. Now I want you to go to your chair, damsel.” I slid back in my own seat and pressed the button on my desk to fog the glass of my windows. “Hike that dress up, baby—I want it out of the way.”
“Okay.” The word was broken, like she was nervous all of a sudden—I liked it.
“Now, damsel. You’re going to do everything I tell you to. And when I’m done, you’re going to know that I can take care of you, even from afar.”
* * *
“That’s the date, yes…Well that’s just one of life’s real cruelties, isn’t it? That you’ll have to manage four cakes instead of two?…Well now, there we go—we’ve figured it out, haven’t we?…That sounds reasonable…No, no lilies. What do you think this is? It’s a wedding, not a bleeding funeral…Absolutely…I’ll confirm with the duke and duchess, but sounds classic…Certainly…Send over the sketches by noon tomorrow, and I’ll be happy to consider your bid…Cheers.”
I’d walked into my own kitchen to find Emily at my table, Molly bringing her dinner, her laptop set before her, not one but two mobiles next to her, and a set of folders in neat orderly piles surround her.
“Shall I get you an office?” I asked sarcastically, rather shocked to see my sister so expertly dispatching my resources in the name of this wedding.