“That sounds great.” She opens the car door to get out while I pop the trunk. I help her unload her groceries before going home and pulling up my family meeting on my laptop. Hoping to have a few extra moments with whoever else signs on next, I log on ten minutes early.
My brother Andrew—heir to the throne—is the lucky bloke. “Geoff! How are you? We’re busy making plans for your thirtieth birthday celebration,” he tells me.
“Please, not a parade,” I say jokingly. His silence makes me nervous. “Tell me you’re not planning a parade.”
“We’re not planning a parade,” he answers flatly.
“Now tell me the truth.”
“It’s just a small parade. We all get one when we turn thirty, you know that.”
“There has never been a small parade in the history of Malquar,” I remind him. Then, for whatever it’s worth, which I’m sure isn’t much, I add, “I really don’t want a parade.”
“It’s tradition. I got one, Alistair got one. It’s your turn.”
There’s no arguing with tradition, so I change the subject. “Aubrey is getting the cottage next to hers ready for me. I hope she doesn’t paint it any odd colors.” My sister has a very artistic eye. Her taste does not always mesh with everyone else’s.
“I already told her she has to stick to masculine shades. But you know she’s never been one to take orders.” Andrew’s face turns serious on the monitor and he says, “We’re really happy you’re coming home, Geoff.” He says this like he can sense my reticence to do so.
“I’m looking forward to being back with the family,” I say honestly.
My sisters Aubrey and Grace pop up on the screen and suddenly it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. The rest of the family follows and a Hale family free-for-all ensues.
My dad tries to get everyone’s attention, but no one pays him any mind. He finally reaches off camera and releases an air horn. OUCH. We all stop talking when he yells, “Your mother would like the floor.” He warns, “Don’t talk unless she calls on you.”
Our mom, Queen Charlotte, smiles brilliantly, making her look no older than fifty, though she’s sixty-two. “I have some exciting news to share. Baron Harquart has asked for Sophie’s hand in marriage. Your father has given his permission, so we will be having our first royal wedding in a year from June!” She raises her hands in the air like she’s shaking pom poms to emphasize her excitement.
The rest of us are dead quiet because we know what comes next. Mom tips her blonde head side to side causing her signature bob to bounce around. She purses her lips before declaring, “Andrew, Alistair, Geoffrey, you know what this means.”
“It means you’re going to be so busy planning Sophie’s wedding you’re going to get off our backs?” Alistair suggests hopefully.
“Ha!” our dad interjects. “Dream on, son. If anything, this puts more pressure on the three of you to settle down. We can’t have the whole continent thinking you’re undesirable.”
“What do you mean by that?” Andrew sounds offended. “I could marry anyone I want. After all, my wife will be queen one day. That alone makes me very much in demand.”
“You can marry anyone you want as long as your mother and I agree. Being that you’re the future king, you also have to have the permission of Parliament. In other words, your future wife has some big hurdles to jump before taking her place at your side.”
“I’m only thirty-four,” Andrew practically whines. “I promise I’ll get busy looking for a wife after Sophie’s wedding. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet her there.”
Our mother shakes her head. “No, sir. You’ll get busy now or we’re going to take matters into our own hands.”
God knows what that means, but I can assure you the blood in my brothers’ and my veins runs cold at the thought of our mother interfering in our personal lives.
Alistair addresses Andrew. “Get busy before she turns her attentions to me. You’re the heir, so you’re first.”
The queen makes a tsking sound and interjects, “No one with any sense would ever want you, Alistair. What’s that saying you kids have these days? Man whore? That’s what you are. It will take an act of God for any respectable family to allow their daughter to marry you.”
We all startle at our mother calling her second born a man whore. Alistair defends his actions by throwing me under the bus. “At least I stayed home and didn’t leave the country, never to return.” Nice.
I don’t have a chance to reply because our father answers, “Geoffrey is returning in fewer than nine weeks. We’re not worried about him, Alistair. You’re the one who needs taming.”
I spend the next thirty minutes listening to my family converse back and forth. There are a few heated moments like when Chéri announces her relief that we no longer live in the old days when royal brides had to be virgins. What was she thinking?
Our father replies, “For the love of God, girl, do you always have to be so shocking?” She just smiles before pretending to lose her Wi-Fi and exiting the call early.
After Chéri leaves, my mom announces, “Geoffrey, we need you to hang up now, dear. We’re making plans for your big birthday and we want everything to be a surprise.” A surprise parade, can you imagine?
Chapter Thirteen
Sharon
Unboxing Claire’s glassware, Sharon starts to sing.
Jimmy Bob, Jesse, Chase, get yourself right outta my face.
I don’t want you ’cause I don’t want a cheater,
I’d rather roll on broken glass than be with a wife beater.
You say you’re not a bully
That you never laid a hand on me
But foolin’ with my heart, guarantees that I’ll break free.
I know you got another gal,
she told me so herself.
I’m surprised your mama never let you know;
Cheatin’ makes your dong fall off.
Breaking into a yodel, she dances around the kitchen. When she spots the box with silverware, she hurries to open it up and grabs a couple of soup spoons. Putting them back-to-back, she starts to beat out rhythm before repeating the last stanza again and again. I’m surprised your mama never let you know; cheatin’ makes your dong fall off.
Claire
I love the honesty of country music as much as I adore the authenticity of the people who sing it. Dolly Parton once said, “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap.” Even if she weren’t just about the nicest person I’ve ever known, I’d love her for that line alone. Knowing who you are and being okay with that is probably the best gift you can give yourself.
I struggle with feeling that I’m not enough all the time, especially as far as my family goes. Everyone is so darn successful and famous, and I’m just not. In Southern California, people always asked if I was Romaine’s sister or Sharon’s daughter. As soon as they found out I was, it often became the main reason they were interested in me.
I understand that people like to brush up against celebrity. I really do. I just don’t want some guy to ask me out and then proceed to tell me what a great singer he is before suggesting I introduce him to my brother. That happened a lot.
While listening to my mom yodel about dongs falling off, I open a couple of boxes and look for my brownie pan. I’ve got the one that looks like a maze inside so that every piece has some crusty brownie edge. Yum!
Once I locate it, I find my big mixing bowl and get busy making my favorite treat.
Mom stops singing long enough to ask, “Do you think it’s too much to use dong and shlong in the same line?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m a little nervous about how many euphemisms for a man’s privates you’re using in this album. Do you think people might be a little offended?”
“I do not. I think Tooty’s female audience will love it and it will be a good reminder to her male fans.” She reminds me, “This is country music, hon, not opera.”
I giggle at the thought of Andrea Bocelli singing “Cheating Makes Your Dong Fall Off” in Italian. How would that yodeling riff ever translate?
“I’m sure Geoffrey will love your brownies,” my mom says with a wink. There it is, confirmation Sharon is on board with Ruby’s plan to set me up with her chef.
“I hope he likes them,” I tell her. “He’s my first friend here other than Tara.”
“Friend, huh?”
“Yup. Geoffrey is otherwise engaged,” I lie. “But he’s a nice man, so I’m happy to have him as a friend”—emphasis on friend, again.
“Oh,” She sounds depressed. “You know, I think I’ll keep working on Tooty’s song tonight. Will you give Geoffrey my apologies?”
Either she’s decided he’s not worth her time now that he isn’t a possible suitor, or she’s trying to give us time alone hoping something will come of it. Either option is viable. And while I should mention that Geoffrey is making a special Malquarian meal in her honor, I don’t. Why? Because I don’t really want her to go.
“I’ll tell him, Mom. I’m sure he’ll be disappointed you can’t make it.”
She looks up with a sour expression on her face. “I hope not. Between you and me, hon, I’m pretty sure you’re the one he’s looking forward to seeing.” There’s my answer. She’s not going because she hopes something will happen. That’s two of us.
I spend the afternoon getting ready, which I know is insane. Geoffrey and I aren’t going to the prom, we’re watching an old television show for research. Even so, I wash and dry my hair before using a curling iron to make beach waves in my long auburn tresses. I take extra pains with my makeup and put on a new cashmere sweater that I got for Christmas but haven’t worn yet. It’s pink.
I read somewhere that men love the color pink on women. I know I’m being silly as neither Geoffrey nor I are in the market for a romance. I just can’t help myself. I want to look my best tonight. Also, cashmere is super cuddly.
After putting the brownies on a plate, I swipe on some Kiss Me Kate pink lipstick, and I’m out the door by five fifty-eight. I’m all about being punctual.
Geoffrey opens his door with a smile. “Claire, welcome.” With a big flourish of his arm and a slight bow, he bids me to enter. This man is old-school gallant and I really like that about him.
Handing over the plate of brownies, I say, “Something smells great!”
“That’s ragoût raviole du Dauphiné.” Noting my confused expression, he translates, “Malquarian dumpling stew.”
“I’m sure I’ve never had it, but it smells delicious.”
He takes the plastic off the brownies and closes his eyes as he brings the plate closer to his nose. The look on his face when he inhales is so erotic a hot wave of lust washes over me. Holy cow.
He picks one up and pops it into his mouth before groaning, “So good.”
“You can’t eat dessert before supper,” I admonish.
“Are you the food police?” he laughs. “Or Pink Floyd. ‘How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?’” he sings.
Smiling coyly, I confess, “I ate two brownies at home before coming over.”
“I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t. One of the great thrills of being the one to make the food is getting to sample it as you go.” Leading the way into the living room, he asks, “Isn’t your mother coming?”
“Once I told her you were out of the running to be my boyfriend, she passed. She did say to send her apologies, for whatever that’s worth.”
“I have you all to myself then,” he says with a look that causes my blood to heat up. “I thought I’d serve dinner désinvolte. Casually.”
“Do you speak English or French in Malquar?” I’m finding it hard to believe Geoffrey isn’t American born and raised because his accent is flawless.
“We primarily speak English, but there are French influences, particularly when we’re talking about food.” He places two large cushions next to each other on the floor by the coffee table. When we sit down our shoulders practically touch, causing the hair on my arms to shoot straight up like mini-antennae trying to contact the mother ship.
Geoffrey lifts the lid off a soup tureen and ladles stew into the bowls in front of us. “I’m going to tell my mom all about this and make her sorry she didn’t come.”
“Do you want me to send some home for her?” he asks.
“I’ll think about it. But I might want to punish her for being in cahoots with Ruby to interfere in our personal lives.”
Geoffrey doesn’t reply right away, but I can see from the expression on his face that something is on his mind. “What?” I finally ask when I can’t take the silence any longer.
“I was just thinking …” Looooooooong pause. “If things were different, I wouldn’t mind Ruby and Sharon playing matchmaker.”
Does he mean with me? I can’t really come out and ask that though, can I? Instead of requesting clarification, I say, “I know what you mean. But things aren’t different, so …” The unspoken thought between us is like an elephant in the room. Like a herd of elephants in the room. Like a herd of bionic elephants in the room. I could go on.
I want to ask why things aren’t different, but I don’t. The truth is, I’m probably not ready for a rebound relationship. In fact, I’m hoping to avoid the whole rebound thing altogether.
I take a bite of the dumpling in my bowl and suddenly the only thing I can think about is filling my stomach. Halfway through, I put my spoon down. “You have a real talent, my friend.” You like how I’m reminding myself we’re just friends? “I bet your mom was a great cook.”
“Not at all,” he replies.
“Your dad?”
“I’m from a culinarily challenged family.”
“My mom made a lot of casseroles when I was growing up,” I tell him. “She basically took all the leftovers in the fridge and mixed them together with a can of cream of mushroom soup. Eating could be a real gamble.”
“What’s the worst one she ever made?” he asks with a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Hands down, it was the time she combined the leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner with pepperoni pizza, tacos, and quiche. One bite was pretty decent and the next you’d get cranberries and eggs, and you’d want to hurl.”
“Gross.” His whole face contorts in such a way that accurately describes my whole family’s horror at that meal. “I like your mom,” Geoffrey says. “She’s got a great energy about her.”
“If you like her, you’d flip over my aunt Tooty. She makes my mom look ordinary.”
“I can’t imagine such a thing.” The look on Geoffrey’s face is one of disbelief. I get it, too. Sharon is such a firecracker it’s hard to imagine that energy amplified. But Tooty is like a fireworks display on the Fourth of July.
After we finish eating, Geoffrey pours two glasses of port to accompany the brownie portion of our meal. We relocate to the couch where we snuggle up under a couple of throws and get ready to watch Speed Date.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to focus on the television with him sitting so close. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I fancy that I can even smell the clove of his aftershave. Lord help me, I have no idea how to just be this man’s friend when all I really want to do is jump him.
Chapter Fourteen
Ruby
“I’ve been thinking about what Geoffrey said about being from Malquar and I don’t like it one bit,” Ruby tells Chris while they go over the day’s itinerary.
“What’s not to like?”
“He doesn’t have an accent,” Ruby replies before adding, “He says he’s been here for so long that it’s faded, but he’s only been in the US since college. He’s not old enough for it to have faded away completely.”
“You’re acting like you think he’s keeping more secrets from you, Rubes,” Chris tells her friend.
“I think he is. I mean, all this time I was under the impress
ion he was an Oregon boy. You don’t think I made that up on my own, do you?”
“Did he ever tell you he was from Oregon?” Chris asks.
Beating her hands on the counter of the check-in desk, Ruby replies, “No. But that’s the thing. I thought I knew so much about him and he never came out and told me anything. How is that possible?”
“Maybe it’s not some big conspiracy, just a misunderstanding,” Chris suggests while clearing the area around her friend’s hands, so she doesn’t knock anything over.
“I’m going to do some research on Malquar and see what I come up with. I want to know everything about Geoffrey Bere, especially as I’m trying to set him up with Claire. I don’t want to be responsible for that girl getting her heart broken.”
Chris lets out an inelegant snort. “You’re making it sound like Geoffrey is a villain, Rubes. Just because you didn’t know where he’s from doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. You know him.”
Ruby nods her head up and down while biting her lip. “I do know him. I know he’s a good man, but Chris, there’s something he’s not saying, and I want to find out what that is.”
Geoffrey
I go out of my way to avoid Claire at work today. We had way too nice of a time last night for my comfort. I tried not to flirt with her, but I was one hundred percent unsuccessful. Especially when I walked her home. She lives next door for Pete’s sake, I could have just stood on my porch and watched her get home safely, but no, I walked her. And damn, it was really nice.
I obviously didn’t hold her hand because friends don’t do that, but our hands did brush against each other a couple of times. I felt like I was in primary school when Charisse Laramee kissed me on the cheek and told me I was better looking than both of my brothers combined.
It's My Party: A Royal Romantic Comedy (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 3) Page 7