My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  There’s a window seat and everything, so I settle on it, resting my chin on my knees as I look out at the colorful flowerbeds below. The private garden is four times the size of the yard I dream of having one day, and it’s surrounded by a red brick wall that must be at least ten feet high. Beyond the wall is a park with trees, and then the roofs of the town, catching and reflecting the slanting morning sunlight. I itch to go exploring. This is Europe, full of history and culture and architecture that Vegas, with all its attempts to copy it, could never hope to achieve.

  I would have loved to study history and art in college, but they’re just not practical for a career unless you plan to be an underpaid teacher, so I’m studying accountancy and finance. With those majors I at least have a shot of getting an office job with a steady paycheck, regular hours, and windows. You might think that’s not particularly ambitious, but trust me, for some of us that’s ambitious enough.

  But here, for the next few weeks, I plan to indulge in all the art and history I can. For one month I will live the fairy tale.

  My cell phone alarm buzzes, startling me out of my contemplation of the view. It’s time to get dressed and go downstairs – and just like that the bubble pops and I’m no longer in fairyland. I’m in the harsh reality of a world I’m completely unprepared for and not at all ready to face.

  ***

  Remember how I said I’d jump through a ring of fire for Phoenix? Well, that’s exactly how it feels when I come down for breakfast.

  “Jeans and tee shirts are fine,” Phoenix assured me over dinner in their apartment last night, but when a servant finally points me in the direction of the breakfast room I baulk in the doorway. I’m almost blinded by the silverware. And there are more porcelain plates and crystal glasses on the dining table than I’ve washed in my entire life. Did I mention that before I was old enough to serve drinks, my previous job was washing plates in a restaurant kitchen?

  The room is big enough to fit a highly polished wooden dining table that could seat at least twenty. But it’s not just the size of the room that’s impressive. The walls are painted plain ivory-white and when I look up I realize that the ceiling is painted like the Sistine Chapel. At least, what I imagine the Sistine Chapel looks like, since I’ve only ever seen pictures during a long-ago art class. Blue sky, clouds, and frolicking gods and goddesses.

  I hover in the doorway until Phoenix turns her head and spots me. So does everyone else in the room, and there’s rather a lot of them. They all look like they’re dressed for a Vogue fashion shoot. Phoenix is the only other person in the room wearing jeans.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asks, her ready smile lighting up her face as I walk in.

  “Not really. I guess it’s going to take my body clock another day to adjust.”

  “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. Breakfast’s on the sideboard.” I have no clue what a sideboard is, but she waves toward a buffet at the far end of the room, where a heavily pregnant woman is dishing up scrambled eggs and bacon onto an empty plate.

  “Hi, I’m Rebekah,” the woman says, smiling at me in welcome as I tentatively approach the buffet. “I’m Claus’ wife.” She nods at the fair-haired man seated beside Max at the head of the table. I was introduced to Claus yesterday. He’s Max’s Steward – whatever that means – and one of the main organizers of the royal wedding. Both men greet me, then their blond heads bend together again to pore over paperwork.

  I’ve heard about Rebekah from Phoenix. She was Phoenix’s boss when she first arrived in Westerwald, and they’re still good friends. I can see why. Rebekah has a kind, open face, smiling eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her nose, which make her look younger than she probably is.

  Taking my cue from her, I head to the side table and pick up a plate then serve myself from the buffet. The chafing dishes look tarnished enough to be real silver, and the range of choice is almost as good as the casino’s breakfast buffet. This is certainly a world away from my usual bowl of cornflakes eaten at the faux-granite counter in my mom’s tiny kitchenette.

  Once I’ve dished up, I take my plate to the table, choosing the seat next to Phoenix. I set my plate down, sit, and then stare bewildered at the array of cutlery before me. I’ve only ever eaten with one knife and one fork. This place setting has four of each. Does it matter which one I use? Oh God, of course it does.

  And there are real cloth napkins.

  How the hell did I think I could do this? I can’t even get through breakfast without making it obvious I’m nothing more than a hick from Hicksville.

  Trailer park trash.

  If anyone dares say that to my face I’ll claw their eyes out with my bare hands. Even if it is true. Not that trailer parks are as bad as their reputation. I’ve lived in one my entire life and let me tell you, it’s a whole lot better place to grow up than many other places I’ve seen. But I also know on which rung of the social ladder it places me, and it sure isn’t the one I’ve woken up on today.

  Phoenix has already finished her meal and further down the table Max’s private secretary, the press secretary, and the Master of the Household are so engrossed in conversation that they’ve barely touched their food. I was introduced to them all yesterday, but in the haze of jet lag from my first ever airplane flight I forgot their names as quickly as I was told them.

  I’m still contemplating the cutlery when it’s as if a breeze stirs the air in the room and I feel rather than hear someone enter behind me. I know straight away who it is, and have to force myself not to turn around to look. My back stiffens.

  The best man drops a light kiss on Phoenix’s cheek. “Hello, gorgeous!”

  “Hello, charmer.” She smiles warmly back at him, and I’ll admit to being more than a little surprised. Phoenix is usually a really good judge of character.

  Then he turns his attention on me, and for a moment I freeze. He gives me the once-over and smiles. I remember that smile. Full of heat and stripping me naked, as it did back in that private room at the casino. Will he recognize me? But of course he doesn’t. Not even a flicker of recognition. And why would he? Men like him don’t remember the hired help. I’m probably one of a thousand servers who’ve waited on him in the last year, one of a thousand women he no doubt invited to his bed without even asking for a name. And I didn’t have this rather distinctive turquoise ombre on my hair a year ago. His gaze takes in the striking effect of my hair, and his smile turns to a cheeky grin. “You must be the bridesmaid.”

  “Khara,” I correct, not smiling back.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my frosty attitude. “I’m Adam Hatton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The way he says the word pleasure makes my skin prickle. And not in an entirely bad way, though I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phoenix sit straighter like a bloodhound, or a shark scenting blood in the water.

  When Rebekah joins us I am so grateful for the interruption I could hug her. Adam circles the table to give her a quick kiss too. “You’re looking good. Positively glowing.”

  She beams up at him and I roll my eyes. Then he steals a slice of crispy bacon off her plate and with another jaunty smile heads to the buffet to serve himself. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.

  Rebekah sits across from us, lowering herself into the seat as if her pregnant belly weighs a ton. She has my sympathy. I suffered through a couple of pregnancies with my neighbor Carly before she followed her latest husband to Ohio.

  As relaxed and comfortable as if she were eating in her own home, Rebekah unfolds her napkin and spreads it across her lap. I copy her. Note to self: don’t tuck the napkin in your shirt like a bib.

  Then she picks up one of the forks beside her plate, and I do the same.

  I manage a few mouthfuls before Adam is back, sliding into the empty seat to my left, not-so-accidentally brushing his thigh against mine, and for a moment an honest-to-goodness thrill shudders through me before I shi
ft away. But he pays me no attention as he goes straight for the correct fork. Rich people make it look so easy. For the record, it’s not, when you have no clue what you’re doing and you’re terrified of screwing up and making your best friend look bad.

  This may well be the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten, but it tastes like cardboard in my mouth since I’m so busy concentrating on what to do, how to sit, how to hold my fork, while at the same time trying to completely ignore the man sitting right beside me. Which isn’t easy. He smells heavenly. I mean, I have never met a man who smells like this before. If I had to give it a name, I’d say he smelled like pure male hotness. Not the sweat of manual labor, or kitchen grease, or the scent of after-shave, but a clean, crisp, heady, manly smell that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together.

  Please, please don’t let Phoenix notice that my hormones are having a field day.

  Thank heavens she has other concerns. She leans on the dining table, cupping her chin in one hand while she studies the typed schedule she holds in the other. “This morning I have a meeting with the Department of Internal Affairs to discuss the final housing and security arrangements for the visiting dignitaries, then in the afternoon we have your dress fitting to fit you with your outfits for the wedding, then—”

  “Outfits?” I interrupt. “As in plural? Surely I only need one bridesmaid dress?”

  She shakes her head. “Church weddings aren’t legally binding here, due to the whole separation of church and state thing, so we have a civil wedding the day before the big church wedding. You’ll need a separate outfit for that. Then you’ll need a dress for the gala dinner that night, and another for the ball after the church wedding.”

  I swallow, choking on a piece of scrambled egg. Adam thumps me on my back, which doesn’t help.

  “And to think the …” This time I pretend to choke because I was about to say ‘And to think the last time you got married you wanted to do it in jeans’. I was the one who had to convince her to wear a dress that time. But I don’t know if anyone else at this table knows they’re already married, so I drown the words with a gulp of water from Phoenix’s glass.

  On the plus side, my coughing fit attracts the attention of a maid in a navy and white uniform who brings a pot of coffee to our end of the table, and I’m no longer the focus of everyone’s attention. She fills all our cups, blushing when Adam thanks her.

  Phoenix looks back at her schedule. “This evening we’re hosting a dinner party.” She flicks to the next page. “Then tomorrow we have your photo sitting—”

  “My what?”

  “The palace will be making the official announcement of the bridal party in the papers the day after, so we need to get you some official portraits that can go out to the press. Unless you already have a picture you’d like to send out to the papers?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, drowning it down with a gulp of hot, black coffee. She knows very well I don’t. I hate having my picture taken.

  This is my last chance to back out then, before my name and my life go public. Before Phoenix becomes a laughing stock for choosing me as her bridesmaid. “Can’t Rebekah be your bridesmaid instead?”

  The others laugh.

  “Can you imagine me waddling down the aisle?” Rebekah asks. “Besides, I don’t think they make bridesmaid dresses in tent size.”

  You’d be surprised. The first time Carly married she was already heavily pregnant.

  I change the subject away from weddings and me being on public display not just once, which I’ve sort of come to terms with, but a gazillion times over the next few weeks. “I was wondering – what thread count are your sheets?”

  Beside me, Adam makes a noise as if he’s suppressing a laugh, and Rebekah’s eyes go wide. My face flames. I said something wrong, didn’t I?

  Phoenix doesn’t bat an eyelid, though. “I have no idea. But I’ll ask the housekeeper and get back to you.”

  I need another subject change. Stat. “Can we ask your secretary to schedule some time in your diary so you can give me a grand tour of this town?”

  Phoenix frowns at her schedule. “Things aren’t usually this crazy. It’s just all the wedding arrangements … But we’ve got a girls’ day scheduled for Thursday. I was thinking of a spa day, but I guess we could do some sightseeing instead.”

  I was joking about having to book time in her diary, but Thursday … “That’s two whole days away!”

  I’m not usually this needy, I promise. It’s just that days off are rare in my life, and even when I do get a day off I spend it running errands, or doing chores, or studying, and I have no idea what I’m going to do to keep busy while the only person I know in this town is in meetings …

  I swallow down my panic and manage a smile. “Then maybe I can go out exploring on my own.” I say it bravely, though I don’t feel very brave. Do the people in Westerwald even speak English?

  Phoenix eyes me skeptically. She knows I’m not big on adventure, and wandering around a strange place on my own will most definitely be the biggest adventure of my life.

  “It’s not much fun getting lost in a foreign city.” Her expression is wistful, though. After her impetuous secret marriage to Max last summer, she ran out on him to backpack around Europe on her own. Or he ran out on her – the jury’s still out on that one. It’s kind of like the whole Ross and Rachel ‘they were on a break’ thing.

  But that’s Phoenix, not me. She thrives on adventure, while stepping outside my comfort zone is my idea of hell on earth. It’s one of the reasons I still live with my mother, even though she drives me batshit crazy.

  “I’m sure we can find someone on the palace staff who can take you out and show you the sights,” Phoenix says, but she sounds doubtful.

  “I’ll take her.”

  I jump at the sound of Adam’s voice, far too close to my ear for comfort. He’s talking to Phoenix, but the purr in his voice suggests his words aren’t meant for her.

  Phoenix claps her hands. “That’s a great idea. You can go out this morning and see a bit of the city while I’m in my meeting.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. Firstly, because I know from past experience that she’ll win any argument we have and secondly, because she’s paying for my whole damned trip. What kind of ungrateful friend would I be to insist someone else give me a guided tour, when every member of staff is no doubt frantically preparing for the royal wedding?

  “Thank you – that would be lovely.” I even manage a smile. But getting lost alone in a foreign city no longer seems like the most dangerous way to spend the day.

  Chapter 4

  Adam

  When I come down the back stairs from the guest wing, Khara is already waiting at the private entrance, seated on an uncomfortable-looking antique bench just inside the door. She’s still dressed as she was at breakfast, in jeans that fit her like a glove and a cropped tank top that leaves her midriff bare. I’ve seen plenty of bare female flesh in my life, but somehow that tantalising glimpse of tanned skin gets my pulse racing with a thrill I haven’t felt in a long while. It’s good to feel alive again.

  She’s holding a book open in her lap, but paying no attention to it as she chats to the footman stationed at the door. As I cross the vestibule to join her, she turns her head and frowns. Not the usual reaction I get from women when they see me, which is frustrating and challenging in equal measure.

  “Please get someone to bring my car round from the garage.” I hold out my car keys to the footman.

  Khara hops off the bench. “There’s no need for that. We can walk.” She waves her Frommer’s guide at me. “The guidebook says all the major attractions are within a few miles’ radius of the palace.”

  “Exactly – we could be walking a few miles.” Most women I know, with the possible exception of my sister, who is exceptional in everything she does, object to walking any distance further than the block between Harrods and Harvey Nichols.

  But then Khara’s scuff
ed sneakers are more suited to walking than the high heels most women I know wear. Not that she needs heels. Even in flat shoes she only has to tilt her head a little to look up at me.

  “Okay, let’s go then,” I say, offering her my arm. She looks at it as if it’s poisoned, so I shrug and let her precede me through the door.

  It turns out that, unlike Khara’s sneakers, my leather brogues aren’t made for walking. By the time we’ve toured Neustadt’s historic town centre, visiting the baroque cathedral, the city hall, the opera house, and the national museum, my feet are killing me, and it’s taking all my effort not to let her see me wince. While acting like a wimp is most certainly not part of my seduction plan, the need to pretend I’m fine is seriously hampering my ability to flirt. Or maybe I’m just rusty. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had to work this hard to get a woman’s attention. Usually a grin and a flutter of eyelashes does it. Or a flash of my credit card.

  As we traipse through one historical building after another, I initiate Stage One in my seduction repertoire: laying the groundwork. This first stage is about getting the woman to feel comfortable enough to relax and be open to more. Standing close, but not too close that she’ll feel threatened, opening doors for her, paying her an honest compliment, appearing interested in everything she says, making eye contact.

  Those last two are harder than usual. Khara barely says a word, and seems to find her Frommer’s guide way more fascinating than me. She doesn’t stop moving, as if she’s determined to work her way through the entire guidebook in one morning – which might actually be possible, since it’s the shortest guidebook ever printed. Westerwald is not a very big nation and its capital, Neustadt, would fit into Greater London five times over. Though Westerwald is still triple the size of Erdély – I checked on Google. I doubt that Frommer’s have ever bothered to print a guidebook for Erdély.