My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  Not that Adam could ever be mistaken for a ‘mere mortal’. He could be in a room full of the world’s most beautiful people and he’d still stand out. Not because of his looks or his fancy button-down shirt that looks like something out of the pages of GQ, but because of the way he carries himself, as if he’s saying ‘I am Someone. Look at me.’

  When my cone is done, I trail my fingers in the cool water of the fountain.

  “You look more relaxed,” Adam observes, flashing me a decidedly wolfish grin. “Have you realized I don’t bite?”

  I eye him coolly. “You give yourself way too much credit. My being relaxed has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the place.”

  He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand. I blow out a breath. “These are my kind of people. I belong here, not in a palace.” I wave toward the vendors and shoppers.

  He looks genuinely confused. “You are who you are, whether you’re in a palace or the town square.”

  Of course he’d think that, safe in his bubble of white male privilege. And being more privileged than most, he’d no doubt feel that same confidence wherever he goes, whether it’s a palace, a farmer’s market, or a high-priced Vegas casino.

  “But in the palace there are all sorts of rules and etiquette you need to know to fit in.”

  It’s more than just knowing how to use a napkin or a fork. In less than a day I’ve realized it’s how I dress, how I walk, even how I talk to servants, that marks me as different. The housemaid was very put out that I made my own bed this morning. How was I supposed to know that would cause offense?

  Adam wipes his hands clean in the water. “Etiquette is easy enough to learn.”

  “I must have missed that day at finishing school.” I don’t even try to keep the snark out of my tone.

  “That’s not a bad idea …”

  Since I don’t remember having any idea, I stare at him.

  “Lessons,” he says. “If it worries you, you could have etiquette lessons.”

  Are there really people who teach this stuff? I shake my head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can’t afford lessons. I’m unemployed as of two days ago, so I need to save my money for more important things, like transport and the gas bill and food.” And I’m not going to be here in Westerwald long enough to make that expense worthwhile. Back in Vegas, I’ll still have to make my own bed, and I’ll only ever use one knife and fork.

  Adam holds up a hand to stop me. “This right here is lesson number one – you need to stop doing that.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “It is considered very poor taste to talk about money. We don’t ask about thread counts, or talk about how much things cost, tell anyone we’re unemployed, and we certainly don’t tell anyone how much we need money.”

  “But I do need it.”

  “Lesson number two: don’t give away any information that can be used against you.”

  He rises, offering me a hand to help me up. I’m tempted to ignore it, but that would be rude, wouldn’t it? So I place my hand in his and for a moment I struggle to breathe, that sensation of his warm skin against mine flooding my senses. Who would have thought something as simple as a touch could make me feel as if every nerve ending just received a shock? It’s as if I can see my life flashing before my eyes, but, instead of my life, I’m seeing flashes of what it might be like to be up close and personal – and naked – with this man.

  He pulls me to my feet, but still doesn’t let go of my hand and I’m too dazed to pull away.

  So much for trying to resist this very inconvenient attraction.

  “It’s just norepinephrine,” I mutter, and Adam gives me an odd look.

  It’s just hormones. It’s not real. It wouldn’t last beyond ten minutes after he’s gotten what he wanted from you. Hopefully, if I tell myself that often enough, my brain will finally take over and I’ll stop feeling so feverish I want to strip off all my clothes. And his.

  I pull my hand out of his and fuss with putting the guidebook back in my purse to avoid eye contact.

  Adam leads me on a winding route along narrow streets made of uneven cobbles. Thank heavens I don’t wear heels. The buildings on either side of us are just as narrow, all identical and rigidly formal-looking, no more than two or three stories high, with red, beaver-tail roof tiles (according to the guidebook). If the other pedestrians weren’t dressed in twenty-first century clothing I’d swear I’d stepped into a Jane Austen movie.

  Then we round a corner into a wider, tree-lined boulevard, with plush store windows on their ground floors, and every one is a designer brand name. Prada. Chanel. Bulgari. Armani.

  I’m so busy gaping at the window displays that I nearly bump into Adam when he stops walking. And there it is, the bridal boutique, only it’s not just any bridal boutique. The storefront has one of the most luxurious displays I’ve ever seen, ball gowns and cocktail dresses and fancy jewelry accessories that I suspect aren’t made of paste. The next story up contains the bridal dress display, and these are seriously the most jaw-droppingly elegant dresses I’ve ever seen, with trains and everything. Rebekah might be right; I don’t think these dresses are made for brides who are six months pregnant and headed for the local registry office.

  As if sensing my hesitation, Adam nudges me in the back, forcing me to step through the double doors which are being held open by a liveried doorman. Inside, the store is cool and quiet. An attendant steps forward to greet us, but when she takes in my blue-dipped hair, and worn jeans and sneakers, she starts to back off. For a second I wonder if I’ve stepped out of Jane Austen and into Pretty Woman.

  “Ms Thomas is here for her appointment with Anton,” Adam commands in the same voice he used with the footman. It’s a voice that sounds bored, and just a little dismissive. It’s the voice I remember from that long ago night in Vegas.

  For a moment I envy his self-assurance, the way the attendant blushes and says “Yes, sir,” and almost falls over herself in her eagerness to be of service. But I’ve also been on the receiving end of that tone often enough for my hackles to rise.

  The attendant leads us up a sweeping staircase to a private lounge area. Phoenix is already there. “Did you have fun?” she asks, eyes twinkling as she looks between me and Adam.

  “It was … interesting,” I answer. “I’ve seen architecture and art today that I never dreamed I’d see for real. This city is beautiful!”

  “See – didn’t I tell you this trip would be educational?” She turns to Adam, that sparkle in her eyes looking decidedly mischievous. “And did you get an education today?”

  “More than I bargained for.” He looks around the brightly lit lounge. The sofas are ivory-colored, as are the walls and even the modern chandelier overhead. The only color in the room is its inhabitants. “I thought bridal fittings were supposed to be accompanied by Champagne?” He sounds hopeful.

  He clearly doesn’t know Phoenix very well. She has a hard head for alcohol, and could drink most men under the table back when she and I worked together (probably the result of growing up on the road with her hard rocker father) but the one drink she won’t touch is Champagne. Says it makes her do crazy things – like marry a man she just met in Vegas. Not that I think that was in any way crazy. Just look at the man she married. Is marrying.

  Max isn’t a great catch because he’s an archduke, because he’s rich, or even because he’s good-looking. He’s a great catch because he’s a good man. Not the kind of man who would shirk his responsibilities. When he and Phoenix met, he was working as a winemaker in California. A solid, honest job working with his hands. Then, when circumstances forced him to drop the career he loved, he did the right thing and stepped up to lead Westerwald. That’s the kind of man I want for myself one day. Not Prince Charming, just a good, reliable man who can be counted on not to shirk his responsibilities.

  “No Champagne,” Phoenix confirms. “Besides, we still have the dinner party this evening, so no alcohol allowed until official
duties are over.”

  Adam pulls a face. “If there’s no Champagne, I’m going to leave you lovely ladies to your dresses. If I remember correctly, there’s a rather nice little bar not far from here that starts happy hour early.”

  I roll my eyes, but Phoenix laughs. “You didn’t read the schedule Max gave you, did you? You’re on the guest list for the dinner party, so we’ll expect you in the Yellow Drawing Room at six-thirty.” She waves an admonishing finger at him. “And don’t be late. You always either arrive late at our parties, or leave early.”

  He grins, his gaze flicking to me. “There just always seems to be some woman at your parties who wants to get me alone.”

  I can’t help it; I snort. Does he seriously think that makes him seem attractive, or that I’d want to be yet another notch on a bedpost that clearly has so many notches it’s in danger of collapsing the entire bed? What self-respecting woman would think that was a good deal? So I simply give him the same icy glare I give patrons who get handsy. The same look I gave that cousin of his.

  Adam looks away, and it’s my turn to grin. Score one for me.

  When he takes his leave, sweeping Phoenix’s cheek with another kiss, I move away so he doesn’t even think about coming close and trying the same with me. His eyes glint, as if relishing the challenge, but he doesn’t make a move to touch me. I blow out a breath as he disappears back down the stairs, then I turn to Phoenix. “I’m sorry I was late.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “You’re not late. I came early so Anton and I could have a catch-up and a gossip.”

  She pats the couch beside her and I take a seat, grateful to have a moment alone with her. “I’ve been wanting to ask …” I gnaw on my lower lip. “What is a royal bridesmaid supposed to do? Aren’t I supposed to organize you a bridal shower, or something? The only other time I was a bridesmaid, all I had to do was persuade the bride to borrow one of my dresses rather than get married in jeans.”

  She laughs. “This time I have more than enough dresses, and having you here is the only bridal shower I need. Claus and the protocol secretary are handling everything else.”

  “What’s a protocol secretary?” I ask, diverted.

  “Don’t ask!”

  “I am asking.”

  “He’s the person who tells us where everyone needs to be seated, what order they need to arrive in, how we should greet them … that sort of thing.”

  “Sheesh! I am so glad I’m not the one marrying a prince! If I ever get married, I want a quickie Vegas wedding, just like you had the last time.”

  She sighs dreamily. “Yeah, that was magical. But my point is, aside from Rebekah and Anton, I don’t have many friends here. Everyone else I know either works for us or they’re important Westerwald families, not the sort of people I want to share a spa day with, or sit up all night eating chocolate with when I get cold feet.”

  I laugh. “Sorry to tell you this, but it’s way too late for you to get cold feet now!”

  “That didn’t stop me after I married Max the last time.”

  Our hushed laughter is interrupted by the arrival of Anton Martens himself, followed by a team of seamstresses and assistants. Even I have heard of Anton, fashion icon and one of Westerwald’s most famous exports. Phoenix introduces us, and for the first time I really feel as if I’m being presented to royalty.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Anton says, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at my chest, and I’m about to give him that same icy look that quelled Adam when he says, “US size six?”

  I nod.

  For someone who owns a label that headlines at all the major fashion weeks, Anton is remarkably down-to-earth. While we wait for the assistants to fetch the clothing rail, he chats to us about his favorite binge TV show, the ‘greasy spoon’ he and his partner Lee like to go to for traditional English breakfasts, and the time he got lost in Paris and nearly missed his own show. When he fits me for my bridesmaid dress, he gets down on his hands and knees to pin the hem himself.

  Even unfinished, this dress is the most stunning piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. The design is deceptively simple – a fitted bodice with a high halter neck and a full skirt that falls in soft folds all the way to my ankles. The only decoration is a high satin waistband the same color as the dress. It’s the royal-blue fabric that makes this dress so special – I’ve never felt anything this soft before.

  “Crêpe de Chine,” Anton says, lovingly brushing his hand over my hip. “It matches perfectly with your hair and eyes.”

  “Don’t worry about the hair,” I say quickly. “It’ll wash out before the wedding. And of course I’ll be wearing it up.”

  “Why?” both he and Phoenix ask in unison.

  Do I really need to spell it out? Clearly I do. “Because you can’t have a bridesmaid with blue hair at a royal wedding.” Or frizz. I Googled royal weddings the day Phoenix called and asked me to be her bridesmaid, and everyone in the bridal parties looks sleek and groomed. If I had the soft, bouncy curls of a L’Oréal commercial I might get away with it, but my curls lean more toward wild corkscrew than artful curl. My hair has more kinks than Fifty Shades.

  “Nonsense,” Phoenix says. “This is my wedding and I want it to be uniquely me, and that includes having a bridesmaid who is uniquely you. And I like your hair as it is.”

  I love her for that, but I shake my head. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to stand out. Back home, I see so many people with bright-colored hair that I blend right in, but this entire day I haven’t seen one other person with colored hair.

  Anton grins. “Did you know that this particular shade of blue is Westerwald blue? Everyone will assume your hair is a patriotic statement.”

  I bite my lip and turn to the tall gilt-framed mirror. The color is a really good match, and both the dress and the hair bring out the dark blue in my eyes.

  Phoenix moves to stand behind me, and I look at our reflections. “A crown of white flowers in your hair and a white bouquet, and you’re done.”

  “I still need shoes,” I point out, lifting the hem of the dress to reveal my worn but super-comfortable Keds.

  Anton laughs. “Cinderella does indeed need a pair of slippers for the ball.” He claps his hands and the assistants jump into action, bringing out an endless parade of shoes. I eye them in dismay. “They all have heels!” I don’t even know how to walk in heels. When you’re on your feet eight hours every day, trust me, a comfortable pair of flats is worth every cent.

  “I’ll give you a pair to practice in,” Anton offers.

  There are other dresses for me to fit, an A-line, knee-length cocktail dress with a deep V-neck in the same shade of blue for the wedding reception (“better for dancing,” Phoenix explains), a dusky pink babydoll swing dress patterned with grey roses for the registry office wedding, and a nineteen-fifties vintage-style dress of forest-green crêpe for the banquet.

  “You’ll need to wear your hair up with this one,” Anton says, “to avoid the colors clashing.” He twists my wild frizz up into an Audrey Hepburn style, and I hardly recognize myself in the mirror.

  “Do I get a fascinator to go with it?” I ask. I always wanted one of those. Something with peacock feathers to match my hair.

  Anton shakes his head. “Hats and fascinators are for daytime outdoor events only. Tiaras are for evening wear.”

  No way am I ever wearing a tiara. I am so not a Disney princess.

  “So what do you think of Adam?” Phoenix asks when I’m standing like one of those human statues on a little podium. Anton is back on his knees, pins in his mouth as he nips and tucks at the stiff green crêpe.

  “I don’t think of him at all,” I lie.

  She arches an eyebrow at me. I know her well enough to know she won’t give up until she has a proper answer.

  “He’s cute,” I say. “But he’s a douche.”

  Somewhere around my knees, Anton chuckles.

  “You’ve barely met him,” Phoenix protests.


  Then why is she asking what I think of him? For at least the third time today I wonder if she’s trying to set me up with Adam, though for the life of me I can’t imagine why.

  I shrug. “I’ve met his type before. He’s the kind of man who thinks that just because he has money, he’s exempted from behaving like a decent human being.”

  “You’re being hard on him because he’s rich.”

  I remember the way he slid his room key card to me a year ago, assuming I’d go with him just because he had money. And not even bothering to ask my name. The anger I felt then floods through me, fresh as if it happened today. Or maybe it did happen today. The only reason he volunteered to take me sightseeing was so he could get into my pants. “I’m being hard on him because he measures his worth by how much money he has, and how many women he can score with. He’s the type who uses and discards women as if they’re nothing more than objects for his personal gratification. He thinks money can buy him anything and anyone he wants. It can’t.”

  “You should give him a chance. Get to know him and you’ll see that, deep down, he’s a nice guy.”

  I turn to eye her, and she grins cheekily. “It’s not as if I’m suggesting you marry him.”

  As if.

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “That you should relax and have a little fun. That’s what vacations are for. And you need to relax. You’re so tightly wound. When did you last do something just for fun?”

  I shrug, and Anton scowls at me. “Stand still!” he orders.

  “I have fun!” I protest. Admittedly, I haven’t dated for a while, not since Raúl and I broke up, but … Actually, there is no ‘but’. I can’t even remember the last time I did anything except work or study.

  But if I wanted to blow off steam with a man, it certainly wouldn’t be Adam. What I feel around him is definitely not relaxed.