My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  Our bodies are still pressed together and even though he’s wearing a jacket I’m suddenly aware of just how solid and broad his chest is. His hand still rests intimately on my butt, holding me against him. “You can remove your hand now,” I say pointedly.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Then I’ll make you.” I smile sweetly up at him, but my voice is a good imitation of The Godfather, and he quickly removes his hand.

  I shift away, hoping it’s not obvious that I need to place distance between us to get my breath back and my raging pulse under control. Damn hormones! “I’m sorry about your cousin. Were you close?”

  He cocks his head, as if he has to think about it. “I was closer to him than almost anyone, but Nick was … challenging.”

  I think of that long-ago night in Vegas, of Adam keeping the conversation flowing, smoothing over the difficulties, diverting his cousin away from me. Well, since I’ve now diverted Elena away from him, we’re fair and square.

  “And what was that about me being cold-blooded?”

  He clears his throat, looking sheepish. “In horse-breeding, thoroughbreds are known as hot-bloods because of their more highly strung temperaments. Cold-bloods are hardier, calmer horses which are bred for work.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “And that was supposed to be an insult? I take it as a compliment. I’d rather be a reliable work horse than a high-strung thoroughbred any day.”

  He laughs. “I think I might agree with you.” For the first time since Elena’s interruption, the amusement in his eyes looks genuine. “Thank you for playing along. What Elena wants, Elena usually gets, and she would have been a lot more difficult to get rid of if you hadn’t been here.”

  “I can’t imagine why she wants you,” I tease. “You’re not that much of a catch.”

  Okay, I’m not teasing, I’m flirting. What can I say? After years of harmless flirting to earn bigger tips, it’s become a habit. It has nothing at all to do with the way my pulse is still going pitter-pat and my body wants to plaster itself back against him. Liar, a little voice in my head whispers.

  Adam laughs again, but that bitter edge is back. “It’s not me she wants. My cousin died recently in a car accident, leaving … an inheritance. That’s what Elena’s after. And she’s not the only one. Since the day Nick died, I’ve been swatting them off like flies.”

  “Oh, it must be so hard to be you,” I mock. But now I understand why he’s hanging out here with me rather than working the party like everyone else. It’s not because he finds me particularly interesting, or because he feels sorry for me. It’s because I’m the only person at this party who doesn’t want something from him.

  I’m still puzzling out what kind of inheritance would make an already wealthy man seem even more attractive to a baroness when a man more smartly dressed than all the guests, in a black coat, gray waistcoat and long black tie, appears in the doorway. “Dinner is served,” he announces in a voice that carries through the room.

  Immediately the guests start to move out of the wide double doors at the far end of the drawing room.

  “Ladies first,” Adam says, gesturing for me to lead the way. I drift after the crowd, nervously expelling my breath.

  “You’ll be fine,” he says in a low voice. “Just remember to work from the outside in.”

  Chapter 7

  Khara

  The state dining room is separated from the Yellow Drawing Room by the high-ceilinged vestibule at the head of the grand staircase. The room looks even more impressive than it did when Phoenix gave me the palace tour yesterday. The walls are covered in burgundy silk and hung with paintings of Venice, and the room is lit by three massive, sparkly chandeliers. The table is big enough to seat at least fifty people, and if I thought there was a lot of cutlery and glassware at the breakfast table, that was nothing compared to this table. I gulp, swallowing down panic.

  Is it too late to run, to get rid of this butt-ugly dress and escape the palace? Get a grip, girl. You can do this.

  There are place cards at each setting, with the guests’ names written in a curly gold font. Adam helps me find my place, between two complete strangers, then he circles the table to find his own. For a crazy moment I want to call him back, ask if he’ll swap places with the man next to me, who looks as if he just swallowed a sour lemon.

  I notice that all the way up and down the table, men and women are seated alternately. Man, woman, man, woman. Now I get what Adam meant about even numbers.

  Max is at the head of the table, all the way across the room. Phoenix is closer, but there are still at least four people between us. If I want to talk to her, I’d have to shout. Adam’s seat is across from me, a couple places down. Who would have thought I’d actually be sad to be separated from him?

  As Adam reaches his place across the table, smiling at the stern-faced, gray-haired woman beside him, an officious-looking young man hurries up to him – the palace’s protocol secretary. “I am so sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened! You should be seated higher up the table.”

  Adam glances up the table, toward Max’s end. Elena and her friend are both seated in that direction. “Nope, no mistake.”

  “But sir! You’re—”

  “Unless you want one of the guests throwing wine in my face, I think I’m better off where I am.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Dinner is about a million times more excruciating than breakfast, and I seem to do everything wrong. When I sit, the stern woman next to Adam glares at me. I hurriedly stand again. We all remain standing as Max makes a short speech, thanking everyone for being here, and for their generous contributions, before he sits. Only then does everyone else sit.

  It’s almost a shame to destroy the cloth napkin sculpture on my plate. The napkin is stiff with starch, and folded in the shape of a swan. But I copy everyone else, pulling the swan apart to spread the napkin across my lap. In fact, I’m almost scared to touch anything on the table. Every item is lined up and perfectly symmetrical.

  The first course is a thin, watery soup. Consommé, it says on the gold-lettered menu. I select a knife to cut and butter a bread roll to mop up the soup, earning another glare from the woman next to Adam. What the hell is wrong with her? Did I use the wrong knife or something?

  Since Sour Lemon Man is seated on my right, I turn to the man on my left to make conversation, as he looks younger and friendlier, but when I try to introduce myself he turns his back to talk to the woman on his left. How rude!

  So I ignore them both and sip on the Champagne one of the liveried waiters fills my glass with. I’m starting to rather enjoy the taste of this Champagne.

  When the soup is done, I’m still hungry. The waiters clear away the plates and Champagne glasses and move around the table filling the next in the line of glasses in front of each place setting, this time with white wine. There’s another speech, from the tall, thin and exceptionally elegant woman seated on Max’s right. Her speech is definitely not short, and my stomach rumbles audibly while she drones on. When she’s done at last, the next course is served. Salad.

  Lunch seems so long ago. A maid brought a tray of food to my room when I was getting ready, which I thought very odd since I’d had a big lunch and was coming out to a dinner, but I think now I understand why. She knew how meager tonight’s food was going to be.

  When my stomach grumbles again, I earn even more frosty stares from the guests around me. On the plus side, I finally figure out what Adam meant about working from the outside in. He was talking about the cutlery. We start with the outermost knife and fork, working inwards with each course.

  According to the menu, the next course is fish or beef. I expect the waiters to come around and take our orders, like they did on the plane, but we don’t seem to get a choice; everyone gets the same small piece of fish, artistically decorated with asparagus. I’ve never eaten asparagus before, and it’s so drenched in creamy butter I’m still not entirely sure what it tastes like. When the you
ng man on my left finally deigns to make conversation with me, I reply with short answers. After all, there’s only so much I can say about the weather.

  When I hand my empty plate to the server at the end of the course, I earn yet more surprised glances from the people around me. Clearly, I’ve done something wrong again, but there seem to be a lot of rules I just don’t know. It’s like I’m playing baseball and everyone else on the field is playing soccer.

  Dessert is a watery lemon sorbet and I’m wondering what the chances are Neustadt has a late night McDonalds so I can fill my still-empty stomach, when, after another round of speeches, the next glasses in line are filled with red wine. Turns out that wasn’t dessert, and the main course wasn’t an either/or, as the servers bring out another course, tiny beef medallions floating in a red wine sauce, surrounded by a perfect circle of strange fluffy green mousse that I only identify as spinach thanks to the menu.

  The food finally stops my stomach from making any further noises, but the room has started to swell around me in a hypnotic rhythm. I have to prop my elbow on the table and my chin in my hands as I will myself to stay awake through yet another speech.

  The real dessert is tasty, an airy chocolate soufflé dusted with an icing sugar image of the Westerwald dragon. Gorgeous, but the portions are so stingy that I finish mine in a few mouthfuls. The coffee’s really good too, rich and dark, real bean coffee, but I am now so exhausted I don’t think even caffeine is going to keep me awake much longer.

  At long last this interminable meal is over, and everyone rises to move back to the drawing room for after-dinner drinks and more conversation. As I stand, I wobble on my feet, even though I haven’t yet risked wearing any of the heels Anton gave me. The room is definitely swirling now.

  I feel a hand on my arm and look up to see Adam. His expression is amused. “I thought you said you don’t drink?”

  “I don’t. I’m just jetlagged.”

  He smiles. “Sure, if you say so. How about we get you upstairs to bed?”

  “If by ‘we’ you mean ‘me’, I think that’s a great idea.” My lips feel numb, and the words sound slurry. Maybe I did have a teensy bit too much of the wine. And the Champagne.

  “I’m walking you to your room.” His voice is firm, discouraging opposition, but I argue anyway.

  “If this is how you seduce women into leaving parties with you, you really need to up your game.”

  He laughs. “Most of my reputation is well-deserved, but I have never taken advantage of a woman who is … jetlagged.”

  I don’t want to accept his help but, since the room is swirling even more vigorously, I decide to give in. By the time we reach the door to my room I’m even grateful he walked me all the way here. I would certainly have gotten lost on my own.

  He opens the door, waits for me to enter, then says, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  Before I can object to being called ‘sweetheart’, he has already closed the door on me. I stumble across the darkened room, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand, and collapse on top of the covers, too tired to even kick off my shoes.

  I feel as if I’ve run a marathon, sat an exam and done a job interview all at the same time. And as if I failed all three.

  Chapter 8

  Adam

  “What the hell are you doing in Westerwald?” my sister Jemima asks when I’m stupid enough (or make that hung-over enough) not to check my caller ID before answering my mobile.

  “You’re turning into Dad,” I moan, ignoring her question. London is a whole hour behind Westerwald, and the caller ID shows she’s already at her desk at the office. “You need to get a life.”

  “I’m at the office,” she says crisply, “because it’s better than being at home. Unlike you, I can’t leave town to avoid the parents.”

  I cradle my aching head in my hands. “I’m sorry, Jemmy.”

  I really am. Our parents rarely disagree on anything, but since Nick’s death my mother has been adamant that I accept her brother’s offer, and my father is equally determined that I should stay in the family business. He has this antiquated notion that he’s going to pass the business down to me, even though it’s obvious to everyone that Jemima is far better management material. For the first time in my memory, they’re barely talking to each other.

  But my parents are only one reason I’m in Westerwald. Another is that every woman I’ve ever slept with in Great Britain suddenly wants to reconnect in the hope that I’ll make her into a princess. How clueless do they have to be not to realise that if I wasn’t interested enough to stick around before, I won’t be getting down on one knee now?

  It’s clearly a major flaw in my personality, this lack of interest in settling down with just one woman. It’s not that I don’t like women. I adore them. But there isn’t a single one I’m not closely related to who doesn’t bore me to tears after a few weeks. Well, apart from Phoenix, but I refuse to think of her as a woman because Max would have my balls for breakfast, served up with toast and marmalade, if I so much as looked at his bride-to-be.

  And perhaps apart from one mermaid-haired bridesmaid I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all night. Though, considering my track record, there’s a very large chance that as soon as I sleep with her – which I have every intention of doing before this wedding is over – I’ll lose interest in her too.

  “You’re needed here, so get your arse back on a plane and come home,” Jemmy demands impatiently.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” I retort automatically, as I did a million times when we were growing up.

  “Until you start behaving like a mature and responsible adult, I am the boss of you.” Jemima is three years younger than me but has always acted like she’s the older sibling. “Do you have any idea what day it is?”

  I force a flippant tone. “Wednesday? Thursday?” But I know exactly what day it is.

  She sighs. “What is so important that you’re going to miss the dedication of Charlie’s memorial?”

  “Haven’t you heard – I’m the best man at the wedding of the decade.”

  “Max hardly needs you to hold his hand.”

  “Nope, but the bridesmaid does.”

  I can actually hear Jemmy’s eye-roll down the phone. “You’re going to miss the dedication for a shag?”

  I’m not going to miss the dedication for a shag, though that would be a nice bonus. I’m going to miss the dedication because I don’t want to have to look Charlie’s mother in the eye. I don’t want to be reminded that I wasn’t there when my best friend needed me – that maybe he’d be alive today if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed that I didn’t realise what was going on with him. Just like with Nick.

  I cross my fingers. “It’s not like that – I’m helping her. She’s American, and completely out of her depth here with all the palace etiquette.” At least that isn’t a lie.

  “And it can’t wait until tomorrow? Charlie was your closest friend.”

  “Charlie’s dead. He’s not going to care if I’m there or not.”

  Jemmy blows out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll make your excuses. Have you at least decided what answer you’re giving Uncle Lajos? If you plan to say yes, I need to replace you at the office.”

  It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I’m that easily replaceable, since I’ve hardly made myself indispensable, but the truth still stings. “There’s no decision to make. You, of all people, know I can’t be depended on. You can’t seriously think I could be responsible for an entire country.”

  She’s silent for a long moment, as if trying to find the right words. “Yes or no, it makes no difference to me. But, either way, you need to stop blaming yourself for other people’s choices. Charlie and Nick were not your responsibility. They were both grown men who made their own decisions.”

  I shake my head, even though she can’t see. Jemmy’s one of only a handful of people whose opinions I respect, but on this we’ll have to agree to disagree.

  “Have y
ou considered that if I accept Uncle Lajos’ offer—” I can’t yet bring myself to say ‘if I become crown prince’ because it sounds so fantastical “—then Dad will be more likely to accept you as his heir?”

  “Of course I’ve thought of it. But you can’t make this choice for me. You have to make it for yourself. Because, whatever you choose, you need to commit to it. You’re either in or you’re out. No more of this half life you’re living.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly. “Oh, and Jemmy – if you need a place to stay to get away from the parentals, you have the spare key for my flat.”

  She laughs softly. “Thanks, but I’m not a coward like you. I can handle them.”

  Ouch. I know she didn’t mean it to hurt, but it does. I am a coward, and I’m not proud of that.

  For a long time after she hangs up I sit staring at the phone. Even if it is cowardly, I’m not ready to go back to England, and I am most certainly not ready to face either my family or Charlie’s. I need to clear my head, and I can’t do it back in England. If I could, I’d have done it already.

  The thirty hours I’ve spent here in Westerwald are the freest I’ve felt in years. Maybe that’s because here I’m free of responsibility – or maybe it’s because my thoughts have been distracted by a certain Vegas waitress.

  Khara … Bloody hell. Since I wouldn’t put it past my sister to check up on me, I’m actually going to have to teach Khara etiquette. But first I’m going to have to get her to agree, even though she’s made it crystal-clear she wants nothing to do with me.

  ***

  When I arrive at breakfast, Max and his personal assistant Jens are the only ones there.

  “I didn’t see you leave the party last night.” Max grins as I settle at the table with a cup of hot, black coffee. “You leave with anyone I know?”

  Well, at least he didn’t see me leave with Khara. I don’t think she’d appreciate that news spreading around the palace. So I simply lift a shoulder. “No offence, but your party was dull so I went out to a club.”