My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  She gives Phoenix a quick hug, then, with an emotional sniff, she’s on her feet and heading for the door. I’m tempted to go after her but, with so many people watching us, I don’t think she’d appreciate me drawing attention to her departure.

  ***

  After dinner, many of the guests leave. Though we have to be up early again tomorrow to do this all over again, this time for the general public, there’s still a bar open in the Yellow Drawing Room. Max and Phoenix are surrounded by his family, but there’s no sign of Khara. I need to know she’s okay.

  I’m chatting to the British duke, another polo-playing buddy, when I see a flash of green out of the corner of my eye. Khara, heading out onto one of the small verandas that have been opened up to let in fresh air.

  The duke turns to follow my gaze, just in time to see Mateo follow her out.

  “Too late, mate,” the duke says. “Looks like Mateo beat you to it.”

  Over my dead body.

  I cross the room, ignoring anyone who attempts to snag my attention as I pass. The closer I get, the more my blood pressure rises. I push aside the heavy velvet curtain and step out onto the veranda. Mateo is leaning over her, boxing Khara up against the wall. Blood thunders in my ears. Why doesn’t she push him away, or give him that icy glare to make him back off? He’s a gentleman. If she says no, he’ll walk away.

  Which means she hasn’t said no.

  Neither of them notice my approach.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” Mateo says as I draw close enough to hear.

  Really? That’s the best line he could come up with?

  Khara laughs, a soft, sexy chuckle. She doesn’t look as if she’s been crying. She looks … playful. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Only if you want me to.” He leans in even closer.

  “Get your hands off her,” I growl.

  He straightens, looking surprised.

  My fists clench. “Leave the lady alone.”

  The lady in question places her hands on her hips. “Butt out, Adam. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Hell it doesn’t.”

  She turns to Mateo. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of Champagne?”

  He looks uncertainly between us, then with a nod he heads back into the drawing room. Khara rounds on me, that familiar icy glare in place. Now why couldn’t she look at him like that? “What’s got into you?”

  “I’m your friend. I’m looking out for you.”

  She arches a skeptical brow.

  “He’s a player.”

  “You are such a hypocrite.” She leans towards me, her voice low and dangerous. “You can’t have it both ways. Either we’re just friends, and I’m free to flirt – or have sex – with any man I want. Or we’re not.”

  I wish she hadn’t said that, because the images in my head are not pretty. “You are not having sex with him.”

  “Oh, really?” She draws in a shaky breath. “I can do whatever – or whoever – I want. Isn’t that how you live your life – come and go as you please, without a thought for anyone but yourself?”

  This isn’t about Mateo any more, is it?

  When I don’t answer, she smiles. That smile may look sweet, but there’s steel in it. “It’s your choice, Adam. Are we just friends, or aren’t we?”

  I really don’t want to have to choose. I want to be the better man, but if that means letting Mateo sweep her off her feet … A dark, possessive hunger grips hold of me. I’m close enough to feel her breath. Close enough that all I have to do is lean in and kiss her.

  But I don’t. I step back. The pregnant silence hangs between us, the voices in the room beyond muted behind the curtains.

  She shakes her head. “I thought so. There’s nothing in your life that you care about enough to step up for, is there?”

  Before I can stop her, she pushes through the curtain into the drawing room, leaving me alone with my fists still clenched and my mind a roiling mass of regret and frustration.

  Chapter 20

  Khara

  The second time my neighbor Carly married, she had the big white wedding. Of course, her idea of ‘big’ and Phoenix’s are a little different, but in many respects their weddings are just the same. We all piled into Carly’s parents’ trailer to get ready for the wedding – her sister and cousins, her bridesmaids, me, her mom, my mom. The noise was something else, and you can’t imagine the clutter. Make-up and shoes and dresses everywhere. There wasn’t an inch of space to spare.

  Space is the one thing this palace has plenty of. The suite we’re in is at least four times the size of that entire trailer, but it’s just as cluttered with shoes and make-up and dresses. Almost all the women in Phoenix’s new family are here – Anna, Kenzie, Teresa. Rebekah’s here too, and she and Kenzie are deep in conversation about birthing plans and midwives. There are also four hair and make-up stylists in the room, one of whom appears to be an old friend of Teresa’s. Apparently they worked together on the same film set where Teresa and Christian met.

  While a hair stylist works on my hair, carefully pinning in place the crown of real white tuberoses and dainty baby’s breath, I sit quietly, listening to the noisy conversations going on around me.

  I should be happier. After all, my tuition fees are paid up. That was very generous of Max and Phoenix, but they’re right – that means more to me than any piece of bling. I feel as if a massive weight has lifted off my shoulders. When I get home I can find a part-time job to support myself until I graduate, something that doesn’t involve eight hours on my feet with the sound of slot machines dinging in my ears all day. No more sloppy drunks putting their hands on my ass.

  I should be happier, but I’m not. Maybe if I’d gotten lucky last night I’d be smiling today, but you didn’t really think I’d let Mateo do anything more than boost my dented ego, did you?

  “You’re very quiet today.” Phoenix slides into the armchair in front of me.

  “I’m quiet every day.”

  “Nope. This is different.”

  I am not about to admit that Adam Hatton has me tied in knots. That every time I close my eyes I picture him standing in my bedroom doorway, dressed in a suit and looking delicious enough to eat. Right before he told me he was leaving. Is it entirely stupid of me that I’d started to think there might be something more than chemistry between us? Well, he made it perfectly clear last night that there isn’t.

  But this is her wedding day and I refuse to let my issues with that selfish jerk spoil her day. So I manage a smile. “I’m about to walk down the aisle with live television cameras following my every move and commentators discussing my hair, my dress, and my background. Aren’t you the least bit nervous?”

  “No, I’m not. Can I tell you a secret?” She leans forward, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “We’re already married. Today is just for show.” She laughs, throwing back her head. “Do you have any idea how good it is to be able to say that?”

  I laugh with her. It must have been hell keeping their marriage secret for an entire year. It was hard enough for me and I wasn’t here, living this lie every single day. But now she can say it out loud: she’s Max’s wife. Archduchess Georgiana of Westerwald.

  “You’re done.” The hair stylist pats me on the shoulder.

  I grin and hold out my hand to Phoenix. “You ready to go walk down the aisle again?”

  She looks at the slip she’s wearing and grimaces. “First, I’m going to need a crowbar to get me into that wedding gown. Whose bright idea was it to have a seven course banquet the night before I have to wear that thing?”

  “You’ll have to go back at least a hundred years to find someone to blame for that tradition,” her mother-in-law Anna says from the adjacent chair.

  Fortunately, it doesn’t require a crowbar to get Phoenix into her dress, just Anton Martens with a needle and thread. He’s not in the least fazed by half a dozen women in their underwear, trying to squeeze into layers of tulle and silk and lace
. I wonder if the backstage area at Fashion Week is anywhere near as chaotic as this.

  When the bulk of the wedding party finally head downstairs, Max’s assistant Jens is at the door with a clipboard and a countdown timer, marshalling everyone into cars. Max’s mother, Anna, travels in the first car with her parents, Max’s Californian grandparents. Then Fredrik, Christian and their wives leave in the next vehicle.

  “Shouldn’t we go round to the cathedral’s back entrance in an unmarked car?” Fredrik asks, eyeing the luxury sedan parked ready to take them.

  “Nope.” Jens is all efficiency. “Max’s orders. You’re part of this procession whether you like it or not.”

  “Well, at least it’s not an open carriage, so I can’t get pelted with rotten tomatoes.”

  “No one is going to pelt you with rotten tomatoes,” Teresa says. “Just because you were disinherited doesn’t mean the public don’t still love you. They watched you grow up, after all. You’re still their prince, even if you’re not their archduke.”

  Next there are the page boys and flower girls, three of each, under the supervision of Rebekah and their mothers, all of whom Teresa introduced me to at the party last night. One duchess and two countesses, all on Max’s side of the family. The boys are in royal blue uniforms that match my own dress, the girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, and hooped tulle overlays filled with blue petals. Their crowns match mine. The attention to detail at this wedding is astonishing.

  When they’re all gone, piled into yet another luxury car, the vestibule echoes with the sudden silence.

  Jens turns to me. “You can tell Phoenix that her car will be at the door in two minutes and thirty seconds.”

  “Don’t we need to wait for Max and Adam to leave first? You know, so the groom doesn’t see the bride on the wedding day and all that.” Though they did have breakfast together in their apartment this morning, before all this commotion started.

  Jens doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “They’ll be leaving from the garage in one minute and fifteen seconds, so no need to worry.”

  Which means I won’t get a chance to speak to Adam before the ceremony. Not that I have any clue what I’m going to say. I keep veering between ‘I’m sorry I was a bitch last night’ and ‘You’re such a douche.’ Maybe both. Either one is better than ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  I head up the stairs and knock on the door to call Phoenix and Anton down. When the door opens, I grin. Phoenix really is the most beautiful princess I’ve ever seen. Okay, so my experience of princesses is a little limited, but she certainly looks regal. She has her hair done up in soft curls, with a few bouncy strands loose around her face and the tiara firmly in place.

  “Your carriage awaits, Cinderella.”

  The Rolls-Royce Phantom is waiting at the front door when we get downstairs. I take a peek inside and breathe in the scent of luxury.

  It takes Anton, Jens and I to get Phoenix into the back of the car without crushing her dress, though I admit I’m not much help. The royal blue bridesmaid dress is such a snug fit that if I even breathe too hard I’m going to pop a seam.

  Anton arranges Phoenix’s veil and then we’re off, waving to the crowds who’ve gathered to line the route. For a weekday in such a small country, there are a lot of people who’ve come out to watch. There are blue and white flags everywhere, and quite a few Stars and Stripes too.

  The crowds roar as we pass, and then the car sweeps into the main avenue that leads to the cathedral and there are uniformed soldiers lining the street in a guard of honor.

  “There are only eight hundred soldiers in the entire Westerwald army,” Phoenix tells me. “Every one of them must be here.”

  It’s so surreal, I can’t even be nervous. After all, this has got to be just a dream. If anyone pinches me, I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom in that trailer park in North Vegas.

  The car pulls up in front of the cathedral and a military officer steps forward to open the door for us. Anton hands us our bouquets, a small bunch of white roses for me and, for Phoenix, a simple arrangement of blue tulips mixed with myrtle for good luck. He climbs out and turns to offer me his hand to help me out, then together we help Phoenix step out, straightening her skirts and her train.

  Cameras flash and the crowd screams, but Phoenix looks as calm and confident as if she were out for a stroll in the palace garden. Her serenity calms me too.

  “Okay, let’s do this thing,” she says, looking up at the cathedral doors.

  Ten steps up from the street to the doors, Adam said. I count them, and he’s right. We make it up all ten without tripping on our heels or our hems. Phoenix pauses in the doorway to wave to the cameras, then we step inside. It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkness inside. We’re in the ante-chamber, the flower girls and page boys are all lined up and the organ is playing.

  “This is where I leave you,” Anton says, air kissing Phoenix’s cheek through her veil. “I’ll be in the cheering section.” He slides into the back of the church, moments before the music changes and the children start their procession two-by-two down the aisle.

  In the vestibule, it’s just me and the bride and a half dozen ushers who are probably protection officers in disguise. Though there are six hundred guests waiting inside that nave for us, Phoenix isn’t in any hurry.

  “When my dad was in chemo, he used to tell me how much he wished he could walk me down the aisle. Not to give me away but just to share the moment with me. He’d say, ‘Princess, you make sure the man waiting for you down the other end of that aisle is worthy of you.’ He’d have liked Max.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Your father’s right here with us.”

  This being Phoenix’s wedding, I didn’t expect the traditional Mendelssohn wedding march, but now I realize that it’s not the church organ playing. It’s a cello, and I laugh as I recognize the song. It’s Bruno Mars’ Marry You, the same song that played when she walked down the aisle to Max in that little chapel in Vegas a year ago.

  I’m sure I’m not supposed to be laughing as I make my way down the long nave, but I can’t help it. The uneven floor is patterned with the rainbow light falling through the stained glass windows, but I’m no longer afraid of tripping over my own feet. Instead, I hear the lyrics in my head as I bounce to the jaunty tune.

  When I near the front of the church, I see that Max is laughing too. He’s dressed in uniform, like Prince Charming in Cinderella. Our eyes meet and we share a smile, then his gaze moves past me and the expression on his face is the one every woman wants to see on her husband’s face when he looks at her.

  Yeah, her dad would like Max.

  I finally let myself look at the best man. He’s dressed in a morning suit, pinstripe pants, black cutaway jacket, blue-gray waistcoat and a silver-gray ascot tie. He’s all cleaned up for the day too, clean-shaven, his thick dark hair groomed back and catching a stray ray of light from one of the high windows. I’ve never believed a man in a formal suit could look so sexy, but he does.

  His gaze meets mine and holds me captive. His eyes look very green today. Maybe it’s a trick of the light falling through the stained glass. I move to stand to the left of the altar, take Phoenix’s bouquet when she hands it to me so that Max can lift her veil, then I move to sit in the pew on the left. Since Phoenix has no family, her stalls are filled with important dignitaries, but I barely register who they are. I sit when required to sit, stand when everyone else does, but the ceremony is a blur.

  I should be paying attention, making note of every detail, but I figure I’ll have to watch the replay on YouTube sometime, because it all feels like a dream. One of those enchanting, golden dreams you never want to wake from. I’m hyper-aware of Adam in the stalls across from me, aware of every move he makes, of his gaze, which keeps coming back to mine. It’s like there’s an invisible magnet pulling us toward one another. Every nerve ending in my body hums with the awareness.

  How can
he not feel it too? How can he believe we can simply be friends? This hasn’t been simple from the very beginning, from the first time I laid eyes on him in that private dining room in the hotel in Vegas. I’ve discovered that chemistry, while it may be unreliable, and a very, very bad basis for a relationship, cannot be denied.

  One more sleep.

  I don’t need a relationship with this man. But what I do need is to give in to this dark throb of desire between us. I need it so much that I don’t care if I’ll be just another notch on his bedpost. He won’t be just another notch on mine.

  One more sleep.

  I don’t care that he’s leaving tomorrow. Okay, that’s a lie. I care, but it’s not something I can change. He was always going to leave, because that’s what men do.

  Adam was never going to stick around until morning anyway.

  But that doesn’t mean we can’t have tonight. And if he isn’t going to take what he wants, I’m not going to let that stop me. I am not going to leave Westerwald with any regrets.

  The cathedral reverberates with sound as the Archbishop declares Max and Phoenix man and wife. Though the service was conducted in the local dialect, even I understand that much. The noise of the cheering crowd outside the cathedral is so loud we can hear it in here, over the applause of the assembled guests.

  Max and Phoenix kiss, a far less demure kiss than they shared on the city hall steps yesterday, then hand-in-hand they face the cathedral nave. I move to Phoenix, buss her radiant cheek with a congratulatory kiss and pass her the bouquet, then take my place behind her.

  Adam holds out his arm to me and I loop mine through his, enjoying the rush of heat between us. He looks down at me, his bright gaze searching, as if he can sense my decision, the change in me.

  I don’t walk down that aisle; I float.

  The smiling faces on either side of us merge into one long shifting pattern of color. Then we’re in the ante-chamber, and the ushers rush to open the heavy bronze doors which are green with age. Max and Phoenix step out into the sunlight, Cinderella on the arm of Prince Charming, and the crowd outside goes wild.