The Royal Wedding: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 2 Read online

  “The King marrying a future king.” Tessa laughs, then she says, “But you owe it to the people to let them share in the festivities.”

  “True.” I nod. “Plus, imagine how pissed your dad would be at me if we had the wedding without him. If he had his way, he’d have been in the balloon with us for the proposal.”

  “Good point,” she says. “How long can it possibly take to plan a royal wedding?”

  “How long can it take for a woman to have her fifth baby?”

  “That long?”

  “Almost. For a lesser man, eighteen months, but I bet I can get it done in six.”

  “Six?” Her eyes grow wide.

  “Excited or terrified?”

  “Both.” She lifts herself on her tiptoes and gives me a light kiss on the lips. “Excited to be marrying you, terrified of the wedding.”

  “Don’t be. All you have to do is make it down the aisle and I’ll be right beside you the rest of the way.” I give her a lingering kiss on the lips and feel the moment when her entire being relaxes into me. It’s the most powerful feeling, to be able to affect a woman like this. Rather intoxicating.

  Just when I’m getting extremely…umm…cocky, she pulls back. “Can we really do it in six months?”

  “If I have anything to say about it, we will.”

  She leans in and we’re back to kissing, and I’m pretty sure we’re about to break at least two of the public decency laws until we’re interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Ms. Sharpe, you’re needed elsewhere.” Ollie’s muffled voice makes its way through the steel door.

  We scramble to get ourselves looking halfway presentable then I swing the door open, expecting to see Ollie standing alone. “Thank…”

  Reuben, who’s standing next to Ollie, folds his arms across his chest. “Tea, eh?”

  I break out in a cold sweat, feeling like I did when I was eight and I got caught drawing a mustache on the painting of the late Queen Liliana. There is literally nothing I can say to fix this, is there?

  He shakes his head and turns. “The baby’s here.”

  Eugenia Rosemund Sharpe. That’s the name with which they’ve saddled the poor little doll. She’s adorable, by the way. Chubby and pink, with enormous bright blue eyes and the tiniest little fingernails I’ve ever seen.

  Evi hands her to me almost as soon as we get into the room. “Have you ever held a baby this new before?” she asks quietly.

  “No.” My heart explodes with some sort of strangely amazing happiness as I stare down at her little face. I’m terrified of dropping her, but absolutely mesmerized at the same time. Yes, I think I’d like having one of these very much. “Have you ever seen such tiny fingernails? Sorry, I just can’t get over them. They’re so…tiny.”

  I glance at Tessa for the briefest of seconds, which is about as long as I can tear my gaze from this baby. “Let’s do this. Right away.”

  Tessa gasps in shock. “We only just got engaged.”

  “So what? We’re not teenagers.”

  Eugenie opens her eyes and stares at me. I coo at her, “Your Auntie Tessa and I are going to get married in six months. Yes, we are. Yes, we are.”

  Evi makes a very quiet squealing sound and touches her new granddaughter’s cheek. “You’ve just come into the world and already you’ve inspired new love, little Eugenia Rosemund.”

  I smile. “That’s because she’s just so perfect.”

  Tessa stands next to me and runs her fingers gently over Eugenie’s head. “She certainly is.”

  Except, now that I really look, her head isn’t so much round as it is oblong in a rather alarming sort of way. Dear God, that is really pointy—like one of those Coneheads from Saturday Night Live back when I was a kid. “Is her…head okay? It’s rather pointy…”

  “What?” Nina barks. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing, it’s just…” Shit. Why the fuckity fuck did I say that out loud?

  Lars comes over and scoops the baby out of my arms, glaring at me. “It’s perfectly normal for the head to get a little squished on the way out. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  Evi deftly covers Eugenia’s conehead with a little wool hat.

  Good job, Grandmum—hide the deformity before anyone else notices.

  Three

  Stale Coffee and Wobbly Chairs

  Tessa

  It’s eight a.m. on Monday and I’m crammed into the tiny boardroom along with six other bleary-eyed staff members, all of whom want desperately to get an exclusive from me—a photo, a quote, anything—so that’s not awkward in any way. Just kidding—it’s every bit as bizarre as you’d imagine. None of them will actually come out and ask, because Hazel Nettlebottom, our editor-in-chief, told them not to, but they all look at me like they’re on the Paleo diet and I’m the last cupcake in the shop window.

  Tyler, the new intern, is the hungriest of the bunch because he’s desperate to get on the payroll. He’s the one who was at the hospital on Friday night, and was waiting outside the building this morning to catch a photo of me on my way into the office. Luckily, Xavier managed to block his view of me while I made my way from the car to the lobby door because I woke up late today so I’m not exactly ‘camera-ready.’ The nation’s biggest news channel, ABNC, has hired famous fashion critic, Nigel Wood, and based on his first two appearances on the morning news his sole purpose is to make fun of me. So far, he’s had an absolute field day with what I wore on our hot air balloon date, calling me the dullest dresser in the kingdom and posing the question of my potential colour-blindness to the world.

  Hazel sweeps into the room, her floor-length sweater vest fanning out behind her. She stands at the far end in front of a white board and goes over last week’s circulation and advertising numbers in excruciatingly careful detail. It doesn’t take me long before my mind starts to wander, as it always does during this bit. The numbers are always pretty much the same—terrible. We’re barely making enough to get by and none of the reporters on staff have managed to do what Hazel asks of us every week, which is to find the Holy Grail of journalism: ‘the big scoop.’

  I’ve got a big scoop for them. I’m leaving. I just have to figure out when. Too soon and I’m going to be labeled a gold-digger. Too late and I’m going to look like a dullard who’s too stupid to see the writing on the wall. I spent the better part of the weekend wrestling with the decision of when to quit my job and, if I’m to be really honest, I’m also troubled by the fact that I have to at all, no matter what I told Arthur at the hospital.

  I know, I know, you’re probably thinking, ‘Tessa, you’re going to be a queen one day. What the hell do you have to feel sorry for yourself about?’, and you’re not wrong. I’m one of the luckiest bitches on the planet and I do know it, I promise.

  But (there’s always a but, isn’t there?), since I was fourteen years old, the only thing I’ve only ever wanted was to be a successful journalist. I worked my tail off for four years of uni, followed by seven years of struggling to make it, suffering some serious set-backs—namely Barrett Richfield, my cheating, lying, firing boss/boyfriend—but did I give up? No. I pivoted, adjusted, and kept going in my pursuit of the truth because, if nothing else, I am dedicated to my craft.

  Oh, but I should probably be paying attention. Hazel just said the words ‘vital’ and ‘imperative’ in one sentence. But it’s just so distracting to know I have to quit. Whoops, I don’t mean quit; I mean trade it for something better. And it will be better, right? Even though I have my very own ‘hate’ club and fashion critic on the national news?

  Hmm…I wonder if Arthur can arrange some face time with Camilla for me. She’s had decades to figure out how to handle being wildly unpopular.

  “Tessa. Tessa… hello,” Hazel says in that Canadian accent of hers.

  I look up to see her smiling at me from behind her turquoise-rimmed glasses. Oh, shit. The rest of the staff are filing out and I haven’t the faintest clue as to what I’m meant to be do
ing this week.

  “Can you stop by my office after break time?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Break time passes by at record-speed and I find myself sitting on the slightly wobbly metal chair across from Hazel’s desk while she finishes up a phone call. As soon as she hangs up, she tucks her pencil behind her ear and sighs. “So, Tessa, I think we need to talk about your future here.”

  Oh, Christ, am I about to get fired? I mean, I know I need to leave but, please not this way.

  My face must say exactly what I’m thinking, because Hazel shakes her head and smiles. “No, no. I’m not letting you go, but I do think we need to repurpose you for obvious reasons.”

  Repurpose me? Like an old dresser? “Righto. I was thinking the same thing. I mean, I know I won’t exactly be able to blend in with the crowd at public events.”

  “Well, not with that big hunk of manliness following you everywhere you go.” She glances out the glass wall at Xavier, who is sitting in the hall reading More Muscles magazine. Blushing, she looks back at me and says, “I was thinking perhaps you could move to the announcements, obits, and edits desk.”

  “Okay. Sure.” Shit. That’s a giant step down in the reporting world. It also means I’ll be here until after midnight every Friday, when we go to press. I chew on my thumbnail for a second while I think about what this will mean for my personal life.

  Hazel jots something down in her day planner. “Good. That’s settled then.”

  I nod, knowing that I should bring up the fact that I need to quit soon but, somehow, I just can’t force the words to come out of my mouth. I’m just not ready to ‘trade’ this part of my life.

  Four

  The Unintended Consequences of True Love

  Arthur

  Text from me to Tessa: How’s your day going?

  Her: Up to my eyeballs in proofreading. Other than that, fine.

  Me: Come by tonight. I want to help rid you of your stress.

  Her: Mmm. Sounds intriguing. Eight, okay?

  Me: Follow the trail of Jelly Babies leading from the front door.

  I put my phone down on my desk and stare out the window, thinking about Tessa across the river in some stuffy office. I didn’t get to wake up with her in my arms this morning, or steal a kiss from her at breakfast. All we manage most days is just a few flirty texts until late evening, at which time we might see each other. But most of the time, we just increase the frequency of flirty texts followed by speaking on the phone until late into the night, ending the call with a disgustingly sweet, ‘you hang up first,’ ‘no, you hang up first.’

  I need to get the ball rolling on our nuptials so I’ll never have to wake up without her again. I glance at the next item on my itinerary. I’ve got twenty-five minutes until I’m due to leave for a luncheon for the Muscular Dystrophy Society. Should be just enough time to plan a wedding…

  “Vincent, can you pop in here for a moment?” I say into the intercom.

  “Be right there, Your Highness.”

  I take one last gulp of fresh air as the door opens and in walks my assistant, Vincent, whose smell rating today is at an all-time high of five on the ‘reeks of blue cheese’ ranking system I’ve devised. (But not to worry—I haven’t told anyone else about it. I would never want to embarrass him.) “Tessa and I had a chat over the weekend and we’d like to have a May wedding.”

  Vincent opens his iPad case and nods. “Excellent, Your Highness, a most lovely time of year for such an occasion. The tulips will be in full bloom still, the weather will be warm. We can schedule a meeting…two weeks from tomorrow with the advisory members, as well as the head of programming at ABNC to get started.” He taps on his screen for a moment.

  “I’m thinking we just choose a date now and then let everyone else catch up.”

  “But, Prince Arthur, that’s not how this is done. There are literally hundreds of stakeholders involved. The two of us can’t simply book the wedding.”

  “Why not? We set dates for important events all the time. Nobody complains.”

  “We can try, Your Highness, but we may need to be somewhat flexible once everyone’s been consulted.”

  “Fine, but only by a few days either way. The sooner, the better.”

  “Certainly. May 2019 or May 2020?”

  “May 2018.”

  He looks up, his eyebrows creasing together. “As in six months from now?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “Of course it can. We regularly book catering with fewer than three months’ notice for the largest of receptions. This is really no different when you think about it.”

  “No different? Sir, we need to invite the heads of state and royal families for over two-hundred nations, not to mention clearing the schedules of your own family two weeks prior to the auspicious occasion. There are the television networks to consider, and we certainly don’t want it to conflict with any major world sporting events. Then there’s the matter of Ms. Sharpe’s dress, as well as that of the bridal party and outfitting her entire family with appropriate attire, which should be…interesting. The top designers will require, at minimum, one year. Can’t be done, Your Highness.” Suddenly, a look of understanding crosses his face. His eyes grow wide and his mouth hangs open for a second before he catches himself. “Oh, dear, are we required to hurry for a certain reason, sir? Because, if that’s the case, I think we’ll find six months too long. She’ll be showing by then.”

  “Showing? God, no. We’re not expecting an heir.” I stand and walk to the window, then open it to allow some cool, autumn air into the room, unable to stand the smell of blue cheese any longer.

  “Then, if I may, why the rush?”

  I sigh heavily. “You must not ever tell anyone what I’m about to say, Vincent.”

  “Do you really need to preface anything you tell me with the request to keep it confidential?”

  “No, I suppose not.” I pause, wishing I didn’t have to admit it out loud. “It’s just that we miss each other very much now that we’re not under the same roof.” Gluing my eyes to the view of the front lawn, I try not to imagine the incredulous look on the face of my right-hand man.

  “Even so, there are still all the other factors to consider. No one can pull off a royal wedding in such a short time.”

  “Surely there must be someone who’s capable.”

  He sighs and taps his finger on his chin for a moment. “Well, there’s the team that oversaw William and Kate’s wedding. They’re considered the best, although they did screw up royally by missing the chance to pre-approve Pippa’s dress.”

  “Good Lord, so people could see her rather nicely-shaped bottom. You’d think she was wearing a set of pasties and a pair of Daisy Dukes. I was there, and I have to say most of the guests rather enjoyed it. The male ones, anyway.”

  A slight smile escapes his lips, giving away that he rather enjoyed that dress, too. “Yes, well, I doubt they’ll be available given your somewhat unrealistic time frame.”

  “Let’s try anyway, shall we? What’s the use of being a crown prince if you can’t even have your own wedding when you want?”

  Vincent nods and stands, closing his iPad case before he walks out the door without another word. This is a sign that he’s very displeased but he’ll do what I’ve asked anyway. I’m not going to lie—it’s good to be almost king.

  “Good morning and welcome to the morning show, Friday Edition. Our top news today comes from Valcourt Palace, where a date has been set for the upcoming nuptials of Prince Arthur to the former Royal Watchdog and so-called Shock Jogger blogger, Tessa Sharpe. Giles Bigley joins us from in front of the palace with more on this story.”

  “Veronica, good morning.”

  “Good morning, Giles. What can you tell us about the announcement from the palace?”

  “I can tell you it’s not what anyone was expecting. It seems as though his Royal Highness Prince Arthur and Ms. Sharpe may be in rather a hu
rry to make it down the aisle. They’ve set the date for May seventh of next year. Only six months from now.”

  “Giles, royal weddings normally take at least two years to plan, so why the rush?”

  “That’s what we’re all wondering. The only possible explanation is that, by Avonian law, a baby born out of wedlock cannot be considered an heir to the throne.”

  Blanching visibly, Veronica starts, “Certainly, you’re not suggesting…”

  “It’s really the only possibility that makes sense. Why else would they want to rush this event?”

  “Sir, I can get Sebastian Yates-Davenport but we have to book him now.” Vincent is standing at the door to my office, his headset in place.

  “William and Kate’s?”

  “Couldn’t get them. They’re holding out in case Harry and Megan set a date. Mr. Yates-Davenport did Prince Quinton and Princess Charlotte’s wedding, which is quite the miracle given the fact that she…”

  “Tried to run away three times?”

  “Allegedly.”

  “Hire him.

  “He’s charging double because of the time frame.”

  “Negotiate him down. Tell him I don’t have any secret baby paternity tests pending.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Five

  W.W.G.D.?

  Tessa

  I stand inside the front hall of my parents’ house, panting after my morning run with Xavier. Well, we don’t run together so much as I run and he strolls next to me, calling out encouraging phrases like, “That’s it, Ms. Sharpe. Pick up that pace. Think of all the calories you’re burning! You’ll be fit, yet!”

  So, what used to be my escape from the world has become a somewhat irritating and humbling daily experience. I wait at the door while he gives the house a once-over, which is ridiculous since my parents have been home since we left. I take out my ear-buds and see my mum rushing toward me from the kitchen with tears in her eyes. “Twinkle, why didn’t you tell me?”