“I think I can make it.” I lean my head on his shoulder while we slowly walk toward the private residence wing of our home, Valcourt Palace.
He lets go of me for as long as it takes him to pluck a Ming dynasty vase out of a niche in the wall. “Just in case.”
“Oh no, Arthur, I could never vomit into a priceless vase.”
He shrugs. “You’re my princess. Nothing’s too good for your vomit. Besides, it can be much more easily washed than my tux.” He’s referring to three days ago, when I ruined his navel uniform just as we were on our way to the academy for the graduation ceremony.
I cringe at the memory of it, and my stomach churns a little more. “You should go back to the dinner. I’ll be fine.”
“And yet, I’m still going to walk you to our room, help you get undressed, and get you into bed,” he says. “But not in the fun way.”
“The fun way was what ended with me vomiting on the King of Belgium.”
Arthur stifles a laugh. “I know I shouldn’t find it funny, but my God, the look on his face was absolute perfection. I assume he was going on about how to properly clean a duck.”
“He kept talking about the entrails.” I say, then burp at the memory.
We cross the Grande Hall, then make our way to the lift. When the doors slide open, I hesitate slightly, realizing the stairs might be a safer option.
“Don’t even think about the stairs. There’s no way you should walk up three flights in your condition. Besides, we’ve got the vase with us.” He ushers me onto the lift, then hits the button.
Ollie stays in the hall, looking horrified, and says, “Right, then. I’ll just meet you up there.”
When the doors open twelve seconds later, Ollie is waiting. Arthur holds the vase—which is no longer in mint condition—at arm’s length. Ollie jumps out of the way and makes a small gagging sound.
I wobble a little as I look up at Arthur. “Sorry.”
Arthur looks a little green himself but nods bravely. “No need to apologize. I’m the one who got you into this mess in the first place.”
“Yes, that’s right. You should really be apologizing to me.”
We make our way to our apartment, and within five minutes Arthur has me tucked safely in bed in my Sponge Bob pajamas, which I know are not exactly befitting a future queen, I but still can’t seem to bring myself to give them up.
Arthur tucks a cleaning bucket beside me on the bed. Since the ‘morning-noon-and-night sickness’ hit, I’ve developed a strange attachment to ‘Buckety,’ bringing him everywhere with me (except, of course, tonight’s celebration). I stroke the bucket gratefully while Dexter, our pot-bellied pig, stands next to Arthur, staring at me with sad eyes. Pigs are smart, and this one seems to realize I’m really not feeling well. He’s been following me wherever I go, which is a real shift, as he used to be Arthur’s pig through and through. It’s very sweet, except he does smell, like, well, a pig, which isn’t always helpful in me keeping the contents of my stomachin my stomach.
I look up at Arthur. He’s so handsome in his black tie and crown. How is this man my husband? I’m a failed reporter-turned-blogger, and yet here I am, in the bed of the heir apparent.
“I guess the cat will be out of the bag now that I’ve done it in public.”
We’ve been trying to keep the pregnancy a secret until I hit the second trimester, but it seems as though that ship has now sailed. In true Tessa fashion, I’ve gone and humiliated myself publicly, yet again.
“I can just imagine what your father will have to say, not to mention that awful Dylan.”
Dylan Sinclair is a media consultant the King hired shortly after Arthur and I had a little mishap on the beach in Maui on our honeymoon when we traveled to what we thought was the most secluded beach on the island so I could sunbathe topless. It was a ‘we’re wild, young, free, and on our honeymoon’ thing. But apparently, that type of freedom is not for members of the royal family because it turns out we weren’t as alone as we thought, so now the entire world has seen my tatas. Not exactly kosher for the consort to the future king.
Anyway, Dylan has quickly become the bane of my existence. She likes to hold weekly meetings with me to discuss my popularity—or lack thereof, more accurately—using her talents as a Google analytics wizard combined with her knowledge of marketing to basically destroy my ego on every Monday afternoon. So, that's a lovely way to start my week, don't you think?
The senior advisers all seem to think she’s a PR genius, which quite honestly is irritating beyond belief, since all she does is boost the king’s already sizable ego and find new ways to make sure I know I’m a total failure. Dylan keeps a “Days Without Incident” counter on the whiteboard in her office, which is utterly humiliating. Arthur’s questioned her about it, and she insists it’s to measure the movements of all palace staff and the entire royal family, but we both know it’s really about me.
I sigh and stare up at him. “I made it to sixty-eight days today. My longest stretch yet.”
“By my account, it’s really ninety-four days. It’s completely unfair to count tripping over a dog.”
Ah, yes, on a trip to London this past winter, I tripped on one of the Queen of England’s beloved corgis and broke his short little leg, which made me ever so popular with dog lovers everywhere. And British people, for that matter.
My gut tenses at the memory. “He honestly came out of nowhere.”
“Could’ve happened to anyone, really,” Arthur says.
