“Will, this sounds serious,” Emma teases. “I’ve never heard you like this before. ‘What gifts should I bring? What belt should I wear?’ You might just love this woman.”
“That’s the problem. Anything from Libby yet?”
“Yes, she wrote back with three options: Brio’s My First Railway, Fisher-Price Bounce and Spin Puppy, or a Radio Flyer 3-in-1 wagon with canopy. Whatever you do, don’t get anything that plays Baby Shark. They’ll hate you forever.”
“No Baby Shark,” I mutter as I flip the paper over and write that down.
Emma starts humming the tune, then says, “Oh for…! Now I’ve got it in my head. It’ll be there for days. Thanks a lot, Libby.”
Pierce laughs and sings, “Mommy shark! Do-do-do-do-do-do…”
“Pierce! That is not funny!”
“Okay, thank you guys so much. I better run if I’m going to make it to the fancy liquor store, the clothes shop, and the toy store. Crap. I forgot I should pick up something for the Princess Dowager as well. What do you get a woman in her eighties?”
“That one I know—she’s a big gin drinker,” Pierce says. “Grab a bottle of Spring Gin Gentlemen’s Cut if you can or Ferdinand’s, but only if they have Goldcap.”
“I should probably have started this yesterday,” I say.
“No,” Emma says. “A few weeks ago is more like it.”
“Thanks for that very helpful bit of hindsight,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Text us to let us know how it goes.”
“I probably won’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your help.”
* * *
“How long until you’re here?” Arabella asks.
“I’m just crossing the bridge now. I can see your family’s shack from here.” I shift into low gear, wishing I had rented a Jaguar. As reliable as this Volkswagen is, it’s not exactly going to fit in parked in front of a palace.
“Excellent,” she says, sounding as excited as I feel nervous. “I’ll head to the front entrance and meet you there.”
“Can’t wait.” Well, that’s not strictly true. I’m not sure any man throughout history has ever been giddy with anticipation when he’s about to meet his future in-laws. (Well, hopefully they’ll be my in-laws. And in my case, multiply the feelings of dread tenfold because I’m sure there’s no way any of them will approve of me. I’m not exactly what most fathers would want for their daughters, let alone a king.
Well-educated? No.
But, he must have a stable job, at least? Oh wait, no, he doesn’t.
Surely he has a nice home that they can share? Nope. Tiny two-room villa in the staff quarters at his family’s resort.
Oh, but if they own a resort, he must come from money, no?
Nope. They barely get by.
My gut tightens as the looming four-storey stone palace grows nearer. The sun has set already and the grounds are lit up in a way that some would likely find inviting, but to me, it all looks rather shadowy and sinister. If we could have met underanyother circumstances, I’m sure it would’ve been better than the situation I’m about to walk into—watching the first episode of our reality TV show together. I’m sure Dylan included any and all disparaging remarks I made about Arabella that first day, likely on repeat before and after every commercial break. Urgh.
They’re going to hate me, aren’t they? I’d hate me if I showed up to date my daughter. Oh, that sounded wrong. Dammit. I hope I don’t say anything that stupid in front of them.Baby shark! Do-do-do-do-do-do…
Bloody hell, that song really does get stuck in your head.
When I reach the tall wrought iron gates, I’m stopped by a man in full dress uniform who steps out of the guardhouse and holds up one gloved hand, palm out, facing me. I roll down the window and smile, wondering if he’ll recognize me. “Good evening.”
“Name.”
Apparently not. “William Banks. I’m a guest of Princess Arabella.”
