“Yes.”
“June third?” I ask, my brain just now catching up with the news. “When did that happen?”
“A few minutes ago.” She gives me a wink and drops her voice. “I’ll explain later.”
“This is not possible," Mme. Truffaut says. "You will end up swaying in a circle like a couple of…how you say…nitwits."
Nitwits? She knows that word, but not the word knead?Come on.
“I must go now,” Mme. Truffaut says. “Gregory, please email me with every hour that Mr. Banks is available between now and the wedding." With that, she snaps at Mrs. Murphy, then floats out of the room, leaving me with a strong desire to have a long shower. But, first things first. I need to deal with the fact that, as of a few minutes ago, I’ll have to learn everything there is to know about being a royal husband in an impossibly short amount of time.
"How did this happen?" I ask Arabella as soon as we’re alone in her apartment. I’m mad. Like, steaming mad, to be honest. First, she sends those stupid handbooks to my family without asking, then she sets the date without talking to me first. What’s next? I’m almost scared to find out. I’m going to stay calm though. No sense in overreacting, right?
"Well, last night I was having dinner with Tessa and Nikki —"
"Right, Manbash Mondays, I know," I say, a sense of impatience taking over.
"I’ll change the name of that now that we’re together. You know, we would never bash you, right?" She reaches out and pats me on the hand in an extremely condescending way that tells me she most certainly has bashed me at one point or another—hopefully only when we broke up. But from the look on her face…
"Anyway," she says, sliding her hand away from me. "I was telling them about Dylan and the offer, and it occurred to me that the longer we drag out the pre-wedding phase, the longer you're stuck working for her. Which means that each day between us signing the contract and the wedding is a day that she wins. And we can't let her win, Will. Not this time. I—I mean,youneed to win this time around."
I stare at her for a moment, slightly shocked at what I'm hearing. My lovely, generous, ultra-compassionate princess has a crazed look in her eyes as she talks about winning. "But… how did you even get anyone to agree to it?"
"Simple, really. I realized if we announce the date publicly, the network won’t be able to do anything about it. So, I got Arthur to tweet it.” She stands and starts walking over to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Would you like some tea? I'm going to make myself a cup."
“No, thank you. I'm actually still full from lunch," I say, following her. I actually would like some tea, but I’m too angry to admit it.
She busies herself with the kettle and I can't help but get the feeling she's trying to avoid eye contact with me. "Just think—this next trip of yours will bethe last oneon her terms. After this, you can go anywhere, work for anyone, or no one. You could be your own boss if you want. And we can start house hunting, start planning our future…" She grins over her shoulder at me, then her smile fades. "What's wrong? You don't look happy. I thought you would be happy."
"You really should have asked me. From my end of things, this is all pretty overwhelming." I rub the back of my neck with one hand to release the tension. "There isso muchto learn and, to be honest, I’m not really good at any of it. Like none of it. Not even the damn spoons. I mean, doesanyonereally know the difference between a bouillon spoon and a cream soup spoon?”
“Oh, that’s easy. The bouillon spoon has the more shallow bowl because it’s for—”
I hold up one hand, stopping her mid-sentence. “It’snoteasy for me.”
“Well, I’m happy to tutor you, darling. My nanny had a fun little rhyme about spoons. Let me see if I can remember it.”
Sighing, I say, “It’s not about the spoons. It’s about us deciding things togetherandme not wanting to make a fool of myself at our wedding in front of the entire planet!” I’m almost yelling now. I need to rein it in. “Is there any way we can move it back a few months?"
“No! We can’t. It’s too late. It’s already been announced.” She starts blinking quickly, then the kettle whistles and she turns away from me.
Oh great, she’s upset.
But you know who else is upset?ME!
I’ve had to put up witha lotso far, and there’s more coming. I take a deep breath and summon all the patience I possess (and it’s not much at the moment). “Try to see it from my side. I’m doing my best to get ready so I won’t humiliate you, but you could help me out here by at least giving me time to prepare.”
She turns to me and says, "You could never embarrass me.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I tell her. “I’m already Sir Knight of the No Shirt, which is going over like a lead balloon among your crowd.”
“And that’s precisely why we need to get you away from Dylan as swiftly as possible.” Opening the cupboard, she takes out a box of chocolate digestive biscuits. “Are you sure you wouldn't at least like a digestive?"
“No thanks,” I say, my gut churning with the knowledge that there’s no possible way I’ll be ready in time.
“Look, I completely understand that you’re worried, but honestly, you’ll be fine. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?”
“That only works if a billion people aren’t watching you fake it,” I grumble.
