I’m about to ask her how she thinks I could do that when there's a knock at the door, and a footman appears. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highnesses. Princess Astrid, Prince Frederic requests your presence in the Red Salon at eleven o’clock for the initial wedding planning meeting.”
Wow. A wedding-planning meeting makes everything feel soveryreal. Which is absurd, I know. I'm here to marry the man, after all. This isn’t news to me.
I tell the footman I’ll be there by eleven o’clock, and then Francesca and I spend the next half hour chatting and sipping tea. We get on extremely well, and I tell her I'm excited she'll be my future sister-in-law.
It's then that I realize I'm almost ten minutes late for my meeting with Frederic. I say a hasty goodbye and dash from the room, scrambling down the hallway. I knock hastily before I burst through a door, only to find the King sitting at a large table with a group of five or six men in dark suits.
“Whoops. Sorry!” I call out, backing away before I remember my manners. “Your Majesty.” I bust out a quick curtsy and nearly topple over.
“Princess Astrid, are you lost?” the King asks.
There's no point lying.
“I'm looking for the Red Salon. I'm meeting Prince Frederic there.”
“Down the hall. Fourth door on the left,” he replies with a warm smile.
Well, at least I’ve won one of the male royals over.
“Thanks. Later!” I bolt down the hallway, counting the doors as I go.
When I reach the right door, I knock and hear Fred's muffled voice. “Enter.”
I step inside to find my future husband seated at a large table covered in binders. So many binders. They're all arranged in neat rows and color-coded, with label tabs sticking out.
He stands as I close the door over behind me, the clunk echoing around the vast room. He's wearing another perfectly tailored suit, showing off his enviably broad shoulders, his tie neatly in place, his hair perfectly coiffed as usual. If you looked up a20thCentury princein the dictionary, you'd find a picture of Prince Frederic.
Does this guy ever do off duty?
“Astrid. You're late.” He's not smiling. There's no warmth. And what happened to him calling me Asti?
“I'm so sorry, Fred. I was with Francesca and we lost track of time.”
He frowns. “That sounds like my sister. Well, we need to cover a lot of ground, so please, take a seat.” He gestures at a chair on the opposite side of the table. “I've had an overview of the ceremony logistics prepared for you.” He passes me the first of the folders. “If you turn to page three, you'll see the timeline. We have six weeks until the wedding date, which we can manage, provided we maintain our appropriate scheduling discipline.”
Appropriate scheduling discipline?What is this, military school?
“Right. Got it.” My eyes slide across the table. “Did you make all these binders?”
“They were my brainchild, but I had some help making them.” He smiles at the sea of organization as though it’s his children. “I do like a good binder.”
He likes binders? I mean, I can work with that. Can't I?
He gestures at each binder as he talks me through them. “This one is for ceremony logistics, this one for seating protocols, this one for press strategy. And this is the honeymoon itinerary.”
I blink at him in shock. “You've made an itinerary for our honeymoon?”
“Of course I have,” he replies, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
I wonder if he's scheduled our first kiss. I’m itching to check.
First kiss takes place at 20:00 hours on the first evening of the honeymoon during the sunset. Hand held lightly at waist. No tongue.
I press my lips together to stifle a smile. “Where are we going on our honeymoon?”
“Switzerland.”
I clap my hands together in glee. “Because of the beautiful lakes and mountains? I admit, I’ve never actually been to Switzerland, but I’m told it’s stunning.”
