Yes. That’s it. She’s a fine work of art, with whom I’m to be bonded for the rest of my life.
No, that sounds even worse.
Astrid is both dangerous and unpredictable. I am not falling in love. I’m simply struggling to maintain the barrier between the Prince and the man.
It’s a battle I’m determined to win.
“Why don’t you sit, sir?” the photographer suggests.
“That’s a good idea, Fred,” Astrid agrees. “We could sit down and hold hands or something.”
Hold hands?
I can manage that.
We sit on one of the deeply uncomfortable sofas in the conservatory, and Astrid immediately angles toward me, holding out her hand. I take a breath to steal myself and take hers in mine. Her soft, warm fingers slip between my own, and a shot of something electric zings up my arm, doing something unwelcome to my belly.
I snap my hand away.
“No. This will not do. We need to be standing. All royal engagement photographs are of the couple standing. It’s tradition.” My voice is gruff as I spring to my feet like a jack-in-the-box. I stride back to the French doors where we had originally begun this excruciating photographic experience and wait for Astrid.
“If that’s what you want, sir,” Josef says as he chases after me. “Is that all right with you, ma’am?”
“Of course it is,” she says lightly, because she says everything lightly. Nothing seems to bother her. Nothing seems to faze her.
Not even my erratic, questionable, and sometimes rude behavior.
Right now, I would love nothing more than for this torture to be over so I can retreat to my study and read something to stretch my mind. Anything to take my thoughts off how beautiful Astrid is, how our proximity is making me feel things I have no intention of feeling. How her mere presence makes me fear that I might lose control.
She joins me by the doors, that permanent smile brightening her features. “You’re doing great,” she tells me, even though we both know I most certainly am not.
We pose for some more photos, both of us standing close to one another, but not too close.
“I have an idea,” Astrid says.
“What is it?”
“Why don’t we just talk to each other? I could tell you a joke or something. Who knows, I might even make you smile again.”
“I don’t know—” I begin, but she’s already started one.
“What do you call a goat that lip-syncs?” Her eyes are bright with mischief.
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“Billy Vanilli!”she declares with enthusiasm, and several of the people in the room laugh.
I narrow my gaze at her. “A Billy Vanilli? Isn’t that just a vanilla billy goat?”
“No, silly,” she says, tapping her hand lightly against my lapel. “LikeMilli Vanilli,the band that got busted for lip-syncing back in the 80s.”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“That’s right. You only listen to classical music. I forgot.” She sighs in mock despair. “Milli Vanilli were two very handsome men who danced beautifully but didn’t sing their own songs. They were exposed a few years ago on MTV. But you don’t know what MTV is, do you?”
“Of course I know what Music Television is,” I reply, using the full title of the TV station which, frankly, I’m surprised I know. “And that doesn’t sound very ethical to me.”
She sucks in air, her shoulders lifting in obvious frustration. “Should I try another joke?”
