“I’m not interested,” she told him with a firm nod.
She’d been hit on too many times to count since coming to the surface. She found a firm refusal was usually the most effective way to handle the situation.
“As absolutely breathtaking as you are, Iris,” the man said, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that reminded her a bit of Henry, just less judgmental, “you’re not my type.”
“Who are you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him, not ready to let go of her aggressive outward demeanor until she knew she was safe. “My boyfriend is on his way home,” she added, remembering one of Monty’s podcasts saying men respected you more as a possession of other men than as an individual.
“He is not,” the man said. “He is at his office with his campaign managers and about half a dozen PR interns, everyone giving him a spit-shine so bright that even the terrible lighting at the debate could catch.”
So he not only knew her but also knew Finn and Henry.
“Did Henry send you?”
“Interesting you would ask that instead of Finn. But no. Your mother sent me.”
“My mother? But you’re not merfolk.”
“Alas, the queen has many connections to all sorts of people. Both human and paranormals alike.”
That was fair. Iris attended many meetings in her life, but there were others that she and her sisters had been locked out of that were held away from the palace. While Iris had always assumed those meetings involved other sea creatures, it did make sense that the queen would need to meet on land with other high-ranking officials as well.
“I would say Her Majesty sends her warm regards, but …”
“But she probably sent you with a stern warning about my behavior.”
“Precisely. But she also sent me with all this money for you,” he said, pulling an envelope out of his breast pocket and handing it to her. “So you can’t be too mad. You can use it to buy more …” he scanned the room “… teeth?”
The jar sat dead center on the kitchen island, catching the morning light like some morbid shrine. Nearby, one of her partially completed bug boards leaned against the wall, a dead, leggy spider pinned at a slightly crooked angle.
She should probably clean up.
Or at least move the jaw spreader from the bathroom sink.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Arden Laurent. Lower demon. Connoisseur of love. Planner of soul-binding contracts.” At her blank look, Arden shot her a wicked smirk. “I’m your wedding planner, love.”
“Oh! Okay. I mean, since you talked to my mother, I’m assuming you know this match is, uh …”
“As romantic as political red tape can be,” he supplied. “No worries. The love interests don’t have to like each other at first. That’s what banter is for.”
As he said that, Arden pulled a heart-shaped notebook out of his pocket. Then he pulled the heart-printed pen out of the spiral binding, popped it, and got ready to write.
“So, you’re a summer.”
“A summer what?”
“Season. Your coloring. Your fiancé seems more like an autumn to me. But, let’s face it, it’s your beauty we want to accentuate on your wedding day. Do you have any preferences on gown styles? Because with a body like that, you could wear last week’s headlines and still be the talk of the town.”
“I don’t really know much about dress styles,” Iris admitted. “I’m new to the surface,” she added.
“Dress shopping is … scheduled,” he said as his pen raced across the page.
“Out of curiosity, how loyal are you to my mother?” Iris asked, hating the idea of Arden putting a ton of work into her wedding, only to find it canceled.
“I am bound to the royal family to plan all their weddings for the next fifty years. But if you’re asking if I’m going to tell the good queen that her darling daughter isn’t a starry-eyed virgin in her white gown, your secret is safe with me. I like the love story. But I’m here for the money.”
“Do you still get paid if the wedding gets, you know, canceled?”
