Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“I mean, what’s this afternoon?”
He takes a step back, worry beginning to cloud his features.
“Well . . . I invited you home for Christmas, to my parents’ castle.” He laughs anxiously. “To introduce you to them. I thought it was obvious. When you agreed, I . . . I thought you understood.”
He says each word with emphasis, as if they hold a deeper meaning that I’m supposed to comprehend.
But it’s a strange thing to have seen the romantic history of your boyfriend play out in living color, on television and in the gossip magazines. Thomas isn’t a full-on playboy, but he’s dated—a lot. He’s had relationships with starlets and singers and all types of stunning women.
To protect myself, I’ve tried very hard not to expect or anticipate—not to hope or dream. To take him at his literal word, to take each day as it comes and cherish our time together, however long it lasts.
“Yes, it’s a big step. I do understand.”
Thomas gazes down into my face.
“You really don’t have any idea, do you?”
“Don’t have any idea about what?”
“Shit.”
He begins pacing and rubbing his forehead.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Ah . . . nothing, really. I’m just a hell of a lot more nervous than I was ten seconds ago.”
“Why would you be nervous?”
He stops pacing in front of me.
And slowly sinks down onto one knee—stealing my breath away as deftly as he’s stolen my heart.
“Because I want to ask you to marry me . . . and I’m suddenly very worried that I’ll muck it up.”
He’s adorable. Perfectly, utterly adorable—with his dark, unruly hair, and his beautiful bare chest and rumpled navy pajamas.
“You won’t,” I tell him softy.
“You’re sure?”
“Completely sure.”
“I have a ring!” Thomas points at the door. “It’s in my room.”
“I don’t need a ring.”
“It’s an exquisite ring, Lis.”
“Give it to me this afternoon. Right now, just . . . tell me what you want to say.”
Thomas Pembrook, the Crown Prince of Wessco and the love of my life, takes my hand and gazes up at me—his eyes earnest and his smile true.
“I want to share my days and nights with you, Calista—all of them. I feel selfish asking, because there are aspects of my life that will be difficult. But I will do everything I can to make you the happiest woman on earth, because you make me the happiest man. Every day.”
My heart pounds and my head goes light.
“When we’re done with school, I want us to travel. I want us to see the world together; we have the time to do that. And I want us to have babies—beautiful rowdy children who we’ll raise with joy and patience, and who will grow up to do amazing things. And eventually, one day, I want you to . . . watch over the country with me, beside me. I want us to grow old together, loving each other madly the whole time. Will you marry me? Will you be my wife and my queen and my love?”
Tears fall like raindrops on my cheeks as I laugh and nod—because I can’t tell him fast enough.
“Yes, yes, Thomas. I love you and I will marry you. Yes, to all of it.”
And then he’s sweeping me up into his arms and spinning us around and around, bathed in the morning sunlight shining in from the window, as we kiss slow and deep.
It’s a perfect moment. A most precious memory.
There will be other cherished memories made in the years ahead. When we tell Thomas’s parents a grandchild is on the way, the sounds of our boys’ excitement at discovering presents under the tree, singing carols as a family around the piano as I play . . .
But that one was especially lovely, because it was the first.
Our very first Christmas at the castle.
(13 years before Royally Screwed)
“At ten years old, I was still hopeful and optimistic. Still young . . . and tragically innocent.”
~Prince Henry, Royally Matched
Nicholas
IT BEGAN AS A PERFECTLY ordinary day. The days that alter our lives always start that way—without a hint of warning. I had rowing team practice, morning classes, studying, lunch . . .
A quarter of an hour into my midday class, the black phone on the wall rings. Professor Dickenson takes the call, places it back on the hook, and turns to me.
“The headmaster wants to see you, Pembrook.”
I gather my books and leave, walking across the quad with two security guards following at a distance. They usually maintain a perimeter around the campus, but sometimes, for reasons no one tells me, security tightens—and today appears to be one of those days.
Headmaster is waiting for me in the open doorway of his office when I arrive. He guides me inside, closes the door, and takes a seat behind his desk while I take the chair in front of it.