70.2
Isabel moves away from me in tune with the music. "Nice try," she says laughing, as I pull her back. "At our parents' wedding?"
"If I recall correctly, the first time I made you come was at our parents' engagement party," I whisper into her ear. "You should be glad I didn't make you wear a vibrator tonight."
"You can't make me do anything," Isabel says, laughing.
"I'll bet I can make you come," I whisper, pulling her close to me again. "Let's get out of here."
"Everyone will notice," she whispers.
"We've been on national interviews," I say. "And all over the internet. I'm pretty sure that everyone already knows we’re together.”
“You’re wicked,” she says, a smile on her lips.
“No, luv,” I say, pulling her close against me as the music shifts to a slower song. “Wicked would be if I told you what exactly I was thinking of doing to you right now.”
Alex comes into view beside us, slow-dancing with Max. “Get a room, you two,” she whispers.
“That’s what I’m trying to convince her to do, but she won’t listen,” I say.
Isabel slaps me playfully on the arm. “It’s a breach of etiquette to leave,” she insists.
“There is no end to the number of etiquette rules we’ve broken, luv,” I say, laughing. “I’m with you. Alex is openly slow-dancing with her bodyguard. I think etiquette has gone out the window.”
“This family practically deserves a reality show,” she says.
“A Royal Scandal,” I suggest. “Happily Ever Afte
r with the Royal Family.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“All of my ideas right now involve you wearing considerably fewer articles of clothing.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And I’m all yours, luv.”
“Lucky me,” she says, sarcastically.
I spin her around, my hand on her back, pulling her tightly against me. “No,” I say. “Lucky us.”
“That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Isabel — One Year Later
I’m standing at the altar in Venici’s most historic and lavish church, in front of fifteen hundred people. There are throngs of people outside in the streets.
I should be practically doubled over now, crippled with panic doing this in front of everyone.
But Kev stands beside me, and I can’t keep my eyes off of him. He’s wearing full military dress, Navy blue with gold trim, saber at his side. He’s never looked more like a true royal than right now.
Classy, distinguished, mature.
He squeezes my hand, and leans over to whisper to me. “I just want you to remember that I love you,” he says.
“What did you do?” I whisper back.
“Quiet,” he says. “We’re at an important event.”
I glance to the side to see Alex, my maid of honor, smiling. Then I hear the titters of people in the crowd, white noise that ripples through the church.
I look up.
They’re laughing because Kev has done something totally unprecedented. I can’t imagine this has ever happened, in the history of royal weddings, around the world. I don’t know how many people he had to bribe to make it happen.
It’s not the priest standing in front of us right now, the one who was supposed to officiate the ceremony – the one who officially marries members of the royal family, important people.
Nope.
It’s Fake Elvis.
Fake Elvis is standing in the middle of this church, ready to marry Prince Kevin and Princess Isabella of Venici.
Wearing a white and gold jumpsuit with so much bling it rivals any of the wedding party.
I turn to Kev, my eyes wide. “You did not get fake Elvis to officiate,” I whisper in disbelief.
King Leopold is probably going to have a coronary.
I try to stifle my giggle, covering my mouth with my hand, but wind up snorting, which makes it worse. It’s terrible, and awful, and the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
And so incredibly inappropriate.
But it’s somehow just right.
Kev takes my hands, and the murmurs from the crowd begin to quiet. It’s not even time for the vows, but he speaks. “I know this is off script,” he says. “But I’d like to say my vows now, if that’s okay.”
He’s asking permission from Fake Elvis to go off-script at our wedding.
The thought sends a ripple of laughter through me again, and when I try to hold it in, my eyes water.
“I know you’re all shook up by this grand gesture,” Kev says. And I snort. Out loud.
I try to glare at him, but find it impossible to be angry.
“On a serious note,” Kev says, clearing his throat. “People have an idea about how relationships should be. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Nothing about our relationship has happened the way it’s supposed to. We got married first. And you couldn’t stand me.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say, and the crowd laughs.
“But then we fell in love,” Kev says. “And here we are, getting married for real this time. But that night in Las Vegas, when it was just the two of us – and Fake Elvis – that was the night I first fell in love with you. And as ridiculous as it might be, that’s where we began. And I never want to forget it.”
Kev pulls me forward, his lips close to mine, and now we’re really off-script, but I don’t care.
Fake Elvis says, “Well, you may kiss this hunk of –“
And I do.
Before Elvis even finishes, Kev pulls me against him and brings his lips down on mine. And when I close my eyes, it’s like kissing him again for the first time – butterflies in my stomach and the world spinning around me. Except this time, that’s not because I’ve had five shots of tequila in the back of a limo in Vegas.
This time, it’s because I’m undeniably, head-over-heels, irresistibly in love.
And I’m not the least bit nervous about showing it.
In front of God and all of these witnesses.
Including Fake Elvis.
