Royal Wedding: A Princess Diaries Novel (The Princess Diaries Book 11)

by Meg Cabot

  Before I could text back that I couldn’t possibly do as he asked, I got this:

  Don’t argue. Just do it.

  Then this:

  P.S. Make sure she’s packed that bikini you wore to the beach last New Year’s. The white one.

  He added an emoji of a penguin experiencing what appeared to be a fatal myocardial infarction, since its heart was exploding from its body.

  I think this was meant to show love or possibly lust, not a marine animal suffering a brutal death, though I’m not entirely sure. Guys are so odd, especially guys who work with computers (and robots) all day, like Michael does, and also like to design their own emojis as a hobby.

  I know Michael meant his new emoji to be funny, but considering how Mr. G. died, it’s a little insensitive.

  Wait . . .

  Could this be what’s behind that strange shadow in his eyes? Simply that he’s been plotting something behind my back?

  No.

  What kind of place doesn’t have Internet access, though? Does that mean it also doesn’t have cable television? What if it really is a yoga/meditation retreat?

  God, I hope not. Michael knows I freak out if I go too long without television. It’s embarrassing to admit, but television is my drug of choice. And how will I be able to keep abreast with what’s happening on all the NCISs in Qalif?

  CHAPTER 13

  9:45 a.m., Friday, May 1

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 5

  Just dialed Michael’s cell, but he wouldn’t pick up.

  So then I phoned his office number, but his latest assistant (Michael goes through assistants the way I go through tea bags, only because he keeps promoting them, not because he’s dunked them in boiling water) said he was in a town car headed up to see me.

  “Do you want me to put you through to his cell phone, Your Highness?”

  I told the assistant that he doesn’t have to call me “Your Highness” because he’s not a Genovian citizen and we’re on U.S. soil. Then I said no, that I’d tried Michael’s cell already, thanked him, and hung up.

  • Note to self: Is it my imagination, or did Michael’s new assistant sound disappointed about the Your Highness thing? I hope he doesn’t turn out to be another one of those weirdos who fetishizes royals. I’ll have to get his full name from Michael and then have Lars look into him.

  Oh, another text:

  Are you just sitting there writing in your diary or are you actually making progress?

  Oh my God. How does he DO that?

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  Michael, this is very sweet of you, but you KNOW whatever it is you’ve got planned, I can’t go. It’s absurd. Why won’t you pick up your phone?

  Because I don’t want to get into it with you. What part of “don’t argue” did you not understand?

  I’m not arguing, I’m telling you facts. Seriously, this is a terrible time for me to leave. The country of Genovia needs me. The center needs me. My family needs me.

  I need you. We need to have a relaxing weekend away from orange-throwing Genovians and your insane family.

  There’s been a DEATH in my insane family, Michael, and another ALMOST death (if you count my dad). And what about my grandmother? I can’t leave.

  Yes, you CAN leave, and you will. Perin and Ling Su can handle the center—that’s why you hired them. And Frank died a year ago. And don’t worry about your dad, he can take care of himself. And your grandmother’s been taken care of, too.

  What? What is that supposed to mean? No one “takes care” of my grandmother. Grandmère’s like that old dowager countess on Downton Abbey (only not as nice). She takes care of herself, although occasionally she allows servants to prepare her food and drink and drive her around (thank God, since they took away her license years ago, which they should probably do to my dad).

  It’s sweet of you, Michael, whatever you have planned, but you know this is crazy. It’s because of the orange-throwing Genovians that I can’t leave. And in addition to everything else, I have that charity gala I promised to attend on Saturday night. And I can’t leave behind my laptop. Neither can you! Do I have to remind you that you own a computer-based business?

  I don’t want to think of myself as predictable (who does?) but it almost seems as if he anticipated my response, he wrote back so quickly:

  We both need to disconnect from work and the Internet. Don’t even try to tell me that you didn’t see RTR this morning. I know you check it every five minutes to make sure you’re in the top three.

  This is a scurrilous falsehood! I check Rate the Royals no more than once a day.

  But before I could protest, I received this:

  I already asked Dominique to give your regrets about the gala and she said she’d be glad to. I know how anxious you are to rebuild what you consider your family’s “tarnished reputation,” but I think throwing your support behind every charity that asks for your help (such as a society hoping to reverse the “alarming decline of butterflies and moths in urban areas”) might not be the most effective way to do it.

  He’d spoken to my publicist behind my back? How dare he?

  But again, before I could text a word in reply, I received this:

  And both your mom AND dad say they’ll be fine without you. They agree with me that you need a break after all the stress you’ve been through this past year. It’s making you physically ill.

  Lilly would rightfully have accused her brother of being both patriarchal and controlling here, talking to my parents behind my back like I’m a child . . .

  . . . though I sort of love it when he tells me what to do, especially in bed, like when we play Fireman, the game we invented where he’s the fireman and I’m the naughty resident who ignored the smoke detector and didn’t evacuate the building in a timely manner.

  Then he finds me sprawled half conscious on my bed in my sexy lingerie, and has to give me mouth-to-mouth to revive me. Only when I get revived, we realize burning timbers have fallen across our only form of egress, so he has no choice but to spend his time waiting for rescue giving me a sexy lesson in fire safety.

  Plus I ran the whole trip through the RGG and they cleared it. The youth of New York City, the women and children of Qalif, and the genetically modified oranges of Genovia will be all right without you for one weekend.

  Now grab the bag and get downstairs. Are you even dressed? The clock is ticking, Thermopolis. The jet leaves from Teterboro at eleven.

  Jet? He’s hired a private jet?

  Who does he think he is all of a sudden, Christian Grey?

  I am not okay with this. I’m not some shy virginal college student who only owns one shirt. I am a twenty-six-year-old woman fully in charge of making up my own mind about whether or not I want to go on vacation.

  I do love it when Michael calls me Thermopolis, though. Even when it’s only in writing, it does something to me, something that normally only happens when he walks into the room after I haven’t seen him in a while and hugs me, and I get a whiff of his amazing, clean, Michael smell, or when he comes out of the shower wearing only a towel and his hair is all wet and plastered down darkly to the back of his strong, newly shaved neck, and he announces he smells smoke—

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need a relaxing vacation. Especially away from my crazy family, and the consulate, and the Internet, and . . .

  Oh, crap. Might as well admit it: after all these years, I’m still disgustingly, revoltingly in love with him, exploding penguins and all. I’d even go on some kind of weird, wireless retreat with him.

  Now, that’s love.

  CHAPTER 14

  10:00 a.m., Friday, May 1

  Lobby, Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 5

  Sitting downstairs, waiting for Michael to pick me up for the wireless meditation/yoga retreat, or whatever it is.r />
  Everyone who comes in (quite a lot of people for a Friday morning in May, but they were probably put off coming yesterday by the crowd of orange-throwing protesters) is giving me the side-eye.

  I suppose they weren’t expecting to see Princess Mia Thermopolis writing in her diary in the lobby of the consulate of Genovia when they popped by to get a visa or certificate of nationality. Most of them look quite pleased . . .

  I wish I could say the same for the consulate staff. From the moment I set foot down here, I was immediately:

  • chastised by Madame Alain, the ambassador’s secretary, for entering the consulate staff kitchen (to steal tea bags, but she doesn’t know that), and

  • told to remove the four gold iPhones and dozens of other birthday cards and packages that arrived for me via the consulate’s address.

  This was only slightly embarrassing since the Royal Genovian Guard opens all my packages/mail thanks to RoyalRabbleRouser, who pledged to “destroy my world.”

  One of the packages sent to me today turned out to be a world destroyer, all right, but it was from my boyfriend’s sister (and soon-to-be ex–best friend), not my stalker. It consisted of a waterproof vibrator shaped like a dolphin with a note that said:

  I’m FLIPPING out over your birthday!

  XOXO Lilly

  When Lars handed it to me just now (back in its wrapping paper, though not very nicely; apparently they’re out of Scotch tape in the security office, so he used blue medical tape from the first-aid kit), he didn’t even bother to wipe the smirk off his face.

  “From Miss Moscovitz, Your Highness,” he said gravely, “with her best birthday wishes.”

  The thing is, she knows that Lars opens everything sent to me. So this was her way of birthday-pranking me and also titillating my bodyguard.

  Happy birthday to me again.

  He must have seen my expression since he asked, “What?” over his shoulder as he walked back to the security office (he has to pack, too, since he’s coming with me wherever Michael is taking me). “I think it’s a highly thoughtful, creative gift. Much more original than a gold iPhone, which you can’t even keep.”*

  *I’m not allowed to have Apple products—aside from my laptop—let alone post anything to the “Cloud” due to how easily they’re hacked/traced, which is why all the iPhones I’ve received today will have to be returned for store credit. But it’s all right, since the products we buy instead will be donated to Mr. Gianini’s after-school vocational program.

  But see, this kind of thing could have happened no matter where I was living (the part where the Royal Genovian Guard has to go through all my mail). Even if I moved back in with Mom and Rocky (which I’ll never do because what if the death threats turn out to be serious after all? I wouldn’t want to put their lives at risk. Also, I love my mom and my half brother, but I don’t want to move back in with them. Rocky sailed through his toddler years to turn into what’s charitably called “a challenge,” and not because his dad passed away either. He was “challenging” before that happened).

  Mom doesn’t even have a doorman (neither does Michael. His loft is in a condo building). RoyalRabbleRouser could get himself buzzed right into Mom’s building, walk up to the door of her loft, knock, and then shove a pie in her face . . . or worse. Sandra Bullock found her gun-owning stalker inside her bathroom after she stepped out of her shower, and Queen Elizabeth once woke to find hers sitting on the edge of her bed in Buckingham Palace, wanting to chat (he got in through an open window—twice—after shimmying up a drainpipe).

  • Note to self: Dominique says it’s best not to dwell on these things, or let them decide for you how to live your life, but that’s easier said than done, especially when you’re the one getting the threats about how much better off the world would be “without you in it.”

  Oh, God. Madame Alain just walked over and said, “Your Highness, do you think you could write in your diary somewhere else? You are distracting the staff.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Madame Alain,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’m going to be picked up any minute, and then I’ll be out of your hair all weekend.”

  Is it my imagination, or does she look relieved?

  “Oh, I see. All right, then.”

  I know it’s wrong since she’s a civil servant and has devoted her whole life (practically) to promoting economic development and tourism in Genovia, but I would like to have a serious talk with the ambassador about transferring Madame Alain to a different office where I wouldn’t have to see her as much. I think she’d be sublime as the headmistress of the Genovian Royal Academy.

  • Note to self: See if this can be arranged.

  I tried to get Marie Rose to tell me where Michael is taking me, but she only giggled and said, “I can’t, Princesse. I promised. But I’ll make sure to feed Fat Louie while you’re away.”

  Fat Louie! I almost forgot about him. I hope he’ll be all right. He’s getting on in years, which is why it’s easier to forget about him than it used to be, as all he does now is sleep and eat. He hasn’t eaten a sock in ages, he has no interest in them at all anymore as food, he only eats actual food.

  Oh, what am I saying? He’s so old he probably won’t even notice I’m gone.

  Don’t even ask me when Marie Rose had time to pack for me without my noticing.

  Oh, here’s a birthday text from Tina Hakim Baba:

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  Happy birthday, Mia! I hope you have a great time. I wish I were going. But that would be weird, ha ha! Plus, I have exams.

  P.S. Don’t worry about what it says on RTR. You’re #1 to me!

  Aw. She’s so sweet.

  So Tina’s in on Michael’s surprise, too? How did—

  HE’S HERE!

  CHAPTER 15

  3:00 p.m., Saturday, May 2

  Sleepy Palm Cay, The Exumas, Bahamas

  Rate the Royals Rating: Who cares?

  I will admit when Michael suggested a vacation, especially in a place with no television, Wi-Fi, or cell service, I was like “No way, how am I going to know what’s going on with NCIS work and world affairs? I’m the heir to the throne of a small principality and founder of a new nonprofit, my dad just got out of jail, I have to be in close touch with my people and family at all times. I can’t leave.”

  But then when we flew into the Exumas (which are a string of little islands off the Bahamas), and I saw the clear turquoise water stretching so far around us, and the blue sky overhead like a giant overturned robin’s-egg-blue bowl, I began having second thoughts. Maybe I can deal with this. It’s only for a couple of days, after all.

  When the limo from the airport pulled up to a marina, not the driveway to a hotel, and there was a speedboat waiting, I knew something very unusual was going on.

  Michael still wouldn’t tell me where we were going, though. “It’s a surprise,” he kept saying, waggling those thick black eyebrows, which I love so much, especially when they get messy and I have to smooth them down with my fingertips.

  Then the speedboat took us across the sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes aquamarine water to our own island, complete with a private dock leading to a thatched-roof cabana, inside of which is a king-sized bed so massive, you need a footstool to climb onto it (at least I do, anyway. Michael is tall enough not to need one).

  There are two full his-and-hers baths (with teak shutters that open from the clawed-foot tubs to a spectacular view of the sea, so while you’re soaking in there, reading a book, you can also watch the waves, like in a commercial for erectile dysfunction). There’s a dining and sitting room, decorated to look like one of those old-timey beach houses from the movies where people wore safari suits and drank gin and tonics to prevent malaria and said things like “I’m terribly worried about the volcano, Christopher.”

  And of course there’s an outdoor shower and hot tub, but you don’t need to worry about anyone spying on you using
them naked, because the whole place is surrounded by a completely private beach, and there are no other living beings for miles around, except exotic seabirds and the occasional flash of silverfish leaping from the water against the pink sunset and a pod of dolphins that live nearby and come nosing around, curious about what we’re doing.

  Dolphins. DOLPHINS.

  And then there’s Mo Mo, the personal room-service butler assigned to us by the resort, who brings us succulently prepared meals three times a day by boat, and then also restocks the minibar and cleans our snorkel masks, before leaving us completely to ourselves. He rings the bell on his boat very loudly whenever he’s approaching to let us know he’s coming so we can put on our clothes.

  Not that I don’t always have on clothes when I’m outside of the cabana, because I’m not about to pull another Me-Ah-My-Ah! and get spotted topless by a passing Google satellite or camera-equipped drone copter (though I know Lars and the rest of the security squad are stationed on the closest island with long-range sniper rifles, looking to take any of those out. This has become Lars’s favorite new hobby).

  At first when I got here, I was like “Michael, this is insane. This is way over the top. How much is this costing you? You are spending way too much money. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but at least let me split the—”

  Michael stuffed a rum-soaked piece of pineapple into my mouth and asked, “Can’t you relax for five minutes?”

  So then I concentrated very hard on relaxing, which it turns out isn’t that hard to do when the sand is so white and soft and the waves so small and mild that you can simply walk a few steps out onto the beach, lie down, and let the warm water lap gently around you while the sun and sand sweetly embrace you until you finally fall asleep (fortunately having remembered to put on SPF 100).