by Meg Cabot
When I woke up the tide was coming in, so the waves were a bit stronger and the beach had gotten a little smaller and Michael was leaning over me without his shirt on asking if I liked it (and also if I wanted to reapply my sunscreen), and I said sleepily, “Okay, Michael, I guess I can do this . . . just for the weekend.”
And he laughed and said, “I thought so,” and kissed me.
Then he asked if I thought I smelled smoke . . .
CHAPTER 16
7:00 p.m., Saturday, May 2
Sleepy Palm Cay, The Exumas, Bahamas
Rate the Royals Rating: Don’t know/don’t care
It is amazing here. We are doing nothing. Nothing except kissing and eating and sleeping in the sun and playing Fireman and snorkeling (which is quite easy to do once you get the hang of it) and looking at birds and dolphins through the binoculars.
Although you don’t even need the binoculars, that’s how close the dolphins swim up.
I’m so relaxed, my eye has even stopped twitching. It could be because of the massive doses of magnesium I’ve been taking, or it could be because of leaving all that stress behind . . . or it could be because of love.
I’m voting for love.
But the most amazing thing is the sight I’m looking at right now, and I don’t need the binoculars to see it either: Michael wearing nothing but board shorts as he lies in the hammock across from mine, reading a book on microprocessing (I do hope the micros and the processors end up happily ever after at the end).
I know how lucky I am, so I shouldn’t brag, and of course beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but was there ever such a stunning piece of masculinity in all of history? I don’t think so. I happen to like dark-haired men (we won’t talk about that brief unhappy period in my past when I was attracted to a fair-haired boy since thankfully I soon came to my senses), the darker the better.
And while I know some girls who like guys without hair on their limbs and bodies, I frankly find that very odd. Fortunately Michael has quite a lot. If he ever started waxing it (like Boris, who, the less said about him, the better), I think we would have to have a serious talk.
But the best thing about him isn’t his looks; it’s that he is someone around whom I can be totally myself. When I’m with Michael, I don’t ever have to worry about saying the wrong thing, because to him, everything I say is funny or interesting.
And no matter what I have on (or don’t have on), he thinks I look beautiful. I know because we’ve been together for so long, he can’t be faking it when I worry that I don’t have any makeup on and he goes, “You actually look better without makeup on.” (I don’t, without mascara I look like a lashless marsupial left too long in an experimental government lab, but amazingly, even in my lashless marsupial state, he’s still quite interested in pursuing carnal relations with me.)
Plus, when we snuggle our bodies fit together perfectly, almost as if they were made for each other.
And he never complains when Fat Louie climbs up onto the bed and snuggles with us, even though Fat Louie has gotten quite smelly in his old age, having completely given up bathing (I have to dip him in the bathtub every once in a while or he’d simply never get clean).
Fat Louie, I mean. Not Michael. Michael takes two to three showers a day, depending on whether or not he’s done yoga.
Fortunately we no longer have to deal with Michael’s dog, Pavlov, climbing into the bed at Michael’s place anymore, since Pavlov passed away in his sleep after a long and happy life. Dogs generally don’t live as long as cats, except Grandmère’s miniature poodle, Rommel, whom she will never allow to die. Rommel’s gotten a little dotty in his old age, but because Grandmère never got him fixed, he still has a very active sex drive.
This means in recent months he’s been caught attempting to make somewhat aggressive love to: an ottoman; an umbrella stand; other dogs of all breeds (and sexes); Dominique; my father; Michael; me; Lilly; Grandmère; the mayor of New York City; Clint Eastwood (in town for a movie premiere); an $84,000 Persian carpet; sofas of too large a number to name; numerous women’s purses; multiple room-service waiters; and almost all the bellmen at the Plaza Hotel.
I told Grandmère that we should write a book—What Rommel Humped—and donate the profits to the ASPCA. I’m positive it would make a fortune.
She didn’t find the idea very funny, though. Nor did she like it when I suggested that she should get Rommel fixed. She said, “I suppose when I get old and am still interested in sex, you’ll have me fixed. Remind me not to appoint you my health-care proxy, Amelia.”
Oh, dear. Michael just asked what I’m writing about. I couldn’t tell him the truth, of course.
So I told him I’m writing about how much I love him. It’s sort of true . . . it’s how I got started on this topic, anyway.
He put down his book and looked at me with those big brown eyes of his (such beautiful long lashes! Totally wasted on a man. If only I had them, I’d never need mascara again) and said, “I love you, too.”
So serious! He didn’t even smile.
Never sure what I’m supposed to do when he looks at me so seriously and says “I love you” like that. I know he does—his love is like this beautiful sea around us, warm and dependable and tranquil and calm, a place where dolphins can safely frolic and play.
But even here, on vacation, I’m seeing shadows in those lovely brown depths . . . and I’m getting the feeling that there’s rough weather ahead, with dark, deep waters, where you can’t see the bottom.
If I could have any wish, it would be that we could just stay here forever under this crystal-blue sky, in these nice warm shallow waves, and never have to face the harsh realities I suspect lie ahead.
But I suppose everyone who comes here wishes for that. Who wishes for storm clouds and wind-tossed seas? Only idiots.
Oh, here comes Mo Mo on the boat, with dinner.
CHAPTER 17
1:00 a.m., Sunday, May 3
Sleepy Palm Cay, The Exumas, Bahamas
Rate the Royals Rating: Whatever
Must write this quickly because I don’t want Michael to wake up and discover me out of bed writing in my diary in the bathroom like a lunatic.
But I found out what the shadows in his eyes are all about, and why he’s been looking so serious lately. I knew there was something. And it isn’t because he’s passing another kidney stone, been cheating on me with a music blogger, or that he wants to break up so he can have a normal life.
It’s the complete opposite of all those things.
I started getting suspicious this evening when Mo Mo brought a helper with him—he’d never done that before when setting up for any meals. The helper was a professional chef named Gretel.
Mo Mo set up a little table for two in the sand, looking out toward the sunset, with a white tablecloth and two rattan armchairs. Then he sank a couple of tiki torches into the sand and lit them.
Meanwhile, Gretel was setting the table and laying out all the food, which I couldn’t help noticing included several things that have lately become my favorites, such as grilled shrimp in pasta with mozzarella, jumbo lump crab cakes, and tuna tataki.
Also, Michael had actually gotten dressed—and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just for Gretel’s sake, because he’d changed out of his board shorts into real pants—long khakis—and a white button-down shirt.
I also spied a bottle of champagne sitting on ice in a silver cooler.
I didn’t want to think anything was going on other than a nice Saturday-night dinner, despite what the press (and Tina Hakim Baba) has been saying for AGES. I love romance novels, too, but as I keep telling Tina, in real life things don’t always work out that way.
But suddenly it seemed possible Tina could be right for once. She’s been asking me some odd questions lately, though I thought they were related to her breakup with Boris, or her love of The Bachelor.
“Which do you think is more romantic,” Tina asked me not even a week ago, “finding an eng
agement ring in a conch shell or a champagne glass?”
“Neither,” I had replied. “Both are better than a big public proposal, like on a Jumbotron, which you know is the worst, because what if the person being proposed to wants to say no? She’d feel terrible.”
“I know, but if you had to pick one.”
“A champagne glass, I guess. Sticking a ring in a conch shell would probably kill the conch if there were one alive in the shell.”
“True,” Tina said.
“Which did The Bachelor do?” I asked her.
“Oh,” she said. “Uh, conch shell.”
“Typical,” I said.
So when I suddenly saw Michael had put on a shirt, I thought, What if it isn’t because he simply feels like dressing up for dinner? What if he’s going to propose?
Of course there was that ever-present voice of self-doubt in my head (that probably all those people who see me in magazines would never believe exists, because of the way I project myself publicly) that whispered: Don’t be an idiot. He’s not going to propose. He’s going to announce the news that he can’t take it anymore, and break up with you!
But as Mr. Spock would say on Star Trek, that’s not logical. No one brings a woman all the way to the Exumas to break up with her. So I quickly squashed that voice.
My next, more rational thought was Or what if he has a ring in his pocket?
I decided Paolo was right: I do need to enjoy my diamond shoes. Not only enjoy them, but start dancing in them.
So I ran inside and showered and put on the nice sundress that Marie Rose had, thankfully, packed for me. Then I added some mascara and came rushing back out, my hair nicely combed (since, whether I was getting broken up with or proposed to, I didn’t want it to be while I was wearing a swimsuit, my oldest Havaianas, and Michael’s own New York Yankees T-shirt with the holes under the sleeve, with my hair in a ratty knot on top of my head).
But even though I’d been very quick, by my estimation, Mo Mo and Gretel and the boat were long gone, and there was only Michael standing there . . .
. . . at the end of a path of pink rose petals someone had scattered from the porch of the cabana, where I was, to the little table, where Michael stood, holding a glass of champagne for me.
“Thirsty?” he asked. Behind him, the tiki torches were flaming merrily away.
Okay. I was probably not getting broken up with.
“Um,” I said. “Sure.” I followed the trail of roses through the sand to where he was standing and took the champagne glass from him. “Thanks.”
He smiled and clinked my glass with his and said, “Cheers,” and all of my insides (and some of my outsides) seemed to melt because I saw that the playfulness in his smile reached his eyes, and though the darkness there might have been as deep as the ocean beyond the reef—which was quite serious, because Mo Mo had warned us there were sharks there—he was finally welcoming me to dive in. In fact, he was grinning ear to ear.
“Okay,” I said, lowering my glass. “What is going on?”
“What do you mean?” He lowered his glass, too. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Something is definitely going on. There are rose petals scattered on the beach and you’re smiling in a weird way.”
“I’m merely enjoying a romantic meal with the woman I love. Is that so wrong?” He pulled a chair out for me, the one that had the best view of the sea and the sunset, which had turned the sky a dramatic pink and periwinkle blue.
“It’s weird,” I said, taking the seat. “I love you, but you’re acting very weird. You have a weird look in your eye. You’ve had it for a few weeks now. Don’t try to deny it. I thought you were having another kidney stone.”
Michael handed me a napkin. “It’s a tragedy when a man can’t enjoy dinner with the woman he loves without being castigated by her as weird.”
“I didn’t say you’re weird, I said you’re acting weird.”
“You also said you thought I was having a kidney stone.”
“Well,” I said, “you know how you get.”
“Apparently I do not, since I thought I was behaving in a perfectly normal manner.”
“No, you are clearly hiding something from me.”
“I can assure it’s not a kidney stone.”
“Well, then, what—?”
That’s when something hard struck my lip—something that had been inside the champagne glass. At first I thought it was a strawberry—everyone loves cutting up strawberries and sticking them on the side of champagne glasses, which is simply annoying, as it takes up a lot of room where delicious champagne could be.
But then, when I looked inside my glass, I saw that what was in it was not a strawberry, but something that glittered like metal. And stone. A large, glittering white stone on a platinum band.
My heart stopped, and not from a myocardial infarction.
There was no sound (since my heart was not beating) except the sound of the waves gently lapping up against the white shore and the occasional call of a far-off bird. We were the only human beings for miles around (I’m not including Lars and whoever else from the RGG security detail was stationed on the next island over, scanning the area for incoming boats and spy drones).
It was only Michael, me, and the birds (and dolphins and millions of fish a few feet away).
I looked from the ring up at Michael.
“What is this?” I asked him, raising the glass.
“I think it should be pretty obvious,” he said. “It’s an engagement ring. I thought you’d like it because the diamond’s laboratory-grown. I know we said we weren’t going to get married, but I’m tired of never seeing you anymore, and this seems like the most practical solution to the problem.”
Then, before I knew what was happening, he’d dropped to one knee beside me in the sand, put his hands over mine, and looked up into my face.
“I can take the ring back and get a natural diamond if you want,” he said, “but I thought you’d like this one since it’s conflict-free.”
I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Had there ever been a more down-to-earth, more Michael Moscovitzy proposal in history?
“No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
“You’ve barely looked at it. Here, try it on, at least.” He took the glass from me, tossed the remains of my champagne into the sand, then fished the ring from the bottom. “I hope I got the right size. You never wear rings. Tina helped me guess—”
“Tina?” The ring slid neatly onto the third finger of my left hand, where the large colorless diamond caught the rays of the setting sun and flamed like the fire at the end of one of the nearby tiki torches. “Tina knew?”
“Of course she knew. Well, some of it.”
This explained everything. I can’t believe poor Tina kept herself from breathing a word of it to me.
“Do you like it?” Michael asked again. He actually looked a little anxious, but also excited, like a kid at Christmas. Or Hanukkah, to be exact.
“I love it.”
I lowered my head to kiss him, because obviously when a man has gotten down on one knee in the sand to propose to you with a lab-engineered diamond, the natural thing to do is wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him, quite deeply, and for a long time, as the ocean waves lap gently around you.
“But, Michael,” I said a little while later, after catching my breath, “I thought we were going to wait to get married until—”
He’d had his arms around my waist, and his head was resting quite comfortably against my chest, in a sort of dreamy way. But when I said the thing about how I thought we were going to wait, his head jerked up.
“I’m sorry, Mia, but I’m tired of waiting,” he said, in a decidedly unromantic manner. “We can’t even live together, thanks to those vultures in the press. Think about it, because I have, a lot. What if something were to happen to you? I wouldn’t be the first person they’d notify. I doubt anyone would remember to notify me at all. I wouldn’t even be allowed i
nto your hospital room—”
“Oh, Michael, how can you say that? It isn’t true.” I ran my fingers through his thick dark hair, still slightly damp from his shower and giving off that irresistibly fresh, clean scent of his. “First of all, nothing’s going to happen to me—”
His gaze was filled once again with dark hurricane clouds, and I realized this was what had been troubling him all along. “How can you say that after what happened to your stepfather?”
“Michael, we all loved Frank, but you know he was terrible about following up on his medical care. Nothing like that could ever happen to me, because I’m very proactive about my health.”
“Fine, but what about those protesters? Or your stalker? Next time it might not be only an orange that gets thrown in your direction.”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “But that’s why I have the Royal Genovian Guard. There’s nothing Lars would love more than to take a bullet for me—”
“I want to take a bullet for you,” Michael said, his hands curling into fists in my lap.
“Michael, that’s the last thing I want.”
“I don’t understand why you’re arguing with me about this. Do you not want to marry me?”
“Of course not! I mean, yes. Yes, of course I do, but—”
“But what?”
“But I don’t want you to ask me because you feel like you have to, or because you want to take a bullet for me, or because you feel pressured to do it—”
“Mia, I’m a grown man. No one can pressure me into doing anything I don’t want to do.” He looked quite fierce as he said this, his dark eyes flashing. There wasn’t a hint of shadow in them anymore. They were very clear. “I want to marry you because I love you, and I want to spend as much time as I have left on this earth with you. And the most practical way for me to do that is by marrying you. Now, do you want to marry me, or not?”
I slipped both my hands into his. “Yes, Michael Moscovitz, of course I want to marry you, more than anything. But—”
