by Grey, R. S.
I don’t delve deeper into that thought.
Friday afternoon, there’s an hour between the end of my shift as His Royal Highness and the start of parade rehearsals. After the last family leaves the great hall, I start to leave, planning to head to my office, then Whitney calls out to me.
“Do you have to work before rehearsals?”
I pause. Curious.
Her smile is self-conscious. She nibbles on her lip. “Because if not, we could go get a bite to eat?”
I hesitate before replying. I should hunker down somewhere with my laptop and take a pickaxe to the mountain of unread emails in my inbox, but there’s no way I’ll turn her down.
“As friends,” she clarifies, as if that’s my issue. Then she walks toward me and pokes me in the stomach. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Starved.”
“All right, c’mon. I know a place.”
We agree to meet in the Underground after we’ve changed out of our costumes. When I spot her again, she’s wearing leggings and a Nike crop top, blue sneakers and a high ponytail.
The sporty look fills my head with new fantasies, as if I wasn’t already at max capacity.
She’s talking to a guy, someone I don’t recognize. He’s wearing the uniform employees wear if they work inside Elena’s Village: white peasant top and breeches. No nametag. Blond Bieber hair. He’s her same height, which means I tower over the two of them as I approach.
“Yeah, so come by sometime and I’ll let you taste it,” he says, his voice drugged with longing. “Best flavor we’ve ever had.”
She grins and nods enthusiastically just before the guy glances down at his phone, curses, and complains that he has to run or he’ll be late for work.
Yes. Go.
I should brush off this exchange, but Whitney and I are friends now, right? Shouldn’t that come with perks?
“Who was that?” I ask, watching as he runs down the corridor.
“Fudge guy.”
My eyes widen with mischief. “The guy you—”
She leaps up to cover my mouth with her hand. “Yes! Don’t make a joke. I think he’s kind of cute.”
I smile against her palm.
“If I take my hand away, will you be nice?”
I shrug, saying without words that I can’t make any promises.
“Listen, okay, sometimes he lets me have free samples. It’s sweet. He was telling me about a pumpkin spice flavor they’re debuting for fall.”
My grin only widens under her palm. It’s too good.
“Ugh! Whatever. Eat dinner by yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”
She removes her hand from my mouth, spins, and takes off toward the cafeteria. After only a few strides, I catch her easily, and though I try to wipe the grin off my face, it’s carved in stone.
“You know he’s technically stealing company property doling out free samples like that,” I point out, needling her.
Her eyes warn me to drop it.
“He’s kind of small, don’t you think?” I go on. “Petite for a guy.”
“You’re only pushing me further into his arms. Keep it up and maybe I’ll just find myself madly in love with him.”
“Fudge guy,” I say with a flat tone.
“The one and only.”
Her frown finally cracks into a small smile and she sidesteps into me, trying to playfully shove me away. She only succeeds in hurting her shoulder. She rolls it out and shoots me a glare.
“Do you work out a lot?”
I glance down. I’m dressed in athletic clothes too, per Thomas’ suggestion.
“I guess. Pickup soccer games. Cardio. Weights here and there. Why?”
“Just wondering. Now c’mon, let me introduce you to this little hidden gem I know of.” By now, we’re at the cafeteria, and she waves a hand across the tables toward a restaurant on the other side. “Subway—have you heard of it?”
* * *
Rehearsals for the holiday parade take place inside a dance studio near the parade warehouse. I’m a fish out of water as we walk into the room, mirrors reflecting off two of the four walls. There are a dozen In Character employees in workout gear, huddled in groups. Some of them stretch, some of them lean against the back mirror. All of them stare at Whitney and me as we walk in.
She waves to most of them. They seem glad to see her. The few men in the room are heavily outnumbered, which might be why we’re drawing so much attention. I don’t wait for Whitney to choose a spot, leading us straight to the back corner, away from prying eyes.
I expected Thomas to be here to offer moral support, but when the studio door opens again, a tall older woman strolls in, light on her feet. She has gray hair pulled into a bun, accented by a purple scarf. Her features are slight, her thin frame hidden under a black tunic and tights.
She walks to the center of the room and just as the door bangs closed, she claps her hands. Any stray chatter dies a swift death.
“As most of you know, these rehearsals move quickly. We’ll be in studio through next week. After that, we’ll move to the parade warehouse and practice on the floats. Three weeks from now, we have our first real parade. Raise your hand if you have any questions.”
No one does.
She nods. “Good. Though most of you are veterans, the scripts have changed this year. I’ll pass these out.” She holds up cue sheets. “Read them over. Start to rehearse. I’ll come around, give feedback, and answer questions.” She glances down, reading off the script. “Float one. Safari Island. Giraffes.”
A guy saunters up to retrieve the script for his group. It continues from there. Safari Island has the first seven floats in the parade, and those that follow will be filled with characters from the Enchanted Forest: huntsman, elves, fairies. Princess Elena’s float is the grand finale.
Whitney whispers to me as we wait for our script. “Don’t worry, last year they made my float look like a ballroom. There were lots of couples dancing on it and my old partner and I didn’t need much practice. If it’s the same this year, just spin me around and around until the fireworks go off. Easy enough.”
Just then, the rehearsal director walks over to us. She nods to me, a small reverent gesture that tells me she knows who I am but isn’t going to make a big show of it.
“Read it and let me know if you have any questions.”
Whitney glances over the script first, her eyes scanning the page quickly before they catch on something.
“Oh,” she says, holding the paper out for me to take. “They really have changed it.”
Jesus. She looks like she’s about to faint. How bad can it be? I’ve seen this parade plenty of times. Sure, the themes change every now and then, but it’s usually pretty simple stuff. I might not have danced in a studio before, but I know how to lead a partner. We’ll be fine.
Then I actually look at the paper and three words leap out at me.
A Royal Wedding.
Chapter Fourteen
Whitney
Essentially, the script reads as follows: Princess Elena and His Royal Highness pose in front of an officiant—played by an animatronic owl perched on top of a stump—while they exchange their vows. They should smile and look lovingly into each other’s eyes. As their parade float turns onto Castle Drive and dips beneath an arch of roses, His Royal Highness and Princess Elena kiss, thus sealing their vows for all the crowd to see.
Over and over again.
We will kiss.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from now until the new year, Derek and I will stand on a float, pretend to get married, and kiss.
Laughter bubbles out of me.
I have a strong urge to apologize, though none of this is my fault. I had no part in writing this script. In fact, I don’t know who did. Thomas? Nadine? Cal?
Derek finishes reading it and hands the paper back to me. He can’t meet my eyes.
“C’mon, it’s a little funny. No?”
He doesn’t laugh.
I sober up. “Right, well…you can always defer. Ryan was meant to play this part before you took over. I’m sure he’d be fine with it.”
Derek’s eyes shoot to mine and I have my answer. Over his dead body.
The rehearsal director—Lydia—strolls by us again, asking if we have any questions. Derek and I both shake our heads. “Then get started.”
Ah, right.
“What is there to rehearse exactly?” Derek asks me. “You’ve kissed someone before, I presume?”
I scowl. “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. But that’s not all we have to do. Have you ever stood at an altar? Professing your love to someone?”
“It can’t be that hard.”
“Try it.”
“We aren’t even engaged yet. Aren’t we skipping a few steps?”
I roll my eyes. He’s clearly trying to stall. “We don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to.”
He turns and reaches for my hands, holding them between us. “That’s not fair. You can’t steal the one good part of all this.”
I bite back a laugh. “C’mon, be serious.”
“You’re right.”
His face transforms, his gaze so sincere my heart skips a beat as he bends down on one knee.
“Whitney Atwood,” he says, voice steady and smooth. “Will you marry me?”
My mouth opens slightly as I quell the overwhelming urge to shout, Yes!
Lydia claps and we both jerk our attention to where she stands a few feet away. “You two have perfect chemistry. This scene should be no trouble at all.”
Derek raises an eyebrow and I resist the urge to punch him. I wish we were back at lunch, sitting in the cafeteria, munching on our sandwiches, stealing each other’s chips. It was easy then, but now my hands are in his, and his grip isn’t so suffocating that it hurts, but it’s strong all the same. I tell myself I couldn’t pull my hands away even if I wanted to, but maybe I just don’t want to.
“I’ll act as the officiant so you can get the timing right,” Lydia offers, stepping closer.
Derek stands, keeping ahold of my hands.
I can feel the room watching us. Curious.
“His Royal Highness, do you take Princess Elena to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Derek grins. “Sure.”
“And Princess Elena, la de dah, do you agree as well?”
My throat squeezes tight, so all I manage is a quick nod.
“Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Derek lets go of my hands and steps forward so his body is flush with mine. My lips part as I tip my head back. One of his hands goes around my waist, the other cradling my cheek. He leans down and moves me back ever so slightly in a dip. Our eyes lock—clashing—and he stays there. Motionless. Not kissing me. We’ve been here before and even though we’re in public, being watched, I yearn for him to seal his mouth to mine and just do it. Show me what I’m missing.
His lips slowly unfurl into a grin before he brings me back to standing and steps away, turning to Lydia. “Good?”
“Wonderful.”
“You didn’t kiss me,” I mutter as she walks away. “The script says he kisses her, not just almost kisses her. What is it with you and almost kissing me?”
“It’s my understanding that friends don’t kiss each other. Am I missing something?”
I toe the ground, annoyed at my frustration. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want to be surprised when we’re on the float in the middle of the parade and you do kiss me, and it’s so bad the audience reads the disgust on my face.”
His responding chuckle makes it clear he’s not taking the bait.
“If you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”
“Fat chance.”
He nods. “Then I guess we’ll wait.”
* * *
He meant what he said. At our next rehearsal in the studio, Derek’s lips never touch mine. Not that it actually matters because every other part of our bodies touch. It’s the choreographer’s fault. During the parade, we don’t just get married and then walk off the float. After our kiss, Derek is supposed to twirl me around and we dance while fireworks explode overhead. All of this means his hands are everywhere while we practice: grabbing my waist, pressed against my spine, holding my arm, tilting my chin, cradling my neck, catching me that one time I nearly fell on my butt after an overzealous spin. Rehearsing for this parade is the most intimate thing I’ve done outside of sex.
Scratch that.
It’s more intimate.
I could stand in front of a wall of paint samples at Home Depot and pinpoint the exact shade of Derek’s lips. I’ve studied them in great detail. His eyes too. I already knew they were brown, but they’re actually ringed with pale gold and filled with words that remain unspoken.
Once we transition to practicing on the floats, we’re joined by other crew members. The Costuming Department—led by Carrie—starts to dress us in pieces of our wardrobe so they can assess fit and movement. While Carrie places my veil on my head, I scowl at her. She’s unable to meet my eyes because she knows she’s been a very bad, no good friend.
I’m still slightly annoyed that she didn’t give me a warning about my nuptials with Derek. Immediately following our first rehearsal, I ran straight to her apartment to confront her. She wasn’t there, so I had to pace in the lobby, anger intensifying with every pivot. When she finally arrived, happy to see me, I pounced on her with all the accusations I’d been gathering in her absence. Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding and I thought we were friends and do you have a sketch of my dress on you by chance and never mind, that’s beside the point HOW DARE YOU.
I hiss at her now. “I still can’t believe you kept this a secret from me. You knew Derek and I were going to have to get married in the parade. You designed my wedding dress!”
“I’m sorry, okay? Like I said, I sign nondisclosure agreements about this stuff. It’s supposed to be kept under wraps.”
“That’s such a cop-out!”
As a rule, Carrie and I sign those and then immediately run to one another to share any and all secrets we’ve gathered. It’s called friendship. Look it up.
“Fine. Okay. I didn’t tell you because Thomas and I agreed it was better if you and Derek didn’t know.”
“Oh, so is Thomas your new best friend now?”
I sound like an eight-year-old on the playground. It’s either him or me! We can’t both fit on this seesaw!
“Don’t act like this is the worst thing ever,” she says, glaring like she’s got me pegged. “Your dress is going to look amazing and Derek is going to eat his heart out when he sees you in it. What’s the big deal anyway? You said yourself, you and Derek are friends. This should be fun! Now hold still so I don’t accidentally stick this comb into your scalp.”
Lovely.
My best friend is keeping secrets from me, and while karma should be smiting her, in reality, she’s having the time of her life during all of this. As the executive producer of the parade, Thomas is present for all of our rehearsals now too. He and Carrie stand together during the run-throughs and I catch their little smiles and teasing banter. Like a cranky drunk, I want to shout at them to get a room. Instead, I channel my rage into rehearsals. I’m the best damn bride anyone has ever seen. I wear that veil like it’s a superhero cape. I stare up at Derek while he leans over me and I keep my lips clamped shut, unwilling to admit that I’ll DIE if he doesn’t just kiss me already.
“It seems like you really want to ask me for something,” Derek teases, leaning over me. “Whitney, c’mon. I can’t read lips. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
I’m gasping. Then I recover.
“I want you to let go of me so I can go get some water.”
He smirks and tugs me back to standing. His hands drop from my waist. “Now that you mention it, you do look flushed.”
“I hate you.”
As I walk toward my water bottle, he calls aft
er me, “Not really something a bride should say to her groom on their wedding day!”
Apparently, I’m the only one feeling the sexual tension. Derek thinks this whole thing is one big laugh. Meanwhile, I’m edging toward insanity. I talk about the parade with anyone who will listen: the freshmen in the dorm, Julie, Carrie, the girl at Subway making my six-inch turkey on wheat. Okay, that was only once, but I think we can all agree that’s one sandwich artist too many.
In an effort to protect what few heartstrings I have left, I’ve taken to wearing extra layers to rehearsal. Tank top, t-shirt, sweatshirt, Nancy Drew overcoat tied at the waist—anything to keep his hands off me. But this is south Georgia we’re talking about, and even in autumn, it’s a balmy 80 degrees in the afternoons. The layers usually last only until I’m coated in a nice sheen of sweat and my vision is dotted, then I yank them off with an angry huff.
Even on the days I manage to hold out and stay overly clothed, Carrie inevitably ruins it by asking me to try on a piece of my costume. I just want to see if this very revealing bodice fits or not. Now take off your shirt. I always end up feeling entirely too underdressed in Derek’s arms. Like they’re trained for it, his hands always manage to find the inch of skin between my shirt and leggings and I shiver. He notices. Every. single. time.
At the end of rehearsals, once Thomas dismisses us, I make a mad dash for the safety of my dorm room. Derek occasionally asks me over to have dinner at his apartment or to join him at Cal’s, but I decline swiftly and sharply. It’s imperative that I put distance between us now more than ever, because—and this will be a surprise to no one—ding ding ding! Derek’s right! I want him to kiss me. Desperately! I also want a million dollars in cash! So what? Wishing and wanting don’t matter. I decided a long time ago to put the dream of being with Derek away. It’s locked in a safe. I’ve tossed away the key and burned the piece of paper with the combination on it.
