by Holly Rayner
No one, other than my lawyer who himself would be sued out of practice were he to speak of my personal affairs, knows about my marriage to Poppy. I haven’t mentioned it to my two best friends yet, and I’m not sure why.
I will have to tell them about it at some point, and they will be understanding, I know. They have met my father and will immediately twig why such a charade is necessary.
Poppy is an amazing woman. She makes heads turn wherever she goes, and on top of that she is smart, courageous, and kind. I am the luckiest man in the world to call her my wife.
Even if she is only my wife in title, and not in all the ways that matter.
That is the problem, I realize. I do not want to tell Alex and Jorge, or anyone else, about Poppy because I do not like the reality of the situation. I need this fake marriage, and it is advantageous to her as well, but the more time I spend with her, the more I get the sickening feeling that I’m doing something wrong.
What could have been between the two of us if I had not proposed this deal? Or if we had not gotten married in the first place?
Would she have gone back to America, and we would have never seen each other again? Or could something have happened? A visit here and there? A true relationship in bloom?
There is the sound of a door opening, and I look up from my brooding to see the makeup and hair artists enter the room. They’re both glowing.
The older one speaks up. “If there is anything you don’t like about her look, Your Highness, say the word and we will change it.”
I look past her, but there’s no sign of Poppy. “Where is she?”
“Come on out, dear,” the woman calls.
Poppy emerges, and I must be imagining things. My head, suffering from anxiety and desire, is making things up.
She can’t be real, because a real woman cannot be this beautiful. Right?
The dress fits her perfectly, covering up her feet and grazing the ground. Her hair has been curled and pinned so that it exposes her neck and falls gracefully against her back. I don’t know what they did to her face exactly, because there’s not much makeup on it that I can see, but whatever magic they worked it’s divine. Her eyes seem larger, her lips somehow even fuller. Long, dark lashes flutter, mimicking the movement of butterfly wings.
My jaw drops. There are no words.
“Do you like it?” Poppy asks. “The dress fits perfectly.”
She spins, the skirt flying out in a circle.
I have to swallow a few times. “You are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
All three women beam.
“Good.” Poppy purses her lips in pleasure, and I know I’m grinning ear to ear, probably giving way more away than I wish to, but I cannot stop.
I turn to the other women. “You did an amazing job. Thank you. I will be recommending you to anyone who needs your services.”
They curtsy and thank me profusely. I pull out my wallet to tip them, and even though they turn the money down two or three times, I make them take it anyway.
The instant they leave, and it’s only me and Poppy in the cottage, the air changes. It comes alive with energy, and we stand still, looking at each other across the living room.
I hold my hand out to her. “Show me that spin again.”
She claps her hands and laughs. “Which one?”
“You know which one.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She spins, a vision of heaven. I take a few steps forward and she tumbles into my arms. Her hands press flat against my chest, and she looks up at me, lips parted and breathing heavy.
“How do you feel?” I ask. “Do you like the look?”
She wets her lips. “I love it.”
“Good.”
Her pupils dilate, her lips part… and then she drops her hands and steps back. The mood shifts.
She clears her throat, her face down. “I never imagined anything like this would happen to me.”
“I’m glad you’re excited. I hope that my family will not change that.”
“All three of them?” She meets my eyes, her expression curious.
“Greta is nice. Sacha is… difficult sometimes, but a good and loyal brother.”
“What did you tell them about me?”
“Only that I am bringing a special guest to dinner tonight.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows fly upward. “Really? So you’re…”
“Revealing the news of our marriage tonight.”
“Wow.” She blows out a breath. “This should be interesting.”
I cross my arms and pretend to be offended. “You don’t have faith in me?”
“That’s not what I said.” She rolls her eyes. “I have a ton of faith in you. I mean, look at me. I flew all the way back across the ocean because you convinced me this was a good idea.”
“Yes, and I’m extremely glad you did.” I check the time on my phone. “Excuse me. I must text Henrik and have him pick us up.”
“It’s time to go?”
I note the anxiety in her voice and look up from my phone. “Are you nervous?”
“Only a little,” she says, but her tense shoulders give her away.
I quickly finish the text and put my phone away. “Poppy, my family will be so impressed with you that they won’t know what to do with themselves.”
“Really?”
I step closer to her but make sure to leave some breathing room. “Yes. Really.”
Her smile is slow coming, but it’s also genuine. “Thank you. I hope I remember how to do everything right.”
“You will. And if you slip up here or there, it does not matter.”
She makes a face. “I’m gonna try really hard not to do that.”
“Thank you,” I say with a nod. If she does use the wrong fork or wrong address, yes, there is a very good chance my father will point that out, but I cannot say this to her. It would make her even more nervous.
I hope all goes well tonight—mostly because if my father says a word to insult or embarrass Poppy, there is a very good chance I will fly into a rage and do something regrettable.
Still. The thought of her feelings being hurt, especially when she’s doing so much for me, makes me see red. She is a near-perfect human being, and anyone who does not acknowledge that is insane.
“I want to say thank you,” she says, interrupting my mulling.
“For what?”
“For giving me this opportunity.”
I cup her face. “No, thank you for doing this. You are an amazing woman, Poppy, and you have decided to grace me and my family with your presence.”
She laughs. “Did you forget that you’re paying me?”
I could be offended at the question, and perhaps I would be with someone I did not care for as much, but Poppy saying it makes me smile.
“I did not forget, smarty-pants,” I respond. “But money aside…”
“Yeah.” She places her hand on top of mine, which is still against her cheek. “I know. I want to do this.”
“Good.”
My hand is still on her face, her palm on top of it. This is breaking the rules I set for myself. Again. I can’t seem to control myself when Poppy is around. If she asked me to jump, I would ask how high.
I’m about to draw back when she touches my face. Her fingers graze down my cheek and jaw and end at my bowtie, which she adjusts.
“It was a little crooked,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
Our gazes are locked, and I’m completely lost. Have I read her wrong? Or could it be that she’s as infatuated with me as I am with her, except she wishes to hold off on the romance for professional reasons? Or she believes I am no longer interested in her?
I want to ask, but now is not the time. Henrik will be here any minute, and that kind of conversation is delicate and must wait for when we are not rushed.
“I’m the one who must be thanking you,” I murmur. “I have much to gain from tonight.”
Her inhale i
s a stressed one. “Maybe you should hold off on the gratitude until dinner is over.”
There is a rap on the front door. In the blink of an eye, Poppy is away from my touch.
I have to remind myself, once again, that we will address the matter of our personal relationship at another opportunity.
Right now, it’s showtime.
Chapter 14
Poppy
My heart is beating too fast.
This can’t be right. A human heartbeat shouldn’t match the pace of a hummingbird’s.
Max’s palm is at the base of my back, but I can barely feel it as we walk from the cottage to the car. Everything around me is surreal, from the thick hedges to Henrik’s face.
We get into the backseat, and I think sitting down will calm me some, but it doesn’t. The car starts moving, and a wave of nausea hits.
I glance at Max. He’s too busy looking out the window, brow furrowed, to notice my silent freak-out.
How am I going to do this? It’s bad enough that I’m not royalty, but the fanciest dinner I ever attended before tonight took place at a community center. Max’s family is going to tear me to pieces.
I cast my gaze out the window, desperate for something to distract me. I need to stop thinking and focus on the motions of tonight. If I’m polite and doing everything with a smile, it could be I have a chance.
It’s still light out, though the grounds have that hazy orange glow about them. We pass by the trees lining the drive and take a left, going toward the palace.
A glimpse of the gardens makes me sit up straighter. They’re gorgeous, with bushes clipped into different-sized cylinders and cones, and cobblestone paths carving the way around fountains and statues of women and angels.
“Wow.” I breathe out and almost whistle.
“Yes?” Max asks.
“Those gardens are amazing.” I nod my head at them. They’re giant, too. We’re still driving past them.
“I agree. They are lovely.”
“You know, my brother calls himself the landscaping king of New Jersey,” I say on a laugh.
Max’s lips twitch into a smile, and he lets out a low chuckle. “Is that so? Funny.”
“Yeah. I bet he’d trade all his current clients for a chance to landscape these gardens.”
“It is hard work, I am sure. There is a staff of five working full-time to maintain it.”
“I bet.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back. The stress and worry dissipate.
A second later, though, and it returns.
We’re pulling up to the palace, where yellow lights are letting off their first glow in the windows that are too many to count. I press my hand to my stomach and take a deep breath.
Henrik takes the circular drive up to the giant front doors. I’m seconds away from either pulling off the greatest sham of my life or falling flat on my face.
Henrik opens the door on my side, and, heart in my throat, I exit. I hear Max coming out of the car behind me, but I’m too nervous to look into his face.
Two men dressed in black suits come out of the doors. Almost in unison, they bow.
“Your Highness,” the gray-haired one purrs. “Welcome.”
“Thank you very much.”
Max puts his hand on my lower back, and this time not only do I feel it, but it brings me a bit of comfort. What’s about to happen might be terrifying, but at least we’re in it together.
In the cavernous foyer, it’s sensory overload. The sparkling chandelier. The marble staircase with a red carpet in the center of it. The oil paintings of stodgy men and women. Everything is too fancy to touch, almost too fancy to look at.
“King Otto is in the evening sitting room,” the gray-haired man, who I guess is a butler, says.
“Evening sitting room?” I whisper to Max.
He shrugs like he’s apologizing.
We’re led to a hallway behind the staircase, down a wide hallway lined with pottery, plants, and more paintings, and to an open set of double doors. The butler stops suddenly, and I nearly trip over my feet.
“Prince Maximillian and Miss Poppy Moran,” he announces.
As far as I can remember, my name hasn’t been uttered since I walked into the palace, so I guess Max sent a note ahead about me.
“Enter,” a man says.
Chills go down my back. That has to be King Otto.
The butler bows and backs away.
Max’s hand is still on my lower back, and I wish his whole arm were around my waist, because I could use some help standing up.
We walk into a room decorated in cream and blue. A woman wearing a gold party dress, her gray-and-black hair pulled into a bun, turns to us. Next to her, a young man who looks a lot like Max but with a square face and more prominent brow looks us over. And behind them…
King Otto rises from the couch he’s reclined on. The first thing I notice about him is that he’s a mix of both his sons. He has a square face and a strong jaw, and his eyes are dark, bright and intense.
He’s dressed like every other male here, in a suit, but his bowtie is red. I briefly wonder if that means something, like if kings get to wear a special color while everyone else wears plain old black, but then I don’t have time for any other thoughts.
“Max,” the king says. That’s the extent of his greeting, then his gaze slides over to me.
“Your Majesty,” I say, dipping into a curtsy that takes every ounce of concentration I have. “It is an honor.”
The room is quiet, and I’m instantly freaking out.
Did I say the wrong thing? Was that not how I’m supposed to address him?
I can’t even remember now. It’s like that part of Max’s lesson has been wiped from my memory.
“Father,” Max says, “this is Poppy Moran.”
Otto nods at me once—a sharp nod, an affirming nod. What it affirms, though, I have no freaking idea. It’s only that he seems to be sure of something.
“Poppy,” Max says, “this is my stepmother, Queen Greta.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” I say, curtsying again and praying the whole while that I’m doing it right.
Greta smiles warmly, and it gives me some hope. She already seems like a genuinely nice person.
“Hello, Poppy,” Greta says. “It is wonderful to have you here.”
“And this,” Max says, spreading his hand, “is my brother, Sacha.”
“Your Highness.” I curtsy.
Sacha nods and smiles, but it doesn’t have the same warmth as Greta’s expression. He squints slightly, like he’s trying to get me into better focus.
I swallow hard and look around at the three of them.
Keep smiling, Poppy. Just keep smiling.
“How long have you been here for?” Sacha asks me.
“I arrived yesterday,” I tell him.
“But you’ve been in Stromhaer before?”
“It’s my first time, in fact. But I can already see that it is a beautiful country. I look forward to exploring it.”
“Poppy is quite the skilled skater,” Max cuts in. “We went to the artificial ice rink last night. Remember, Sacha? The one Mother always took us to.”
“You don’t say,” Sacha says, not taking his eyes off me, even though he’s talking to Max.
A shiver starts between my shoulder blades, and I have to suppress it. If they see me trembling with fear, there’s no hope. They’ll either know something is up or start walking all over me.
“Yes,” Max says. “I could barely keep upright, but Poppy skated circles around me.”
“Is that what you do?” Otto asks. “You’re an ice skater?”
I start, unsure what to say. Is that a joke? Only a handful of people in the world are professional ice skaters, and most of them have regular jobs to support themselves with.
“No, Your Majesty,” I say, “but I have taught ice skating before, as well as other winter sports.”
“She’s an amazing ski instruc
tor,” Max says. “Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never been in one of her classes.”
He’s heard no such thing, but we smile at each other like we mean it.
“I will take your word for it,” Otto says. “I can see that’s she’s done at least one thing well.”
Everyone is quiet, and I get the painful sense this is what it’s often like. Everyone stands there, waiting for the king to carry the conversation.
“She’s had an impact on you,” he tells Max. “You finally shaved that horrendous beard.”
Max runs his hand over his face, feeling the different parts of jaw and cheek.
Personally, I think he’s incredibly sexy with or without the beard, but that’s two cents that probably doesn’t need to be thrown into the pot right now.
“You shaved for a girl?” Sacha asks. He grins wickedly.
Max’s arm goes around my waist. “There are some girls a man would do anything for.”
I know he’s only playing his part, but the words send a warmth through me.
“If you say so,” Sacha says. There’s that tight smile again. That fake smile.
Am I the only one who notices it?
“Poppy,” Greta says, “where are you from?”
Conscious of everyone’s eyes on me, I stand straighter. “I hail from the kingdom just off exit nine.”
She blinks in confusion.
“The New Jersey Turnpike,” I elaborate. “I come from a town off from there.”
“The state of New Jersey is next to New York,” Max says.
Greta laughs. “Oh, I know where it is, Max.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “You are darling, Poppy. So funny.”
I can’t believe the joke worked. The second it came from my mouth, I thought for sure I’d made a mistake.
But no. Greta is still laughing, and her hand squeezes my shoulder before dropping away.
“Your candor is refreshing,” she says. “So many people come in here with fake stories concocted to make themselves look better, but not you. You are proud of who you are, aren’t you, Poppy Moran?”
I don’t know about Max, but the mention of fake stories has me sweating bullets.
“Yes,” I say. “My father raised my sister and me to be proud of who we are. It was one of many good virtues he passed on to us.”
