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“I know, but I would spend the entire visit feeling self-conscious. I hate whenever anyone sees me not looking my best.”
Dear God, they were going to be man and wife. Did she think a fever and messy hair might send him running?
Armando thought of all the states he and Rosa had seen each other in, including one very embarrassing incident right after she started work when she vomited in his office waste receptacle. She’d been mortified. Spent the entire time apologizing and choking back feverish tears. Now that he remembered, she’d said she didn’t want him seeing her in such a state, too. He’d ignored her. Instead, he sat by her side, rubbed circles on her back, passed her tissues and told her he was right where he belonged. “We’re a team,” he’d told her. “What’s a little flu bug between partners?” Then he’d bundled her down the hall to one of the guest rooms, and they’d watched a movie until she fell asleep. Oddly enough, it was one of his fondest memories of their friendship.
He tried to picture rubbing Mona’s back only to imagine being told to stay away.
“I would hate to think my company was causing you stress,” he said, partly to the image in his head.
On the other end of the line, he heard a relieved sigh. “Thank you for understanding. We will enjoy our visit much better when I’m back to myself. Perhaps next week?”
“At the wedding?”
“That would be nice. I will let you know in a few days if I think I’ll be feeling well enough so we can make arrangements.”
“Sounds good.” It struck him how formal and businesslike their conversation sounded. This was what he wanted, though, wasn’t it? A business arrangement? A week ago he couldn’t imagine thinking about anything more. His heart wasn’t looking for more.
His eyes looked up at the mistletoe.
He squeezed them shut. Even if his heart was looking for more, he couldn’t. He’d made a promise, and Corinthia’s reputation rested on his honoring it.
He talked to Mona for a few more minutes, about the concert and what few details he knew about Arianna’s wedding, then agreed to talk later in the week. He had just disconnected when he spied his father strolling the corridor. “There you are,” Carlos said. “Your sister ordered me to find you.”
“Funny,” he replied. “I thought you were the one in charge.”
“Of Corinthia, maybe. Of the bride...” He paused. “Is any father of the bride ever in charge?”
“In other words, my sister has you wrapped around her little finger.” No surprise there.
“What can I say? She is my baby girl. I want her to be happy.”
It might be early, but King Carlos was dressed as dapperly as always. He’d once told Armando a king needed to be on any time he stepped outside his private quarters. “The people expect their king to act like a king,” he’d said. As his father drew closer, Armando noticed the older man’s jacket hung looser than it used to. Seemed as if every week, he grew a little older. The weight of pending responsibility that rested perpetually on Armando’s shoulders grew a little heavier.
“Surely you didn’t think you could escape unscathed,” his father remarked.
“I’d hoped.”
“You might as well get used to it. This is only a small ceremony. Yours and Mona’s will be far more elaborate.”
“Must it? We are talking about my second marriage.”
“Regardless, you are the crown prince,” his father replied. “The people will want to celebrate.”
Right, the people. Those thousands of candles relying on him to stay lit. The universe was certainly intent on reminding him of his duties today, wasn’t it?
His father clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his thoughts. “I know what you are thinking, son.”
“You do?” How, when he wasn’t sure himself? A week ago yes, but now? Not so much.
“But of course,” the king replied. “I know better than anyone how difficult it is to move forward when what you really want is to bring back the past. I know how much you loved Christina.” Armando felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t been thinking of Christina last night—or this morning. Only of Rosa.
“When your mother died, it was all I could do to hold myself together, I missed her that much.”
“I know,” Armando replied. All too well he remembered the sight of his father with his face buried in his hands.
“I still miss her. Every day.” He gave a soft laugh. “We Santoros love hard.”
“So I’ve been told.” At least his father did. Armando didn’t know what he was doing anymore.
