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Oh. Does she think I’m wanting to plan my own wedding? I suppose it’s a valid assumption, and I haven’t said anything to dispute the matter. But I should clear that up right away.
Before I can say anything, though, she continues. “Of course, for those of us who have stuck around town after high school, the pickings are slim. The guys are too young, taken, or too grumpy. Grumps are the worst.”
“Unless it’s a romcom novel.”
“I don’t know. Give me a cinnamon roll any day.”
“Sometimes grumps make the best cinnamon rolls.”
“In stories, maybe.” She grins.
I know she’s laughing, but I feel rather sorry for her and the other women of Hallmark Beach. Then again, it sounds wonderful to not be constantly hounded by men, most of whom only want to marry me for my status. I have my “pick”—and believe me, my father has tried to get me to choose one, going so far as to invite no less than four hundred eligible men from Kentonia and surrounding countries to my twenty-ninth birthday ball. Unfortunately for me, the man I want is the only one my father would never let me have.
And he himself wouldn’t want me anyway. He’s seen me at my worst, and he loves his job too much to ever leave it.
There are just too many things standing in our way. Which is why it’s good that I’m here, and he’s somewhere else. Maybe I have some sort of hope of getting over him. It hasn’t happened yet, but it has to eventually. Right?
“Aw, you’re wonderful, Lucy. You just have to have a little hope,” I say, praying the same for myself.
“Eh, it is what it is. Love will come when we least expect it, right? At least, that’s what my mom used to say.” There’s a sad smile on Lucy’s face, and it makes me want to grab her hands, tell her it’s all going to be okay. She walks farther into the store. “Come on. The vendor list you’re wanting would be in the back office.”
We pass two sofas and a handful of comfortable-looking chairs with a coffee table in the middle—probably where Rhonda meets with clients to discuss the details of their day—and duck into a small hallway.
Lucy unlocks the first of two doors, swinging it open and walking around the desk to sit in the chair there. Then she sorts through the keys. Apparently Rhonda feels her documents are worthy of Fort Kent levels of security. “Did you have any luck getting started on wedding plans yesterday?” She finally finds the right key and unlocks the desk drawer.
“Not quite.” After breakfast, I decided a little uninterrupted beach time would be all right, so I changed into my swimming costume (not that I went in the water—it’s still cold even by my standards!) and hung about on The Purple Seashell’s private stretch of beach. It’s where Shelby’s wedding will be held in a few months, and while it’s beautiful, it would never work for Lauren and Topher’s day if anyone got wind of them being part of the royal family. The media would have a field day with that, and the wedding would cease to become the private affair I’m hoping for.
I used the time to search the Internet for wedding ideas and pinned several before falling asleep in the lounge chair for a large portion of the afternoon. Must have been more tired than I’d thought from the drive up the day before. “By the time I got around to trying to check out the florist and bakery, they’d closed for the evening.” Who ever heard of places closing by three in the afternoon?
Lucy laughs as she sifts through the file folders inside the desk. “Welcome to small-town life.”
“Can I help look?” I move to sit in the chair opposite her.
“Sure.” She slides a hefty folder out of the drawer and pushes it toward me. “So when is your fiancé joining you? And how soon are you hoping to do this? I know you mentioned it was short notice, but how short are we talking?”
My conscience pricks at her first question, so I ignore it for a moment and move on to the other. “I’m looking at two weekends from now.”
Her head bolts up. “Today’s Wednesday. So, like ten days?”
I flash her a grin. “Yep.”
“What’s the rush?” She glances briefly at my stomach, then goes back to examining the paperwork with wide eyes and pursed lips, like she’s holding herself back from saying something more.
“Lucy.” I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not preggers, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What? Oh. Yeah. No.” She stumbles over her words and her fingers slip from one paper to the other despite the fact she’s looking at me. “Sorry.” Her head falls to the desk, and she groans before looking up again, her features plastered with chagrin. “I didn’t know if Brits were, like, still really traditional about having to be married first.”
“Well, first of all, I’m not British.”
“Really?”
Do I tell her the truth? Oh, why not? She doesn’t seem the type that will go look up my country just because I mention it. Not unless she already suspects I’m a royal, which I don’t think she does. “I’m from Kentonia, which is in Europe though.”
“Sweet.” She resumes looking through the stack of papers, her actions calmer, more fluid again.
“And while some in my country are traditional, others are not. I imagine it’s the same here in America.”
“That makes sense.” She lifts an eyebrow. “So,notpregnant then? That’s what preggers means?”
