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A gentle breeze rustled her hair as I took her hand in mine, our fingers interlocking. “Emilie what you want matters, not just what your father wants or what your family expects. You deserve to have a life that brings you happiness and fulfillment. I don’t want to be married to someone that sees the marriage as a job, something that has to be done. I want you to want me.”
She looked at me and said nothing.
“Sometimes, we find what we truly desire when we allow ourselves to break free from the expectations of others. It’s okay to want more than just a business partnership. It’s okay to want love, trust, and a genuine connection. It’s perfectly normal to want the total package.”
Emilie’s lips curved into a soft smile, and I could see the weight lifting from her shoulders. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she said again with a small laugh. “I’m officially giving myself permission to be happy. I am the future queen after all. I decree it.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” I said and we started walking again. “I like a lady that takes charge.”
“Where are we going?” she asked when I led her away from the main house.
“This was Roman’s cottage,” I told her. “I kind of stay here sometimes. I want to show you something else.”
She giggled. “Oh, I bet you do.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, young lady,” I teased. “Have you ever had a s’more?”
“A what?”
“Oh, you are in for a real treat.”
I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, gathering the necessary ingredients, while she watched with a mixture of curiosity and mild skepticism.
“You’ve never had a s’more before?” I asked, incredulous.
Emilie shook her head. “No, and I have to say, it doesn’t sound particularly appealing.”
I chuckled as I set out the graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars on the kitchen counter. “Trust me, it’s a must-try American delicacy. Consider it part of our cultural exchange program.”
She offered a smile. “All right, Theo. I’ll give it a shot, but I make no promises.”
With the ingredients in hand, I led her onto the patio where a propane fire pit was arranged in the center of four chairs. “Now, normally, we would do this over a wood fire, but this will have to do for now.”
She sat down in one of the chairs while I turned on the flames. I demonstrated the art of crafting the perfect s’more.
“You want to roast it over the fire until it’s a golden brown and gooey,” I explained. “Then we’ll sandwich it between two graham crackers with a piece of chocolate.”
Emilie observed with a mix of fascination and amusement. “That looks like a lot of work.”
“It’s worth it,” I said as I handed her a freshly assembled s’more.
She looked at it with a hint of skepticism. “It looks messy,” she commented.
“That’s part of the charm,” I assured her. “Now, take a bite.”
Emilie hesitated for a moment, then cautiously took a small bite. Her eyes widened in surprise. She nodded as a cute little moan escaped her lips.
I couldn’t help but grin. “Not bad, right?”
She nodded, still chewing, then swallowed. “It’s actually really good, minus the horrendously sticky mess on my fingers.”
I chuckled at her predicament. “Welcome to the world of s’mores. They’re known for being messy.”
Emilie looked down at her sticky fingers with a laugh. “I feel very unladylike right now. My mother would be horrified.”
