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“After our honeymoon is my coronation,” I subtly reminded her.
“Can’t we go someplace exotic later?”
“When you’re huge and pregnant?” I could feel my irritation rise.
“I won’t be huge!” She tossed back at me.
I’d have to take over my role as king. But looking at the mounting anxiety in her expression, I knew if we were in Seychelles, her mind would be in New York. If I made her give up fashion week, we’d be ended before we began. So, I gave in. Contractually we had seven years together, Seychelles would have to wait.
“Okay, we’ll go to Seychelles eventually.” I wasn’t enthusiastic, but I made a sacrifice as she’d given up a lot for me.
“Eventually works.” Now it was her turn to rally.
“So, about your work?” I had been dreading this conversation all week.
“Please, Liam.” She began to panic again.
“I’m just asking, can you do it and get ready for a wedding at the same time?”
Her eyes narrowed to daggers. “Well, what about you? Will you continue to work while we prepare for one day when we have a ceremony, eat, and wear fancy clothes?”
“You mean the day we commit to each other in matrimony?” I reminded her.
“Or a contract?” Ouch.
“Yes, I intend to continue working.” I knew where this was going.
“Oh, what a coincidence, so will I.” With that, she turned from me and went to her office/sanctuary/escape.
She had a bedroom, per her request, but she never used it. Her office, though, was another matter. Whenever I returned from an official engagement, she always seemed to be there. The staff never saw her because no one bothered her when she retreated to her office. They said she was like an apparition. They’d put out food, leave for lunch, and the food would be gone. They’d set out her laundry and the same thing would happen. My staff was a lively jovial bunch and she’d probably enjoy their company, but since no one disturbed her in her office, she hadn’t engaged with anyone when I was away doing royal business.
The rest of the time, when we were in public together, the woman who ventured out with me on those occasions, wasn’t my fiancé, but a royal robot. Things were going well and they weren’t, but I had a plan. I’d let her stew for a few minutes while I called and made all of my arrangements. About an hour later, I approached her lair.
“Knock, knock.” I dared to enter.
“Yes,” she didn’t look up at me, her hair was messy, her face frazzled, and she was buried in a sketch pad.
“You can work, but I have questions.” I sat in the easy chair near her desk. “Which wedding dress did you choose? You need to pick a designer, so we have time to go over your measurements and have them meet with you and Georg to discuss your look.
“Second, did you go over the catering menu? We have three menus that I’ve approved, I’d like your opinion on which you prefer. All you have to do is agree to a date and time and we can go to the tasting together.
“Music? Thoughts? Bridesmaids? Though I think I already know that one, however, my cousins will need to be included per tradition. So, what will everyone be wearing?
“Also, my staff doesn’t know you and would like the opportunity to be better acquainted with the new mistress of the house…” I fiddled with the vase of dying flowers thinking to myself the staff was so afraid of Avery they didn’t even bother to change out the vases. “And… the doctor has your results… but we need to be together when he gives them to us.” I took a deep breath.
“Answers.” again, she didn’t look up from her work. “I’ll design my own dress thank you, I am a fashion designer, that’s pretty much a no brainer. Sure, let’s go eat a bunch of fancy food, whenever, wherever, it’s your call. Music, Bono… I mean you are gonna be the king right? He’s Irish, your Irish, you can make it work. Bridesmaids, you called it. Madison and Kylie and your cousins… fine. I’ll design their dresses too. And um let’s arrange a game of Twister with the staff.” Oh, the snark was at the DEFCON level. “And… we’ll call the doctor tomorrow.”
“Avery, many designers have been vying for the opportunity to represent Ireland and have you wear their bridal gown.” I gently nudged.
“Too bad you married a fashion designer.” Now she looked at me, and boy by that hard-assed expression, I knew she wasn’t going to budge on designing clothes for her own wedding. Perhaps an after-event gown could be bartered for another designer to create.
My father wasn’t going to be pleased, but I wasn’t marrying my father. I was marrying the fireball scowling at me, so she won. Because I’d have to go to bed with that woman for at least the next seven years of my life, I decided the fight wasn’t worth it. In fact, at that moment, I was all about acquiescing enough to get her to smile again.
