His Royal Highness(45)

Derek finishes reading it and hands the paper back to me. He can’t meet my eyes.

“C’mon, it’s a little funny. No?”

He doesn’t laugh.

I sober up. “Right, well…you can always defer. Ryan was meant to play this part before you took over. I’m sure he’d be fine with it.”

Derek’s eyes shoot to mine and I have my answer. Over his dead body.

The rehearsal director—Lydia—strolls by us again, asking if we have any questions. Derek and I both shake our heads. “Then get started.”

Ah, right.

“What is there to rehearse exactly?” Derek asks me. “You’ve kissed someone before, I presume?”

I scowl. “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. But that’s not all we have to do. Have you ever stood at an altar? Professing your love to someone?”

“It can’t be that hard.”

“Try it.”

“We aren’t even engaged yet. Aren’t we skipping a few steps?”

I roll my eyes. He’s clearly trying to stall. “We don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to.”

He turns and reaches for my hands, holding them between us. “That’s not fair. You can’t steal the one good part of all this.”

I bite back a laugh. “C’mon, be serious.”

“You’re right.”

His face transforms, his gaze so sincere my heart skips a beat as he bends down on one knee.

“Whitney Atwood,” he says, voice steady and smooth. “Will you marry me?”

My mouth opens slightly as I quell the overwhelming urge to shout, Yes!

Lydia claps and we both jerk our attention to where she stands a few feet away. “You two have perfect chemistry. This scene should be no trouble at all.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and I resist the urge to punch him. I wish we were back at lunch, sitting in the cafeteria, munching on our sandwiches, stealing each other’s chips. It was easy then, but now my hands are in his, and his grip isn’t so suffocating that it hurts, but it’s strong all the same. I tell myself I couldn’t pull my hands away even if I wanted to, but maybe I just don’t want to.

“I’ll act as the officiant so you can get the timing right,” Lydia offers, stepping closer.

Derek stands, keeping ahold of my hands.

I can feel the room watching us. Curious.

“His Royal Highness, do you take Princess Elena to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Derek grins. “Sure.”

“And Princess Elena, la de dah, do you agree as well?”

My throat squeezes tight, so all I manage is a quick nod.

“Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Derek lets go of my hands and steps forward so his body is flush with mine. My lips part as I tip my head back. One of his hands goes around my waist, the other cradling my cheek. He leans down and moves me back ever so slightly in a dip. Our eyes lock—clashing—and he stays there. Motionless. Not kissing me. We’ve been here before and even though we’re in public, being watched, I yearn for him to seal his mouth to mine and just do it. Show me what I’m missing.

His lips slowly unfurl into a grin before he brings me back to standing and steps away, turning to Lydia. “Good?”

“Wonderful.”

“You didn’t kiss me,” I mutter as she walks away. “The script says he kisses her, not just almost kisses her. What is it with you and almost kissing me?”

“It’s my understanding that friends don’t kiss each other. Am I missing something?”

I toe the ground, annoyed at my frustration. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want to be surprised when we’re on the float in the middle of the parade and you do kiss me, and it’s so bad the audience reads the disgust on my face.”

His responding chuckle makes it clear he’s not taking the bait.

“If you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fat chance.”

He nods. “Then I guess we’ll wait.”





He meant what he said. At our next rehearsal in the studio, Derek’s lips never touch mine. Not that it actually matters because every other part of our bodies touch. It’s the choreographer’s fault. During the parade, we don’t just get married and then walk off the float. After our kiss, Derek is supposed to twirl me around and we dance while fireworks explode overhead. All of this means his hands are everywhere while we practice: grabbing my waist, pressed against my spine, holding my arm, tilting my chin, cradling my neck, catching me that one time I nearly fell on my butt after an overzealous spin. Rehearsing for this parade is the most intimate thing I’ve done outside of sex.

Scratch that.

It’s more intimate.

I could stand in front of a wall of paint samples at Home Depot and pinpoint the exact shade of Derek’s lips. I’ve studied them in great detail. His eyes too. I already knew they were brown, but they’re actually ringed with pale gold and filled with words that remain unspoken.

Once we transition to practicing on the floats, we’re joined by other crew members. The Costuming Department—led by Carrie—starts to dress us in pieces of our wardrobe so they can assess fit and movement. While Carrie places my veil on my head, I scowl at her. She’s unable to meet my eyes because she knows she’s been a very bad, no good friend.