His Royal Highness(53)

“Is everything where it should be?” I ask when I step out, and the two employees nod, eyes wide, silent.

I walk out of the dressing room and head toward the back of the parade processional. Our float is last in line and the set designers have gone overboard decorating it in the theme of a royal wedding. It’s massive—at least two stories—complete with a mini version of Elena’s Castle near the back. Roses cover every square inch of the float, arching and swirling to create a backdrop for the raised platform on which we’ll stand. An engineer is stationed there now, going through a checklist to confirm everything is in working order. There’s no driver present during the procession. Each float is built with a mini computer on board pre-programmed with the parade route. Miles away, there’s a room full of engineers sitting at their desks prepared to troubleshoot any malfunctions.

I climb the ladder and nod to the engineer before I notice the volume level inside the warehouse start to trickle off. The ensuing silence pulls my attention back toward the dressing rooms just as Whitney steps through a door.

I stare, enraptured.

It’s all just pretend. I know her wedding dress is just a costume, but still, she’s more breathtaking than any bride I’ve ever seen. A stunning contrast of white lace and dark red hair.

It shouldn’t be such a shock to see her. She’s worn parts of her costume during rehearsal—the veil, the top, the skirt—though none of it all at once. Heather told me a team of seamstresses has been working on the dress night and day to complete it in time.

Their efforts weren’t in vain. Whitney wears it like a dream. The lace sleeves extend down to her wrists, the matching top narrows at her waist, and the skirt falls in soft pleats down to the floor. A V is cut into the high collar, revealing only a hint of cleavage.

Her hair is down, a few strands pinned beneath her lace veil. There’s a small diamond tiara on her head—exactly what a princess ought to wear on her wedding day.

Everyone’s eyes follow her as she walks. The parade warehouse is actually just an industrial space with concrete floors and exposed duct work, and yet Whitney might as well be walking down the center aisle of Notre Dame. Carrie walks beside her, holding her veil so it doesn’t drag on the ground. Whitney’s talking with her, unaware of the affect she has on the rest of us. It’s better that way. I need a moment to take her in, to catch myself. Remind myself of where we are. What we’re doing.

When she nears the float, I climb back down the ladder, knowing she’ll need help getting up.

Her eyes flit to me, down across my wedding suit. I’d forgotten I was wearing the damn thing, but she notices. Her cheeks flush with color and she looks away, back to Carrie.

“Help me up the ladder, will you? I don’t want to fall and break my neck—or worse, tear this dress.”

“I’ve got it,” I tell Carrie, and she nods, stepping back.

“Carrie can help me,” Whitney insists, glancing back at Carrie over her shoulder. I can only imagine she’s threatening her friend with an urgent glare. Don’t you dare leave me alone with him.

Too bad.

I step forward and loop my arm around Whitney’s shoulders, turning her in the direction of the ladder. “Don’t be difficult. I don’t have the energy for it today.”

She exhales an angry puff but listens to me all the same.

I’m careful with her as she climbs the first few steps, focusing on the row of small white buttons that trail down her spine. I lift so much of her weight, I doubt she’s even touching the rungs as she makes her way up.

“They could have put me in a pantsuit or something, at least. This doesn’t seem at all safe. Climbing ladders in wedding gowns…”

“We have good worker’s comp insurance.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The engineer excuses himself once we make our way up onto the platform. Either he’s done with his checklist or he heard us arguing and wanted to get as far away from us as possible. I can’t say I’m sad to see him go. I need a private word with Whitney.

As soon as she’s sure on her feet, she tries to put space between us. Though the float itself is large, the platform we’re on is only about ten feet wide. She can’t get far.

For a few moments, we stand in silence. Whitney straightens her dress and arranges her veil so it falls lightly down her back. When she’s done making up tasks to keep herself busy, she finally spares me a glance.

When she speaks, her tone carries a note of annoyance. “You actually look like a real prince. Tall, muscular, and that thick brown hair doesn’t hurt either. It’s like they plucked you straight from the pages of a fairytale. I can practically hear the women in the crowd swooning already.”

I don’t take her bait.

She glances over at me. Her feline eyes are narrowed and mischievous. “Aren’t you going to say anything about how I look?”

“I think you’ve probably already heard it enough today.”

She scowls. “Hopefully my real wedding day isn’t as bad as this. It shouldn’t be considering my groom won’t be half as overbearing as you are.”

“Overbearing?”

“Yes. I think that describes you pretty accurately. It means arrogant or bossy,” she explains with a haughty tone.

I want to ignore her comment altogether, but I can’t. I press her. “How exactly am I overbearing?”