38 | Melina #2
He looks at a picture on his desk. I covertly lean over to see the black-and-white photo of him and his wife.
They look young, early twenties maybe, barely.
It was definitely taken before their engagement.
Charlotte has a smile plastered on her face, and David admires her like she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.
“Do you remember what my wife’s voice sounds like?”
What an odd question. “No.”
“Most of the public doesn’t. She was glossophobic.
Absolutely terrified of public speaking.
Her one condition on engagement was that she’d never have to do it.
My family didn’t want me to marry a timid girl whose English was shaky.
Said it was impossible and she had to address a room at some point. ”
“So what did you do?”
“Married her anyway and made enough speeches for both of us. All I’m saying is that I’m willing to make compromises. Yours and my son’s happiness and privacy are something I will and do value. I promise.”
“So this is your fancy way of saying you want me to give this a chance.”
He sways his head from side to side. “I don’t want to feel like I ruined a good thing. And yes, him finally being interested in someone has given all of us a bit of hope.”
“It’s hard to believe I could be a good thing when all those articles seemed to think I am the opposite. I’m a walking scandal. And they’re going to find out about my father at some point. I’ve just been waiting for it to happen.”
His eyelids lower. “Taylor should be telling you not to read those.”
He does. I don’t listen.
“You’re actually the opposite of scandal. No one knows anything about you.”
Finally, I cross my arms. “It doesn’t feel like it,” I say softly.
“I will admit, the situation with your father will create a PR nightmare, but my mother could’ve saved lots of breath in convincing me not to be with Charlotte.”
He’s right. Why am I letting a mistake my father made be a factor in my own decision-making?
“It’s just, I don’t know if I want all of this. Or will be any good at it. I didn’t even know what I was getting into. It all happened so fast. You never think the problem in your love life is going to involve the royal family. I mean, me, Princess of St. Claire. The whole idea is ridiculous.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks when I realize I’m rambling. That’s the first time I’ve said the P word out loud.
He smiles a bit. “I should confess something, in light of being honest with each other.”
I raise a brow. “Is it something I’m going to like?”
“Maybe.” David looks out the window. He doesn’t care if I’m going to like it.
“Some months ago, my mother and I had a chat with that Thibeaux boy. She’d been getting a little worried about Taylor’s frivolity towards his future.
We’d given Julien the job of, how do I say this—” He puts both hands on his desk.
“Pushing my son in the right direction. He suggested his wedding might be a place for Taylor to meet an eligible bachelorette.”
“Eligible bachelorette,” I parrot. “Like me , eligible bachelorette?”
“Yes, you were one of his suggestions. Actually, I think she found your profile the most interesting. That or she was just generally curious about what a computer programmer is.”
It’s bizarre how he talks about the Queen as if she’s a mom and not an ethereal being who only emerges on Christmas to make a festive speech. Even Taylor seems to consider her more boss than grandma.
“So both you and the, uh, your mother knew of me before we even met?” Moreover, they thought, that Ramirez girl, she seems like she could be princess material.
This whole time, I thought marriage was completely preposterous, yet they were hoping it would happen from the start. “Did Taylor know about this?”
He shakes his head. “We figured he’d reject the idea. What’s funny is that Julien told me a week later that it was a match made in hell. He was planning on pushing in another direction. I don’t know what happened, but here we are.”
I look to the bust of Queen Agnès in the corner of the office, deciding if I should bang my gavel and deem this information creepy. “Yeah. Very funny,” I say blandly.
He looks to the bust and then to me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Breaching your trust so soon is something I deeply regret. If you don’t forgive me, that’s fine, but if not for me, then for Taylor.
” David opens a desk drawer and pulls out a biscuit tin.
“I’m afraid he may be going insane.” When he opens the container, I expect there to be biscuits inside, but instead, they’re macarons.
Homemade and what looks to be pistachio-flavored macarons.
I point to them. “Has he been—”
“It seems so.”
Jesus Christ.
David nudges the container toward me. This is how I was finessed the first time. It was over after one forkful of chicken piccata.
I reach in, find the best-looking macaron, and bite into half of it, gracefully cupping my hand underneath my chin to catch crumbs. I close my eyes and savor its sweetness, butteriness, pistachioness.
When I swallow, David smiles in a way like I’ve never seen him before, yet the expression itself is one that’s very familiar to me.
It’s the smile I saw on my parents’ faces when I graduated from college, the smile that was on my brother’s when he bought his own art studio.
A smile full of unbridled hope for the future.
“Well?” he prods.
He already knows my answer. And it’s not an answer that’s spontaneous or commonsensical. It’s an answer that’s certain. Certain of the uncertain.
“It’s delicious.”