Chapter Seven #2
“But what about romance? What about love? Don’t you want those things? I know I do. I don't want an arranged marriage. I want to fall in love with someone wonderful and spend the rest of my life loving them.”
I toy with the cloth napkin. “Romance was never part of the agreement.”
“Astrid, you sound like a robot.”
I know she’s right.
I let out a breath. “The thing is, I’ve always had a thing for him,” I admit.
Francesca’s eyes have widened. “For Fred?”
I press my lips together and nod. “Ever since we met when we were children. I always wondered if there was more to him than just the proper prince. That he had a beating heart beneath the formality.”
“Look, I love my brother. He’s brilliant and dedicated and honourable, all the things expected of him as the Crown Prince. But from what I can tell, he's built these walls around himself that he thinks he needs. It's like a fortress from Medieval times, with only tiny slits for windows.”
“So you’re saying I haven’t seen the real Fred yet?”
She takes a sip of her tea. “Not even close. Bear with him. There’s so much more to him than just being all formal and grumpy and, well, Fred-like."
I can’t help but smile. “I’ve seen a little of that, I suppose.”
“Well, let’s hope you see more of it because I think Fred would really benefit from being with someone like you. I think you could bring out the best in him, and we all know he can’t do that on his own.”
I’m about to ask her how she thinks I could do that when there's a knock at the door, and a footman appears. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highnesses. Princess Astrid, Prince Frederic requests your presence in the Red Salon at eleven o’clock for the initial wedding planning meeting.”
Wow. A wedding-planning meeting makes everything feel so very real. Which is absurd, I know. I'm here to marry the man, after all. This isn’t news to me.
I tell the footman I’ll be there by eleven o’clock, and then Francesca and I spend the next half hour chatting and sipping tea. We get on extremely well, and I tell her I'm excited she'll be my future sister-in-law.
It's then that I realize I'm almost ten minutes late for my meeting with Frederic. I say a hasty goodbye and dash from the room, scrambling down the hallway. I knock hastily before I burst through a door, only to find the King sitting at a large table with a group of five or six men in dark suits.
“Whoops. Sorry!” I call out, backing away before I remember my manners. “Your Majesty.” I bust out a quick curtsy and nearly topple over.
“Princess Astrid, are you lost?” the King asks.
There's no point lying.
“I'm looking for the Red Salon. I'm meeting Prince Frederic there.”
“Down the hall. Fourth door on the left,” he replies with a warm smile.
Well, at least I’ve won one of the male royals over.
“Thanks. Later!” I bolt down the hallway, counting the doors as I go.
When I reach the right door, I knock and hear Fred's muffled voice. “Enter.”
I step inside to find my future husband seated at a large table covered in binders. So many binders. They're all arranged in neat rows and color-coded, with label tabs sticking out.
He stands as I close the door over behind me, the clunk echoing around the vast room.
He's wearing another perfectly tailored suit, showing off his enviably broad shoulders, his tie neatly in place, his hair perfectly coiffed as usual.
If you looked up a 20th Century prince in the dictionary, you'd find a picture of Prince Frederic.
Does this guy ever do off duty?
“Astrid. You're late.” He's not smiling. There's no warmth. And what happened to him calling me Asti?
“I'm so sorry, Fred. I was with Francesca and we lost track of time.”
He frowns. “That sounds like my sister. Well, we need to cover a lot of ground, so please, take a seat.” He gestures at a chair on the opposite side of the table.
“I've had an overview of the ceremony logistics prepared for you.” He passes me the first of the folders.
“If you turn to page three, you'll see the timeline. We have six weeks until the wedding date, which we can manage, provided we maintain our appropriate scheduling discipline.”
Appropriate scheduling discipline? What is this, military school?
“Right. Got it.” My eyes slide across the table. “Did you make all these binders?”
“They were my brainchild, but I had some help making them.” He smiles at the sea of organization as though it’s his children. “I do like a good binder.”
He likes binders? I mean, I can work with that. Can't I?
He gestures at each binder as he talks me through them. “This one is for ceremony logistics, this one for seating protocols, this one for press strategy. And this is the honeymoon itinerary.”
I blink at him in shock. “You've made an itinerary for our honeymoon?”
“Of course I have,” he replies, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
I wonder if he's scheduled our first kiss. I’m itching to check.
First kiss takes place at 20:00 hours on the first evening of the honeymoon during the sunset. Hand held lightly at waist. No tongue.
I press my lips together to stifle a smile. “Where are we going on our honeymoon?”
“Switzerland.”
I clap my hands together in glee. “Because of the beautiful lakes and mountains? I admit, I’ve never actually been to Switzerland, but I’m told it’s stunning.”
He shakes his head. “I chose it because it is neutral territory. It also has excellent infrastructure, and it's closer to Elkevik than, say, Turkey or Greece,” he replies, sounding as romantic as… well, as romantic as Prince Frederic.
I narrow my gaze. “Is having excellent infrastructure your most important criteria for a successful honeymoon?”
Because really?
“Reliable transportation and quality accommodation are important. And it's important to have a superior communication network, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
It’s like he’s woken up this morning and doubled down on being Prince Frederic.
Where’s the man who couldn’t take his gaze from me at dinner? The man who cracked jokes?
“I’ll admit, I hadn’t given two thoughts to how reliable transportation and communication networks are for honeymoons,” I say lightly. “I believe most people choose a honeymoon destination based on things like romantic sunsets or beautiful beaches.”
His jaw tightens. “That may be the case for most couples, but we are not most couples. Need I remind you that this is an arranged marriage for the mutual benefit of our respective countries, Astrid?”
You do enough of that for the both of us.
“I thought you were going to call me Asti,” I say.
“Asti. Yes. Of course. My apologies,” he says briskly. “Shall we review the timeline, Asti?”
As he says my nickname his face looks like he’s sucked on a lemon.
“Nothing would make me happier,” I reply with only the faintest hint of sarcasm because come on. This exercise in military precision seems totally over the top, even for him.
My fiancé, it would seem, is determined to be efficiency itself, and with as much personality as an accounting spreadsheet.
Perhaps Francesca is right. Perhaps he’s keeping his true feelings well and truly hidden behind the Medieval wall he's constructed around his heart.
I just need to find one of those slits for windows to find my way in.
Wait. Didn’t they use those for showering the enemy with deadly arrows?
He slides the binder toward me, already open at the appropriate page, and then comes to stand behind my chair.
His proximity is disconcerting, and I try hard to concentrate on the detailed timeline he’s talking me through.
But the dates and the words scramble before my eyes as his scent fills the air around me.
It’s a nice scent, woodsy and musky and very male, for want of a better word.
I get that feeling in my belly I had yesterday around him, the feeling I’ve always had when I think of Frederic.
It’s like a swarm of bees, warm and humming, as if something inside me has woken up and is quietly alive.
It can’t be anything beyond physical. I mean, this is Prince Frederic we’re talking about here.
He may be textbook handsome, but he’s got the personality of a limp rag.
“—and the ceremony begins at two o’clock.
The procession will take approximately seven minutes, which accounts for the length of the cathedral aisle and your walking speed.
By the way, have you practiced your walking speed for the aisle?
I’d like to know what it is so we can ensure you’re moving at 3. 5 kilometers per hour.”
“3.5?”
“Precisely 3.5. Anything slower will feel too slow, and anything faster would be unseemly.”
“But I haven’t practiced my walking speed. I just… walk.”
Frederic jots something on a bright yellow Post-it note and sticks it to the cover of the binder.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s a note to ensure we measure your speed and adjust it.”
Seriously?
A thought flashes through my mind. “Speaking of walking down the aisle, I want both my mother and father to give me away.”
He regards me as though I’ve told him to perform brain surgery. “Why?”
“Because this is the 90s, Fred. I want both of my parents there with me.” I almost add right to the bitter end. Luckily, I stop myself before I do.
He studies me for a beat before pulling his lips into a line and nodding.
“It’ll take some doing, but I’m sure we can rearrange a few of the details to allow that to happen, if it’s important to you.”
“Thank you,” I say in reply, surprised at his willingness to meet my request.
Again, he jots something down on a Post-it and sticks it to the binder.
He opens another binder. “This is the list of music I suggest for the ceremony and afterwards,” he says, pointing at a list of classical pieces.
“So… no Bon Jovi?” I say with my tongue firmly in my cheek.
He furrows his brow. “I’m not sure what Bon Jovi is. Is it a piece by Mozart? No, an Italian composer. Vivaldi, perhaps? ”
“Fred, are you telling me you don’t know who Bon Jovi is?”
“I do not.”