American Queen

I grin at him. “God, I wish. But Merlin said absolutely under no circumstance could we room together.”

Ash drops his head back against the chair. “You would think being engaged would be enough for propriety’s sake.”

“Apparently not.”

His eyes slide to my briefcase. “What work do you need to do?”

Sigh. What work don’t I need to do? “I’m finalizing the syllabi for my three classes this semester, and pulling together their initial assignments. Plus I told myself I’d work a little more on the book before the semester kicks in. Oh, and your social secretary won’t stop emailing me.”

“About the wedding?” His eyes are soft when he says the word, and it makes the annoyance drain right out of me.

“Yes. She wants it to be as big as the royal wedding. Bigger, if she can manage it.”

“And what do you think?”

“That I don’t care as long as my dress is pretty and I have time to teach.”

Ash looks thoughtful when I say the word teach, but he doesn’t say anything. I didn’t ask for his input about me continuing to teach because it felt too much like asking for permission, and I would have done it no matter what he said anyway. I know Ash supports my decision, but I don’t know about everybody else…especially the American public. As far as I know, I’ll be the first First Lady to have a job that isn’t giving speeches or writing the occasional column.

Merlin certainly doesn’t like the perception it sends out, but while I’m willing to wait to move into the White House and willing to sleep in different hotel rooms, my career is not up for discussion. And as far as perception goes, who would have more respect for the White House than Leo Galloway’s granddaughter?

“What do you think about the wedding?” I ask.

“Come here and I’ll tell you.”

“I’m not falling for that old trick,” I say, and yet I’m crossing the office to his desk anyway. He spins in his chair so that he’s sideways to his desk, and he pats his knee. I climb up there, all my stress about the work and the wedding dissolving away in the strength of his arms.

“When it comes to the wedding, I want two things,” he tells me, his tone unusually serious. “If you’re not attached to having it in a particular place, I want it to be at the church I grew up going to in Kansas City. And I don’t want to see you the day of the wedding. I know it’s parochial and a little superstitious, but I want that moment where I see you for the first time at the foot of the aisle.”

“Okay,” I breathe, entranced by his solemn mouth. “Whatever you want.”

The solemn mouth breaks into a smile. “Those words are so delicious on your lips, angel. Can I have whatever I want all the time?”

“Of course,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

“You flirt. What about right now?”

“Yes, Sir.”

His breath hitches as I smooth his tie down his chest. “Go close the door, little princess. I have an idea about what I want at the moment.”

Abilene is polished as always in knee-high boots and a cut-out blue dress that only a willowy redhead can pull off, her pretty features arranged into an expression of cool boredom. But I see her blasé facade thin as we’re ushered around by the Secret Service, when we’re surrounded by the most powerful people in the world arguing over who gets the last clementine on Air Force One. She’s eager and girlish, even though she’s trying to rein it in, and nowhere is it more apparent than when she is around Ash.

I’m almost grateful we are taking a different car than him to the hotel; watching her around him is difficult. She clearly lied earlier when she said her crush on him was over, and I’ve clearly been lying to myself that I’m not still insecure around Abilene. She’s so beautiful and so vivacious compared to me, and especially with the mistletoe kiss in the back of my mind, it’s hard not to worry about what Ash really wants, ring or no ring.

We pull up to our hotel, an agent opening the door for us and helping us out of the car, and Abilene looks up at the marquee with a puzzled frown. “I thought we were staying at the Four Seasons?”

I shrug, tipping the doorman as we walk through the front doors. “Merlin asked the Secret Service to float a few different hotel names and go through the process of vetting each one, so that it was impossible to tell which would be picked. He was worried about the Carpathians trying to infiltrate the hotel staff. And besides, the Hotel d’Angleterre is the best hotel in Geneva.”

“So you don’t know where you’re staying in a city until you get there?”

“I think this is rare. But Merlin and Ash both worry about the Carpathian president, and they thought this was safer.”

Abilene makes a noise of understanding, and it’s the last time she brings it up.

That night, strung out from jet lag, we get ready for the diplomatic dinner with the Carpathians. The next few days will be filled with negotiations and bickering, and barely veiled acrimony, but tonight we’re all supposed to play nice, give the world lots of pretty pictures, maybe a nicely framed shot of Ash shaking Melwas Kocur’s hand. I know how important peace is to Ash, and how tormented he is by the years he spent fighting in Carpathia, so if the one way I can help make this treaty happen is to attend this dinner by his side, then I’m more than happy to do it. But I have no illusions about how congenial or enjoyable the evening will be; I’ve been to enough “bipartisan” events with Grandpa Leo to know that people very rarely lay their swords down for the sake of Italian wine and brandy flambé.