Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,114

or threat since that night I’d seen J.P. at Grandmère’s. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “Oh my God, Lilly! What did Michael do to J.P.?”

“Michael didn’t do anything to him. Don’t be stupid. He turned the phone in to the RGG.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“Oh, right,” Lilly scoffed. “You think J.P. is locked up in a holding cell somewhere under the palace like the president did to Olivia Pope’s boyfriend on Scandal?”

“No,” I said. “Grandmère’s new boyfriend used to work at Interpol. I bet that’s where they’ve got J.P.”

“Well,” Lilly said, “good. Then I guess his douchey dystopian novel is never going to get published. And J.P. has learned a valuable lesson: don’t mess with the Princess of Genovia.”

Obviously, none of this explained why Michael didn’t want to go to Argentina, so I had to confront him about it as soon as he returned to our bedroom.

But he only expressed dismay about his sister’s betraying his confidence and said not to worry: Lars had told him that J.P. had “volunteered” to go work on a Russian icebreaker in order to “clear his head,” and wouldn’t be back to the United States for several months, possibly years.

“Michael,” I said skeptically. “Volunteered? That doesn’t sound like J.P. at all. He hates physical labor. And none of this explains why you don’t want to go to Argentina for your bachelor party.”

“I already told you,” he said, climbing into bed. “I don’t want a bachelor party. If I go to Buenos Aires to have steak, it’s only going to be with you.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Oh, speak—or write—of the devil: Michael’s just come in to check on me. He looks so handsome in his morning suit! When I was coming down the aisle and saw him standing there, looking so nervous—partly because of the many camera people buzzing all around us, shining their extremely bright lights directly into our eyes—I could hardly believe my luck.

But of course luck had nothing to do with it. We both have worked very hard—and have been through a lot—to get to this day. We should get some sort of hazard pay just for putting up with Grandmère these past few weeks. There were several times I thought I might actually pack up and run off to Bora Bora to live under an assumed identity to escape her.

After tonight, though, it will be all over.

At least for two weeks, while we’re on the yacht, and we don’t have to listen to her constant yammering about how every single solitary thing we do is wrong . . .

“Why aren’t you resting?” Michael wants to know.

“I am resting.”

“Writing in your diary is not resting.”

“Really? You’re going to criticize me, too?”

Once you become pregnant—especially with twins, apparently—all anyone cares about anymore (including your partner, sometimes) is what is growing inside your uterus, especially if you’re a person of royal heritage. Once they realize the tabloids were right all along, and you really are carrying twins, all anyone wants to know is:

• What sex your babies are. (Michael and I don’t even know. We’ve requested to be surprised.)

• What you’re naming them (and they will have plenty of suggestions, even though you didn’t ask. We have our own ideas for names, even better ones than Luke and Leia, such as Frank and Arthur and Helen and Elizabeth. But of course everyone will hate these, so we’re keeping them secret).

• Touching your stomach, either for luck or just because you’re the new “People’s Princess” . . . which I guess will make the twins the “People’s Babies,” which is good. But seriously. Boundaries. Boundaries!

• Offering advice, from parenting tips to how much you ought to be resting, what you ought to be eating or not eating, drinking, doing, wearing, etc.

But it’s good to be liked, I guess.

Michael grinned and sat down beside me on the bed, slightly jostling Fat Louie.

“I’m not criticizing,” he said. “I’m taking care of you. That’s my new job, besides following two steps behind you at all times, protecting you with my life, and calling you ‘ma’am.’ ”

“You don’t actually have to call me ‘ma’am’ until after the coronation,” I said, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. “How are they doing down there?”

He nodded toward the open balcony doors, through which I could hear our parents and siblings, all the groomsmen, bridesmaids, visiting dignitaries, and other wedding guests—but most especially Grandmère—raucously laughing and enjoying their champagne and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (I did win on those.