Zan’s brow furrows. “Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny.”
“It is funny. He’s not going to go to war with Bulgravia. Not over a little harmless imprisonment.”
“I’m pretty sure Beatrice didn’t think it was harmless. She spent the entire night shivering in an unheated jail cell. She could have lost a toe.”
“Doubtful,” I say. “And Prince Leo apologized profusely afterward.”
“For the unheated part, not the imprisoning,” Zan counters, eyes narrowing. “He’s such an ass. I mean, seriously, couldn’t he have cut down the trees around the one Beatrice was chained to? Or found another patch of forest to pillage so the Bulgravian spore beetle or whatever it was didn’t lose more habitat? Either way, Beatrice wasn’t a serious threat to his sovereignty.”
I sigh. “I imagine it’s hard to get people excited about saving endangered insects. A creature has a better chance if it’s cute and fluffy, or at least has some pretty feathers or something.”
Zan grunts. “True. But Beatrice is cute and fluffy. That should have counted for something.”
I nudge her knee with mine again. “You’re cute and fluffy, and that counts for a lot with me. I love these striped pajamas.”
She bites her lip, fighting a smile. “Stop, they’re awful.”
“No, they aren’t. You look like a peppermint stick. I want to lick you.”
“You always want to lick me,” she says with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe Sabrina insisted on matching pajamas for the entire family. How much cheesier is this togetherness thing going to get?”
“Probably significantly cheesier. Once we announce our engagement, Bree and Lizzy will whip themselves into another wedding-planning frenzy, and the papers will want pictures of all three sisters and all three brothers together in the rose garden feeding each other petit fours or something… It’ll be a love-fest nightmare.”
Zan shudders. “Ugh. We should just elope.”
Her words spark in some part of me.
The part that can’t wait to call this woman my wife and isn’t thrilled about putting off our wedding until next summer or whenever my mother and the other ladies of the royal family decide the nuptials will be most photogenic—that part sits up and takes notice.
“We could.” I keep my voice low so as not to be heard over the laughter and cooing as Lizzy unwraps another toy for the twins. “Why not?”
“Because our parents and siblings will murder us for denying them a royal wedding?” she says, but there’s doubt in her tone.
“They’ve already had two royal weddings.” I scoff. “It’s greedy of them to want another. And besides, think of all the money we’ll save by eloping to Rinderland tonight.”
Her eyes go wide, but they’re glittering as she whispers, “Tonight? Are you mad?”
“Mad about you.” I squeeze her thigh. “And a big fan of how easy it is to get a marriage license in your homeland. We could take the helicopter. Safer than a car with all the snow on the mountain pass, and we’ll have more time to drink honeymoon mead out of each other’s belly buttons after the ceremony.”
She grins. “I’m not drinking anything out of your belly button. I don’t enjoy chest hair in my wine.”
“Technically, it’s stomach hair, not chest hair.”
“Technically, I still won’t be drinking anything out of it. You’ll have to settle for wedding cake icing applied liberally to the places you like.”
I wrap an arm around her waist, growling close to her ear. “Yes, please. You know all the places I like.”
“Stop,” she whispers. “Sabrina’s watching again. She smells a rat.”
“I smell your shampoo,” I say, nuzzling my nose into her hair. “Have I told you how much I love the smell of orange and honeysuckle on you? You smell like summer, all year round.”
She turns to me, smiling as she says, “You’re impossible.”
“But you’re still going to marry me tonight.”
Her smile widens. “Yes, I am.”
Twelve hours later, surrounded by a team of competitive yodelers at a mountain lodge near Alexandra’s hometown, we exchange our “I do’s” in front of a roaring fire. We spend the next hour drinking mead, toasting our future with our new friends, and dancing to yodeled karaoke until Alexandra’s tipsy enough to perform a rendition of “I Will Always Love You.” I tear up even though she’s correct about her inability to carry anything remotely resembling a tune.
She’s godawful, a real ear-bleeder, in fact. But as I watch her swaying in the stage lights with eyes only for me, I can safely say I’ve never loved anyone more.
We drink more mead afterward and get gently drunk.
But not too drunk.
I stop before warm and fuzzy turns to something more, ensuring I’m steady on my feet as I sweep Zan into my arms and carry her to the elevator, refusing to put her down until I’ve opened the door to our room and kicked it closed behind us.
“There,” I say, my breath rushing out as I set her on her feet. “You’ve been toasted, danced with, and carried over the threshold for good luck. All that’s left is to make this legal, woman.”