I will make Andrew see how wonderful Lizzy is.
I will make him want to be her friend, and then I will tell Lizzy charming stories of her future husband until she’s so excited to meet him that she won’t be nervous at all.
To make sure I begin as I intend to continue, I tug my phone from my purse and shoot the picture of the parachute to Lizzy along with the message—Maybe Prince Butt Munch isn’t so bad after all.
And maybe he isn’t.
Only time, I suppose, will tell.
Chapter Seven
Andrew
“What the hell is that?” I point an accusing finger at my vandalized parachute, now lying in a deflated puddle on the grass of the great lawn.
The antique statues at the edges of the grass stare down at it in judgment, as disgusted by the adolescent display as I am.
“It’s a nice gesture.” Nick straightens his tie as he strides past me toward the helipad, clearly intent on welcoming Elizabeth in person, as well as with his cringe-worthy parachute.
“You realize that’s going to be international news before sunset,” I demand, tearing at my harness with angry fingers.
“It’s already up on our PicsWithFriends page. I had Drake text me a picture from the chopper,” Nick says. Then he tosses over his shoulder, “You’re welcome.”
I’m continually nagging Nick and Jeffrey to help post content to the Royal Package page—I have a country to prepare to run and not nearly the time to devote to social media I once had—but I’d rather my baby brother have kept his meddling nose out of this one.
The more we play up the romance of the month-long engagement festivities, the greater the fallout when Lizzy calls it quits between us.
I have no doubt our eleven million followers are going to loathe her for kicking me to the curb, regardless of how our engagement comes to an end, but they’re really going to hate her guts if it seems I’ve been the perfect, romantic fiancé, and it wasn’t enough for the princess.
And I don’t want that for Lizzy.
I don’t want to give her the wrong idea, either, which this stupid parachute absolutely will.
Cursing, I toss the harness into the center of the chute and gather the entire mess into a ball to deal with later.
Mess. It’s all a mess, but I can still clean it up.
There’s no irreparable damage done.
“Breakfast is waiting for you in the rose garden, sir.” Greta, my personal assistant, and the reason my overbooked life functions smoothly, strides across the grass to collect the chute from my arms. “I’ve made sure both meals are strawberry and banana free for the princess. Just in case.”
“Thank you, Greta,” I reply automatically before I realize what she’s said. “In case of what?” I ask.
“In case you kiss her, sire,” Greta says, her lightly lined face as expressionless as ever. From the tidy knot of silver hair atop her head to her sensible gray shoes, Greta is all logic and efficiency, always prepared for any scenario.
Still, the fact that I might end up making out with my fiancée has made it onto her radar is disturbing for some reason.
I grunt beneath my breath. “I won’t be kissing her, Greta.”
Her shoulder lifts almost imperceptibly. “Better safe than sorry, sir.”
“No. Kissing Princess Elizabeth isn’t on the menu today. Or any day,” I snap, before backtracking quickly to add, “Not until we’re married. She’s old-fashioned and wants to wait.”
I can’t let anyone aside from my brothers in on my plan to escape this marriage, not even Greta. I’m ninety percent sure Greta is loyal to me and only me, but too many of the servants at this castle are my grandfather’s people and as determined as the rest of my family to see my romantic future play out the way Grandfather intended.
That includes my mother, from whom I honestly expected more sympathy. She’s a modern woman who married for love. Just because she made a bad call with dear old Dad doesn’t mean an arranged marriage is the best choice for me. And it doesn’t mean she shouldn’t make another choice for herself someday. She’s fifty-five, but she’s still a lovely, vibrant woman.
Though I wish she could be lovely and vibrant somewhere else at the moment.
But no, she and Jeffery are coming down the stairs beside the fountain, trailing Nick to the helipad. Elizabeth is going to be nestled in the family bosom, getting cozy before breakfast can play out the way I’ve planned.
Unless…
“Don’t tell my family where we are, Greta,” I say, trotting backward toward the tree line. “I want time alone with Elizabeth before she’s mobbed by crazy people.”
I spin, sprinting away as Greta calls after me, “Understood, sir. But be careful in the woods, the stinging nettles are large this year.”
I lift a hand in acknowledgment, but I don’t waste the precious seconds it would take to turn around. I sprint past the statues standing sentry at the edge of the lawn and then race through the trees, taking a short cut to the landing pad, determined to cut Elizabeth off from the warm family welcome.