Page 126 of Prince Charmless
He looks me in the eyes as if to ask,Are you sure?
I nod. I’m more than sure.
Taylor takes my left hand, then freezes when the Queen scoffs.
She says, “Well, at least be a gentleman and get down on one knee.”
“Mother, maybe we should let them have a moment,” David suggests.
“Oh, all right,” she caves and takes her son’s arm.
A guard leads them away, leaving me, Taylor, and the ring alone together.
“We don’t have to do this right now,” he says. “If this is too fast, I understand. She can be—” He looks back at the door. “Insistent.”
“Are you kidding? Being in a palace with you looking like that and me wearing this is the most fairytale proposal I could’ve asked for.”
Taylor smiles and takes my left hand again. He kneels, and my tear ducts swell. “Ms. Ramirez,” he starts very seriously. “I’d like to negotiate something with you.”
I blink hard to keep the tears from falling. “Which is?”
“Spend the rest of your life with me and I’ll make you soupe à l’oignon whenever you want.”
“Deal. But you can’t make me wear any big silly hats.”
“Huh?”
“Royal women. They’re always wearing dumb hats.”
“This is your caveat?”
“I really don’t look good in hats.”
Taylor stares up at me for a long five seconds. His expression is vacant, like it always is right before he’s about to do something weird.
His arms wrap around my knees. “Too bad,” he grunts, then throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “I’m going to make you wear the biggest and silliest of all the hats.”
I kick my heels uselessly. “What are you doing?” I yell.
He spanks my ass. “Marrying you.”
I squeal when Taylor deposits me onto the cushions. He kneels over me, pinning my legs together. I let him snatch my left hand and slide on the ring.
“No take-backsies,” he says against my jaw, then blindly throws the velvet box over his shoulder.
He shouldn’t do things like this when the Queen of St. Claire is right outside the door.
“You know I don’t actually like you, right?” I ask. “I’m just doing this for the money. My plan is finally coming to fruition.”
I’m kidding.
It doesn’t look like he cares, rather preoccupied with trying to give me a hickey.
I push him off before he can. The ring sparkles on the hand that grips his shoulder. I look to Taylor. I look to the ring. Ring. Taylor. Taylor. Ring. “Oh God.”
He de-straddles my thighs. “Cold feet already?” he asks, wrapping an arm around me.
I lay my head on him, and he curls a piece of my hair around his fingertips. We both study the historical painting across from us, a bloody battle scene of St. Claire soldiers running the British off the island.
