Everything in me ached for his touch again. As I woke and stretched, I half didn’t want to brush my teeth as I was afraid I would wipe the taste off my tongue. Reality woke me as I realized I would never get another kiss if I didn’t brush them, and I wanted to spend the day with him.
So I grabbed my Jill Sander slim ribbed midi cape dress with front zip, which I’d picked up at Bergdorf’s, and my Bottega Veneta almond flats, washed myself well, and walked out.
Michael was in a gray Tom Ford polo and blue jeans. He waved for me to join him, and my stomach growled. No breakfast was waiting, but we walked up the stairs to our new roof with the helipad.
I grabbed a chilled lemon water from a stand near the helicopter and sipped as I enjoyed the view of New York on the way to the airport. Michael spoke to his barrister, the English version of a lawyer.
Flying without all my friends around me was strange. That had been how my first helicopter ride was a month before, but I was feeling cozy with a handsome man with a wicked profile and kissable lips.
We landed at the airport, where a plane with a golden signature logo, complete with a tilted crown, was ready. As we walked up the airstair, I smelled fresh leather, and as we walked in, the interior held an ivory and light-brown leather living area, a huge kitchen, and a door to a bedroom that was similar to our friends’, but the style was definitely more mine.
I smiled and said, “Now, this is an airplane.”
Michael put his phone away and pressed a hand on my shoulder. “The Norouzi clan decided to take their own jet and meet us there as it was our wedding.”
I was alone with the muscular, sexy, serious man I’d married. I headed to the kitchen and found some turkey sausage and croissants.
As I made myself a plate, he said, “When we arrive, you’ll need to be properly attired right away as Her Majesty has set the appointment for four p.m., and we must not be late to Buckingham.”
I gazed up at the curved, gilded metal ceiling and put my plate down, imagining a moment where strangers cheered for me. I laughed and said, “I’m living a Princess Diaries moment here.”
He’d grown up with royals being normal, so he didn’t even blink. “Once your audience is over, you’ll be permitted at formal events as my wife.”
As we started to taxi to the runway, I took my plate and found a seat. When Michael joined me, I asked, “Would they have locked the door in my face if the queen hadn’t scheduled me in?”
He laughed and stirred his tea. “Cute accent.”
I tensed for a moment as we sped up though I winked and said, “Thank you. I was copying yours.”
“And no, they’d have just quietly snubbed you.”
The way he discussed his homeland and what I’d seen while growing up, watching sophisticated people on television, were different, clearly.
The rest of the trip, we talked and slept. Then we hopped into a limo to a hotel in Mayfair. No one had to tell me where I was. The Georgian townhomes gave it away, as well as the Bond Street sign. As I gazed around, it reminded me more of Fifth Avenue than I’d expected even though, in the books and movies I loved, it was always the place full of drama. I glanced at Hyde Park, and my toes curled at the fact that everything was real.
Michael guided me inside an upscale hotel. I peeked through an arched wall to one side, into a gilded dining hall with mirrors and painted ceilings. The red leather chairs were modern and not what I expected. I blinked, but we went to the lobby and checked in. We were alone.
Once he was handed the keys, I asked, “So our friends won’t be joining us yet?”
“They’re on their own schedule, but we’ll see them soon,” he said, and we headed up to a suite full of gowns and jewels and servants all set to do hair and makeup. He said, “Foreign trillionaires don’t need the crown for courtesy, but the queen has requested their audience later, as well as invitations to the formal ball hosted by the Duke of Somerset.”
“That sounds fancy.” I shrugged and walked over to the dresses. “Well, what do I wear?”
He picked out a black tuxedo. Being a man was so much easier. When I pointed at a Givenchy, he accepted and said, “Anything, as long as you look nice.”
We walked back to the rack of women’s dresses as I asked, “So no white or anything?”
He pointed across the room and shrugged. “As we’re married, you are not required to wear white, but if you want to wear your wedding gown again, go for it.”
I’d been eyeing a midnight-blue crystal-embellished Jenny Packman V-neck gown and a red Carolina Herrera silk detachable puff-sleeve earlier. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
I grabbed both gowns, and we headed into the bedroom to change. He tossed his jeans as I took longer to decide. When I saw myself in the mirror, I picked the bright red.
If I was thrown out of the palace, I would go in style.
He quietly said, “I’ll be more embarrassed if I don’t address my parents. The royal stuff is secondary.”
The way he tortured himself was too much.
