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He threw his head back and laughed freely, his smile was so easy and sexy, he held up his wineglass. “When you ate in my house you had to go fast otherwise there would be a fight over the last sandwich and I was very serious about sandwiches my entire life.” His face fell a bit, he set down his wine, then motioned for us to get up and go to the couch. He held out his hand.
Would this be a defining moment?
I grabbed it daintily as I was taught, and let him lead me over. He didn’t sit down right away though. He put more wood on the fire, then grabbed the quilt from me, sat down right by my side and placed the blanket over both of us, only to pull my legs onto his lap.
My. God. That was bold. He was my fiancé, but we’d only had a few instances where he’d touched me.
He tucked my feet underneath the blanket like it was normal and shot a sad look over at me. Was he going to give me bad news? Had I said something wrong? “It wasn’t until two years ago I found out about my dad’s favorite food, the late King’s—my mom always found him in the kitchen late at night making sandwiches, they even got to the point where after catching him so many times and scaring the staff every time, that they made sandwich nights, the kitchen would be empty and they’d have all these silly names for the sandwiches that the staff learned how to make.” His face fell even harder. “It was, um, right before the coup, Christmas time, that they made their final one. I had already been taken out of the country by that time.”
Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over.
His jaw flexed while he looked away from me and into the flames, taking the last sip of his wine. “Two turtledoves, it was called two turtledoves, his sandwich proof to her that he’d never leave her side, no matter what. Love. Devotion.”
“Wow.” I turned away and wiped a hot tear. “It must have been a great recipe.”
“It was grilled cheese.” He smiled over at me. “Because love,” he said in his journals. “Should always feel easy, just like grilled cheese. They died two days later on Christmas, his favorite holiday to celebrate with my mom.”
That’s why the King had wanted us married on Christmas.
I was his dove.
He wanted me, insignificant stuffy me, to be the King’s dove.
Sickness washed over me, would it have been so hard to ask this question and not just assume that I was just something else to acquire in the grand scheme of things within the crown?
Uncomfortable and feeling a giant gulp of guilt lodge in my throat, I quickly changed the subject. “My parents’ love was different. I’m envious. I was told to be seen, not heard, and I know that eventually they softened to each other, but I couldn’t imagine them making sandwiches at midnight. I had no idea the King and Queen were like that. I mean, I heard they snuck away often.”
He cackled out a laugh. “I’m sure they did.”
“But, how can you say you truly love someone when you can’t smile with them, when all you have is duty first, rules second, country third, and maybe if there’s enough energy for the rest, the best you can bank on is friendship and passion?”
“Doesn’t have to be like that.” He took my wine glass away from me and frowned, then wiped another tear from my cheek. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying for him, for me, for the future, for what lacked in my past. Memories like that. “Destiny is one thing, fate is something entirely different.”
“What do you mean?” I felt another tear coming, he was so close to my face, cupping my chin gently between his warm fingers. “It’s the same.”
“Destiny is where you’re headed. Fate is who you’re meant to do it with.”
I exhaled a shuddered breath. “I want to believe it.”
“It’s Christmas.” His smile was sexy, soft, his eyes darted to my lips, then back up to my eyes. I wanted him to kiss me so bad, instead with every gentleman fiber of his being he pulled back from me. “Sorry, that was probably too personal.”
I wanted more stories, I was about to say so when he stood and grabbed our wine glasses. “We should get some sleep so we can head out early in the morning.”
Why did my chest ache at that idea? “Let me help you clean up.”
“No, it’s okay.” His easy smile was back. “There should be some toothbrushes, new so you don’t get offended, some face wash, moisturizer, and a brush in there with a few hair ties left over. I can braid your hair if you want but—”
I stopped straight in my tracks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“B-braid your hair?” He frowned. “I’m sorry I have a little sister, I learned how to braid her hair at a young age when my mom got bad arthritis, so if you want me to braid it I can, so it’s not in your face.”
My mom never braided my hair.
My maid did.
I never had a sister.
“It’s fine.” I didn’t mean to snap it when I walked out of the room, nor did I mean to burst into tears when I got into the bathroom and turned on the water so he wouldn’t hear me or the tears of misjudgment and somewhat jealousy.
