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Dinner with his family at Cael’s palace begins in just under an hour.
We are going to be late if we don’t leave soon.
But I’m okay with that, because being on time is polite, and I’ve long since decided that Ollie’s brothers don’t deserve my good manners.
Also, I’ve been ready all afternoon, so it’s not my fault if we’re late. Whenever Ollie emotionally prepares for this, we’ll go. I won’t be a nagging wife and rush him.
Even if my residual humanity is worried Cael might find us rude.
Probably not, right?
Heck, for all I know, the fae don’t consider being late rude. In all Ollie’s frantic reviews of fae rules, etiquette hasn’t come up once. He has told me before that polite is a relative term.
The fae are very literal, intent-based creatures. Stating a direct absence of ill-will, if ever accused of poor mean, ends the conversation.
Life has gotten so much easier.
So long as I don’t think about…
Nope. Not thinking about that means not thinking about it. I will figure out how to explain stuff to my parents later. Procrastination has never hurt me before. Not once. If provided a task and adequate time to complete it, I will always choose several weeks of guilt and self-loathing ending in a full day of panicked work.
Pro procrastinators get an A+ either way.
Rolling over, I wiggle my wee white paws in the air.
I wonder what royal food tastes like.
I’m fully fae now, so maybe I’ll try the wine if Ollie thinks it’s a good idea.
If he doesn’t, the wine will be strictly for throwing on people in disgraced outrage.
Yes. Perfect. I shall embrace the cliché at the nearest opportunity.
Ollie’s footsteps twist, changing direction.
Our cabin should have tile, not linoleum.
The master bed should also have a little staircase beside it just in case I don’t want to shift back before flopping on the comforter.
Tiny dog life is the life.
Yet another reason Ollie’s brothers are stupid for being big wolves when itty bitty Yorkies are possible.
Slipping off the couch, I change out of my fluffiness and into a lilac ballgown before floating into the kitchen. Ollie swears, freezing in place the second he sees the ripples of waterfalling lace cascading around my legs.
“What?” I spread my gloved fingers. “Too much?”
“No. You’re beautiful. Utterly stunning.”
I smile and turn in a swaying ocean of my petticoats. “I thought it might be a suitable distraction.”
“You look like a princess…” Sense returns to him. “Wait. What did you say?”
Were I still human, I’d say nothing. Instead, I opt for, “Oh, something.”
As I’ve discovered during the past two days, it’s surprisingly easy not to lie. You just say everything you mean exactly the way you mean it.
The hard part is when other people don’t like whatever it is you mean.
