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But she smiled and pulled her ponytail out, shaking her hair loose—he had to shift in his seat again to hide his growing interest, was she trying to kill him?—and pulling the helmet on. “I’m only a little bit buzzed, but are you sure I’ll be okay to ride?” she asked, setting the champagne glass on the floor.
“Sure. I’ll go slow. All you have to do is hang on,” he answered.
She climbed on behind him, nestled up close with a shiver of cold. He cursed himself for not bringing a jacket, but on the other hand, she felt amazing tucked up against him like that. She even smelled good, too, like lilacs and summertime and sex waiting to happen.
He revved the engine and pulled away.
Her dress rode high on her thighs, and her arms wrapped even tighter around him when they took corners. By the time they arrived at the spot he’d picked out—a little hill under the stars, with a beautiful view of the rising moon—he was in the mood for a lot more than some organization. She was too, judging by her reluctance to pull away from him and get off the bike. But she straightened and plunged ahead with her pitch anyway, struggling to tug her windblown hair back up into a ponytail.
“You’re probably considering ending the party and conducting more professional interviews,” she said, reading his mind. “But you should remember, you’re choosing a wife as well as a queen, so there’s bound to be romance involved at some point. You should take advantage of that, use the women’s willingness to have a go at it. If you get too uptight some of them—maybe the perfect one—could lose interest.”
He sighed, dropping his helmet on the seat. She was right, unfortunately. But even if she was reminding him of his duties, he wasn’t quite ready to give up on his much-needed quiet time just yet.
“Okay,” he told her, and took her hand. It fit perfectly in his. “But while I’m interested in hearing more of your proposal, what do you think of just enjoying the night for a few minutes? You did interrupt some rare alone time. I was planning to relax under the stars, reconnect with my country a bit.”
She looked aghast and tried to pull her hand away. “Oh. Of course, I’m so sorry. I can give you some space—”
He tightened his grip, the idea of putting space between them suddenly unimaginable. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Let’s sit and watch the moonrise together. It’s nice, having you here.”
She ducked her head with a small smile, acquiescing. He tugged her to the wide tree stump he liked best and they sat together, hand in hand, watching the moon.
For the first time all night, there was nowhere else he would rather have been.
5
The next morning, Ella woke up dead. At least that was how it felt. Her tongue was thick and fuzzy, her ears were ringing, and her head felt like a colony of very dedicated miners had taken up residence inside. She groaned, rolling out of bed and onto the floor. Stupid champagne. Stupid two glasses of champagne. Usually she wasn’t such a lightweight.
She swung her feet out of bed and then paused. Two glasses might’ve been enough to give her a hangover, but they weren’t enough to wipe her memory. She’d watched the moonrise with the king last night, just the two of them on a hill beyond the Summer House. She smiled despite her pounding headache. It had been the most romantic thing anyone had ever done with her.
And now she had to help him marry another woman.
Her smile fell. She was going to need coffee. Lots of coffee.
By lunchtime, her desk was covered in spreadsheets and she’d concocted a rubric and grading system for the girls, skewing it only ever so slightly to push her stepsisters to the forefront. Ella was in her element. Over the years, she’d become quite the task manager, partly due to her innate love of organization and partly because her loving but self-involved stepmother wasn’t the best at remembering day-to-day tasks when there was always some scheme to get a new man, dress, or party on the horizon.
She paused to polish off her third cup of coffee. Once she got everything laid out, how was she supposed to tell the king? Should she send a request to see him through the footman, or would that be rash? She didn’t want to give anyone, especially her stepmother or the Queen Mother, the wrong ideas about them.
Like an answer to prayer, a knock sounded at the door. When she opened it, an expressionless guard handed her a letter sealed with red wax and then pivoted and walked away before she could ask any questions. She closed the door, turned the letter over in her hands, and opened it. It started off “Dear Ella” and ended with “Best, Phillip,” and her heart leapt. She knew this was strictly business, likely about the project she’d proposed, but she always had loved a handwritten letter. She sat down to read it.
* * *
Dear Ella,
Thank you again for endeavoring to help me sort through the eligible ladies. Can I ask you to send all communication through the guards? They are well-trained and quite discreet with these kinds of matters.
I had such a good time with you last night. I look forward to more meetings as we continue our project together. Next time, I’ll bring the champagne.
Best,
Phillip
Ella fanned herself with the envelope, grinning. Oh, he would bring the champagne,
would he? She dug in the desk drawers and found some parchment and sat down to scrawl her reply.
Dear Phillip,
Thank you for your instructions. I’ll be sure to direct all communication through the guards. I’m almost finished with an initial rubric and background research on the girls, and will send it along when it’s finished.
