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But her eyes were unfocused like she hadn’t even heard him. “To start, I should tell you my recent deepest darkest secret,” she said. “I’m thinking of this marriage and my reign as a test run.”
His hands froze on his fly. “What?”
“No one, not even me, has confidence I’ll succeed,” she said morosely.
Unable to speak for a moment, Simon swallowed. “Oh,” was all he said aloud. Internally, though, he was horrified. This was his greatest fear—that he’d be displaced again on a royal whim, that he’d never have a real home that wouldn’t be taken from him. His hard-on dissipated as quickly as it had come on. “Pen,” he said slowly, “maybe we should wait on… this. You’re a bit tipsy, and maybe I’ve had enough tonight myself.” He’d only had two glasses of champagne, but he didn’t want her to feel like this was her fault. “Maybe we should leave the consummating for when everyone is sober.”
She blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Yeah, I guess it would be nice to be able to remember it.”
He re-zipped his fly and pulled his shirt back on, muttering something about taking a shower as he retreated to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but mentally go back over all that paperwork he’d just signed, remembering the lawyer’s parting words: The marriage will still need to be consummated before everything is binding.
He wanted this to work out. He wanted a life with Pen, a life of meaning with an amazing woman at his side. But if this was all no more than a test run to her… maybe it would be best if the contract wasn’t binding just yet.
8
Penelope’s first official duty as Queen was to preside over a royal press conference. It hadn’t even started yet, and she was already twitchy, shifting in her seat—a comfy couch, not nearly as stiff and intimidating as she imagined the throne would be—and twisting at her bracelets. At least Simon was with her, though. The new King was solid as a rock at her side, completely focused on the assistant who’d been assigned to prep them. Pen tried to draw strength from his fortitude rather than focusing on how she’d be greeting her people for the first time ever in a few minutes.
The assistant flipped a page on her clipboard. “There are a few more issues you’ll need to be prepped for that are less about the actual… well, issues—and more about the public perception of you two since your wedding yesterday. First up is Simon’s lips.”
Pen blinked. The public was interested in her husband’s lips? She gave him a sideways glance. To be fair, they were pretty damn excellent lips. She could still remember the feel of them on hers last night, how they’d been soft and yet so deliciously demanding, full and biteable. Not that she’d had the chance to bite them. Yet.
“What about my lips?” Simon asked, sounding adorably befuddled. He’d put on his reading glasses to look over the list the assistant had given him, making him look more like Clark Kent than ever.
“They have a Twitter account,” the assistant answered dryly. “TheKingsKisser. Apparently the females of the world are obsessed.”
Delighted and suddenly feeling more than a little mischievous, Pen whipped out her phone before the assistant could continue. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling when she found the account. The profile picture was a close-up of Simon’s puckered lips, which could only have been taken during a speech but was made to look like he’d been caught in the act of a bad-boy pout. “Twenty thousand followers already!” she crowed, scrolling through the pictures on the timeline. They’d caught his lips from every angle, in every light. This was too good.
“Let me see,” Simon urged, but she ducked away before he could grab the phone from her hands. The assistant looked on, straight-faced while she waited for them to regain propriety, but with a twinkle in her eye.
“‘They’re so kissable I’m going to die,’” Pen quoted a reply to one of the pictures. “Ha! Apparently there’s a downside to having the best lips in the kingdom. You’re killing your subjects, Simon.”
He made another grab for the phone, and she dodged again. She tried to think of more downsides. “Ooh, and you know what, it must be hard for you to eat too. Those luscious lips have to get in the way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bitten them clean off by now.”
He crossed his arms and huffed, stern-faced, but he was trying hard to contain a smile, which as far as she was concerned felt like a challenge.
Feigning thoughtfulness, she tapped a finger on her own lips. “Hmm, I bet they could think of a better handle though. Maybe RoyalSmoochers? Deathbylips? StrictIsSexy?”
One side of that delicious mouth curled up in a tiny half-grin. Victory! And now she was feeling better too—much readier to face her people for the first time ever, with this man at her side.
The assistant cleared her throat and shuffled her papers, regaining control of the pre-conference meeting. “They may also ask about some upcoming political issues,” she went on as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “The House of Lords has been seeing a bit of drama lately, so I hope you’re both up to date on that. Then there have also been some grumblings about Your Majesty marrying someone from outside the country. It would be a good idea to focus on the way this union strengthens Escona’s bonds with our allies and starts off your reign
with more stability. Lastly, there’s the issue of Penelope’s looks.”
Simon glanced up from his papers. “Her looks?”
Penelope’s stomach twisted. The assistant’s tone was faintly apologetic, which could only mean bad news. “What about my looks?”
“Well, the focus groups really liked how you’re more ‘traditional looking,’ with those beautiful dark eyes and hair. However, they wish you wouldn’t wear… um, ‘tablecloths,’ is the way several members of the groups phrased it.”
Penelope felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. All her newfound confidence dissipated like mist on the wind. She loved her Bohemian dresses. They felt like her, part of her identity. Her team had tried to convince her to wear some stiff-looking high-necked monstrosity this morning and had traded looks when she’d chosen a dress she’d felt more comfortable in. Now she understood what those looks had meant. “Oh,” she managed.
“Also,” the assistant went on, her tone still apologetic, “the Castle’s PR department isn’t convinced that your lipstick shades are the best suited for a Queen. Your makeup artist will have some alternative suggestions for you tomorrow.”
Because, of course, it was already too late to change for today. Pen would have to face the press for the first time ever knowing that many of them thought she looked like some sort of style-deprived tramp. She shrunk in her seat. “Right. Okay.”
“I don’t think—” Simon started, his voice official and a touch cold, but he was interrupted when the door connecting to the throne room opened.
“We’re ready,” said a man in a suit, motioning them out.
