Page 25 of Royally Matched
“Theweather?” I scoff. “Come on! The weather? If I want to marry everyone I’ve ever spoken to about the weather, I’d have been married three hundred times already, probably more.”
“It wasn’t the topic of conversation that mattered. It was the fact that we shared an understanding.”
It’s insanity. That’s what it is. Insanity, pure and simple. My brother has lost his mind.
“What exactly did she say?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because a conversation about the weather doesn’t usually segue into a marriage proposal.”
“If you must know, she commented that it had been particularly warm for this time of year, and I agreed with her.”
“Oh, it all makes sense now. You like to talk about the weather. You’re a match made in heaven.”
Enzo turns the car onto the wide, busy downtown street where his office is located. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Marco. I don’t expect you to understand my choices any more than I understand yours. Shall we leave it at that?”
“Do I have any choice in the matter?”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.”
I clench my jaw, glaring at his profile as he concentrates on driving. “What if you don’t like her at the end of the month.”
“We’ll go our separate ways.”
At last, the man is making sense. “Good. Imagine being stuck in a marriage with someone who lives in a goldfish bowl who you can’t stand. You’d be like two unhappy fish, swimming around and around in circles forever.”
Enzo chortles. “You always did have quite the imagination, Marco.”
Realization dawns on me. Suddenly, it’s all become clear, like clouds parting to show the sun. I know what this is about. It’s about Maren, the woman Enzo dated for several years, breaking up about six or seven months ago now. They met when he needed some legal advice, and within about a week they were dating. It lasted for several years until she moved back to her native Sweden, ending their relationship.
“This is about Maren,” I say with confidence because I’m absolutely convinced it is. She was the one who left, not him, and he was shattered by it.
“It’s not about Maren or any other woman,” he rebuffs.
I stare at my brother, wondering at his choices—and certain this is some kind of knee-jerk reaction to Maren breaking his heart—not that he ever told me that happened, but it was obvious to me in his morose messages and look of utter dejection whenever we Face Timed.
Feeling the weight of my gaze, he looks back at me. “I’ve made up my mind, Marco. There’s nothing you can say to change it. You live your life your way, and I’ll live my life mine.”
He turns off the street into the parking garage, wherehe pulls his Mercedes into his parking space. Turning to me, he says, “Whatever your personal thoughts are, I need you on board with this as my personal assistant. I’ll need your help with coordinating the events the King wants us attending together.”
I pull my lips into a line. “Sure.”
His phone beeps and he skims a message. “Remember to compile all the papers for the Inigo-Forsyth project,” he says.
“I will.”
“And get the final stock take figures at the plant to Bettina by close of business on Thursday.”
“I will.”
“And ensure you send the revised sales targets to Stefan once you get them back from Jenny.”
“I will.”
“And—”
“Enzo,” I interrupt, wanting him to avoid repeating another instruction from a list he already sent me earlier today. “I’ve got this.”