Page 55 of Royally Matched
For the record, I only did that because Mohammed had called me in a panic, having been let down by some volunteers. So, I’d dashed to the garden, throwing a change of clothes into the back of my truck, thinking I had enough time to get the work done and get to the gallery. But time had run out when the two of us had wrestled for too long with getting a mature lemon tree into the ground. I figured it was better to turn up late in my work clothes than not at all.
It turns out, according to Enzo, I should have stayed in the garden.
That’s so not Sofia’s style. It’s like she’s practiced at being a princess, and that practice has created this flawless perfection that seems impossible to crack.
But I’ve caught some glimpses of the real woman beneath the cracks. I’m learning there is so much more to this woman than just being the perfect princess, a beautiful, unattainable representative of the royal family.
Take Lemon and Pepper for instance. Would a perfect princess have a couple of terrorist dogs who delight in running amok? Two dogs who clearly adore her, and she they?
She reads books to children in lower socioeconomic areas like Tideswell before stopping by to see my community project, showing an interest in what we’re trying to achieve.
And she has this way of looking at me, as though I’m the only man in the room, her gaze intense, with more than a hint of fire that sets my heart alight, yearning for so much more from her.
“Let us honor their memory by committing ourselves to the cause of peace, by standing together in unity, and by cherishing the freedoms for which our fellow countrymen fought so valiantly. We will remember them,” she finishes, and as she lifts her face, her eyes are glistening, and I know her words have struck a deep chord in her.
As the crowd applauds politely, I let out a heavy sigh. As much as I feel for this woman, with her beauty and deep, soulful eyes, as much as I believe she feels for me too, we can’t ever express it to one another. Not when she’s chosen my brother.
But really, what was so important he couldn’t be here on a Sunday?
With the formal part of the day over, we shuffle out into the bright sunlight. Sofia is talking with the mayor and the head of the church, so I lurk in the shadows, hoping she’ll look my way.
I pull the tattered sheets from my blazer pocket and skim them, despite the fact I’ve read them so many times I already know them by heart.
Follow paths where scholars tread,
Texts of old, where knowledge is spread.
Deep within the palace core,
Find the scroll of royal lore.
Through hidden doors and passage tight,
Navigate by candlelight.
In chambers where the old kings rest,
The scroll will put your questions to rest.
As though I’ve sent a telepathic message to Sofia, she says her goodbyes and, trailed by her ever present security, she makes her way over to me.
“Wonderful speech,” I tell her.
She offers me her pleasant princess smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“No, I mean it. I could tell you meant what you said. It added resonance to your message. I felt it here.” I place my hand over my chest.
This time, her smile is more genuine. “I do try my best to connect with people, particularly about something as important as the sacrifices the people of our country have made for our freedom.”
“You connected,” I tell her softly, and watch with a certain level of satisfaction as her cheeks pinken. “Sofia, I need to show you something.”
“Yes?”
I glance around us at the throngs of people. “Not here.”
“My car. We can drop you wherever you need to be.”
“Perfect.”