Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

• Note to self: See if this can be arranged.

I tried to get Marie Rose to tell me where Michael is taking me, but she only giggled and said, “I can’t, Princesse. I promised. But I’ll make sure to feed Fat Louie while you’re away.”

Fat Louie! I almost forgot about him. I hope he’ll be all right. He’s getting on in years, which is why it’s easier to forget about him than it used to be, as all he does now is sleep and eat. He hasn’t eaten a sock in ages, he has no interest in them at all anymore as food, he only eats actual food.

Oh, what am I saying? He’s so old he probably won’t even notice I’m gone.

Don’t even ask me when Marie Rose had time to pack for me without my noticing.

Oh, here’s a birthday text from Tina Hakim Baba:

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

Happy birthday, Mia! I hope you have a great time. I wish I were going. But that would be weird, ha ha! Plus, I have exams.

P.S. Don’t worry about what it says on RTR. You’re #1 to me!

Aw. She’s so sweet.

So Tina’s in on Michael’s surprise, too? How did—

HE’S HERE!

CHAPTER 15

3:00 p.m., Saturday, May 2

Sleepy Palm Cay, The Exumas, Bahamas

Rate the Royals Rating: Who cares?

I will admit when Michael suggested a vacation, especially in a place with no television, Wi-Fi, or cell service, I was like “No way, how am I going to know what’s going on with NCIS work and world affairs? I’m the heir to the throne of a small principality and founder of a new nonprofit, my dad just got out of jail, I have to be in close touch with my people and family at all times. I can’t leave.”

But then when we flew into the Exumas (which are a string of little islands off the Bahamas), and I saw the clear turquoise water stretching so far around us, and the blue sky overhead like a giant overturned robin’s-egg-blue bowl, I began having second thoughts. Maybe I can deal with this. It’s only for a couple of days, after all.

When the limo from the airport pulled up to a marina, not the driveway to a hotel, and there was a speedboat waiting, I knew something very unusual was going on.

Michael still wouldn’t tell me where we were going, though. “It’s a surprise,” he kept saying, waggling those thick black eyebrows, which I love so much, especially when they get messy and I have to smooth them down with my fingertips.

Then the speedboat took us across the sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes aquamarine water to our own island, complete with a private dock leading to a thatched-roof cabana, inside of which is a king-sized bed so massive, you need a footstool to climb onto it (at least I do, anyway. Michael is tall enough not to need one).

There are two full his-and-hers baths (with teak shutters that open from the clawed-foot tubs to a spectacular view of the sea, so while you’re soaking in there, reading a book, you can also watch the waves, like in a commercial for erectile dysfunction). There’s a dining and sitting room, decorated to look like one of those old-timey beach houses from the movies where people wore safari suits and drank gin and tonics to prevent malaria and said things like “I’m terribly worried about the volcano, Christopher.”

And of course there’s an outdoor shower and hot tub, but you don’t need to worry about anyone spying on you using them naked, because the whole place is surrounded by a completely private beach, and there are no other living beings for miles around, except ex

otic seabirds and the occasional flash of silverfish leaping from the water against the pink sunset and a pod of dolphins that live nearby and come nosing around, curious about what we’re doing.

Dolphins. DOLPHINS.

And then there’s Mo Mo, the personal room-service butler assigned to us by the resort, who brings us succulently prepared meals three times a day by boat, and then also restocks the minibar and cleans our snorkel masks, before leaving us completely to ourselves. He rings the bell on his boat very loudly whenever he’s approaching to let us know he’s coming so we can put on our clothes.

Not that I don’t always have on clothes when I’m outside of the cabana, because I’m not about to pull another Me-Ah-My-Ah! and get spotted topless by a passing Google satellite or camera-equipped drone copter (though I know Lars and the rest of the security squad are stationed on the closest island with long-range sniper rifles, looking to take any of those out. This has become Lars’s favorite new hobby).

At first when I got here, I was like “Michael, this is insane. This is way over the top. How much is this costing you? You are spending way too much money. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but at least let me split the—”

Michael stuffed a rum-soaked piece of pineapple into my mouth and asked, “Can’t you relax for five minutes?”

So then I concentrated very hard on relaxing, which it turns out isn’t that hard to do when the sand is so white and soft and the waves so small and mild that you can simply walk a few steps out onto the beach, lie down, and let the warm water lap gently around you while the sun and sand sweetly embrace you until you finally fall asleep (fortunately having remembered to put on SPF 100).