Charmed By The Mountain Prince(5)

Dahlia looks concerned.

“I suppose I’m a little anxious,” I sigh. “But the good kind of anxious. I want an adventure. It isn’t about fancy ball gowns and royal balls—those would be fun, but really, any adventure will do. You know that I’ve been waiting to start my life for as long as I’ve been alive.”

“Yes, we all remember when you tried to run away,” Dahlia says, raising an eyebrow. “But Iris, you’ve had a life right here in Elexia. It’s not like living here is the worst thing in the world.”

“How many times can we collect seashells and go swimming in the waterfall and pick coconuts? I want something more.”

“But Historic Alpinweiss isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. You’ve seen it on the Internet, haven’t you? You know there aren’t massive shopping centers or Michelin-rated restaurants. Alpinweiss has big cities, but the castle is located in the heart of a Bavarian-esque village. It might be more like Elexia than you want to admit.”

Dahlia bites her bottom lip as she folds my underwear. Because that’s the sort of girl Dahlia is: an underwear folder. Slow and cautious. Methodical and concerned.

“Don’t give me that,” I say, grabbing the panties from her fingers and tossing them onto the pile of clothes I’ve gathered to stuff in my suitcase. “The Internet doesn’t always give you the most accurate picture of a place. So what, Google maps didn’t locate a shopping mall in the village. That doesn’t mean there aren’t carefully curated boutique shops full of one-of-a-kind pieces. It doesn’t mean there aren’t independent cafés that have underground followings and off-the-grid infamy. I’m not looking for expensive stores on Rodeo Drive. I’m just looking for something different. Something exciting. Something new.”

I fall to my bed, dramatically clutching a pair of underwear, my eyes wide open and my heart bursting and everything full and alive.

Possible.

“I just think your expectations might be a little high?” Dahlia says, lying in the bed beside me, grabbing my hand. “I don’t want you disappointed, Iris. And the truth is, you haven’t even seen a photograph of your husband-to-be. Isn’t that a little ... alarming?”

“Dahlia, you’re supposed to be the supportive sister. Not the one raining on my bridal parade.”

“I’m not trying to rain on anything,” Dahlia promises, and changes the subject. “I can’t believe were all actually getting married. Do you think Violet is happy?”

“I’m sure she is. In fact, I think Violet and Hunter’s rocky road to the altar confirms that things don’t have to be perfect for them to end well. Garrick is a reclusive mountain prince, so what? He could be holed up in a castle library, drinking whiskey and reading Proust. We have no idea what he’s like. There are worse things than not having a photo on the Internet, aren’t there?”

“There are worse things,” Dahlia agrees. “Garrick could not want to marry you.”

I look at my sister aghast. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Of course Garrick is going to want to marry you,” Dahlia insists. “Iris, you have a perfect heart-shaped face, golden hair to your waist, bright blue eyes that shine like the sea, and a go get ’em attitude that can charm the pants off anyone. Any prince.”

“Thanks, Dahlia. I just want everything to go perfectly.”

We sit up in the bed, both of us knowing the time has come for me to board a plane to my new home.

“And listen,” I tell her. “I know when it’s your turn to get on a plane to your prince, you won’t have any sisters here giving you a pep talk, but you must promise to call.”

“I’ll call,” Dahlia says squeezing me. “But right now, you don’t need to focus on me. I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Well, stop your worrying. Because there’s literally not a single reason to think that this won’t go exactly as I’ve dreamed.”





4





I finish stacking the wood that I spent yesterday chopping, and use a cloth to mop the sweat off the base of my neck. I look around the yard for my discarded shirt and grab it, then button it up as I walk into the cabin.

My back is slick with sweat and my flannel shirt sticks to it. Walking over to the sink, I pump water into a basin and wash the dust from my face. I scrub my knuckles and my fingertips, knowing my mother will look down at me if I show up to my wedding with dirty hands.

I look around my cabin, the place I’ve called home for the last eight years. I built this place with my own two hands when I was still a teenager being tutored in my parents’ fancy-ass palace. In the afternoons I’d come out here. I laid the foundation, then chopped down one tree at a time as I built my four walls, as I put a roof over my head. It’s strange to think I’ll be sharing this room with another person tonight.