Royal Charmer by Kylie Gilmore

Author:Kylie Gilmore [Gilmore, Kylie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romance, royal romance, Romantic Comedy, Sagas, Royalty, the rourkes series
Publisher: Extra Fancy Books
Published: 2019-06-10T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Alice

By the time I’m ready for our day, dressed in a cute light blue short-sleeved tunic with white leggings and my favorite black glitter Keds sneakers, Lucas is back to the game, all charm and gallant behavior. It’s so fun pretending I have a besotted fiancé. My own real-life fiancé admittedly never came close to my romance-hero dreams. Probably Lucas wouldn’t either if I hadn’t specifically asked him to. It helps that he basically read my playbook by reading The Duke’s Dare. That story was my fantasy played out during a very unsatisfying college dating period. Imagine if my ex had made that kind of effort!

Our first order of business is finding me a formal dress for the ball tonight. He opens the door for me to a boutique with an enchanting collection of cocktail dresses and gowns. Lucas and the guards stand off to one side, looking impossibly manly and out of place in the feminine shop. I’ve never shopped with three men before. The saleswoman, a blonde in her fifties with severely sharp cheekbones, wearing a green A-line dress, greets us in French and leaves me to browse.

Within minutes, I’ve come to the embarrassing conclusion that women in Paris must be much smaller than me, because the sizes stop at ten.

I glance at Lucas waiting patiently for me to choose something, and then at the saleswoman. I’m about to tell Lucas I can make do with the dress I have when the saleswoman says pointedly to me in heavily accented English, “Perhaps try another shop for women like you.”

I nod jerkily, my cheeks burning.

Lucas fires back in French, and the clerk says something in a disdainful tone, waving her hand dismissively at me.

My gut churns. I’m so embarrassed I can’t think straight. All I know is I need to get out of here. I give Lucas’s arm a tug. “Let’s just go.”

“Yes, we’ll try a better shop,” he says. “This one has gone downhill.” He adds something in French that sounds like kiss off.

The moment we step outside, I blurt, “We can skip shopping. I can make do.”

“Too late,” he says, guiding me to a shop two doors down. “You wanted to go to a ball, so you need a gown.”

“But—”

“Stop arguing, darling. We’re supposed to be happily engaged.”

He opens the door to the next shop, his hand on my lower back pushing me firmly inside. I’m still flushed with embarrassment and unsure how to deal with the size issue. There must be at least one plus-size woman in Paris, right? I can’t bring myself to discuss it with Lucas, drawing his attention to my body shape. Sure, he appreciates my breasts, all men find them fascinating, but most men seem to prefer more of a stick shape to hold them up. The guards remain stone-faced witnesses in the background, and I force myself not to add in their internal dialogue over this mortifying situation. Yes, I’ve reached mortification levels. If this shop doesn’t work out, I

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