Page 72 of Royal Darling
“Wonderful,” Gabriel says.
“I had no idea you could sing like that, Emma,” Mother says. “If I’d known, I would’ve encouraged you more musically instead of pursuing languages.”
I smile. “I love them both, music and languages. And you gave me everything I needed. It was up to me to find what brings me happiness.”
Mother tilts her head. “I understand better what you and Jackson have in common.” The music onstage rises in volume with Jackson’s killer electric guitar riff. Mother winces. “Though his usual music is quite jarring.”
“It’s growing on me,” I say with a smile. “Could you hold onto this?” I ask Gabriel, holding out my guitar case.
The moment he takes it, I join the audience, elbowing my way to the front row and screaming like the ultimate fangirl. I lift my arms in the air and dance.
Jackson
I’m in a tux standing barefoot on the beach on Villroy Island on a perfect June day, about to marry my angel. If you had asked me a year ago if I thought this would be my life, that would’ve been a hell no. I was grieving Charlie, grieving the loss of my music, lost in dark despair. But now my future is bright. I’m about to marry my soul mate, do the whole family-man thing, and commit body, heart, and soul. This thing with Emma is better than money, better than fame, better than applause. It’s real and raw, a life filled with music and love. Creating music has never been easier. I delivered the new record to the label on time. It wasn’t well received at first. They thought it was too different from Ignite’s previous albums to put out. It did feature Emma’s voice prominently and have more blues and ballads than my usual. All’s well. My manager renegotiated the contract, and they put it out as a solo album under my name with the others credited as special guest musicians. Now our contract is finished. They’re letting Ignite go, and we’re all cool with that. I can’t be the guy I used to be with Ignite, none of us can without Charlie. We’re no longer a band so much as mates who play together whenever we can. Maybe little Jack, Charlie’s son, will join us one day. He’s starting piano lessons now that he’s all set with his trust.
I take in a deep breath of salty sea air. The press’s fascination has died down with me and Emma since we mostly lie low doing our own thing. There was no official royal announcement for our wedding in order to ensure our privacy. Apparently, Emma marrying on the beach instead of in the palace chapel is a huge break with tradition. She’s the first princess to choose to marry outside the chapel in the Rourke family history. That’s my Emma, forging her own path. We have security, of course, being out in the open like this, and a small guest list. My mum and brother are here, along with my brother’s wife and kids. My family is much more impressed with Emma as a royal than they’ve ever been with me as a rock star. Mum even admitted to being starstruck just meeting her. Emma immediately pointed out my finer qualities. “Jackson is an exceptional musician and a wonderful person. He’s the star, not me.”
What can I say, the woman adores me.
My former bandmates, John and Max, are playing in the background for the processional as Emma’s sister, Silvia, goes down the aisle, her matron of honor. I’ve chosen Lucas for my best man. We’ve become close as he’s spent more time at the palace, getting more involved in the business side of things for the new industry on Villroy. I couldn’t choose one best man among my bandmates, and my brother and I have never been close.
The song changes to “Emma,” the first song I wrote for her. She chose it to be her song to walk down the aisle. She appears on her brother Gabriel’s arm. No veil for my Emma. As her song says, she’s finished with any kind of veil, real or metaphorical. She’s wearing a diamond tiara that makes her look especially royal and a dark pink sleeveless gown with a keyhole cutout that shows off her cleavage. It’s sexy and surprising just like her. She meets my eyes, a smile playing across her lips. Raw emotion clogs my throat, my eyes watering.Hell. Don’t cry. Don’t you be the crying groom.I scrunch my watering eyes closed and open them just as Emma starts toward me, smiling at me with a knowing look.
The woman gets me. She knows I’m trying to keep it together and she knows why—I love her like crazy.
Her smile gets wider the closer she gets, lighting up her face. She’s happy to marry me, and I’m so damn lucky.
The moment Gabriel steps away, leaving Emma all to me, I cup her cheek and kiss her. I don’t care that I’m supposed to wait until she’s declared my wife.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper.
She smiles. “Thank you. You look very handsome in your tux.”
The ceremony is a blur, all of me tuned in to Emma as the minister buzzes in the background, prompting us for rings and vows. The flush to her cheeks, the pale pink of her luscious lips, the gold ring in her hazel eyes, her angelic sweet voice.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the minister announces.
Our guests cheer.
Emma wraps her arms around my neck, and I kiss her passionately, dipping her over my arm. My love, my life, my Emma.
I let her back up again, and she laughs. “That was some kiss!” she exclaims.
I pull her close and whisper in her ear, “Just wait for tonight.”
“Maybe we can sneak away sooner,” she says, grabbing my hand and striding down the aisle.
More cheers follow, confetti floating over us as the band launches into our Ignite hit “Inferno.”
Emma sings along to the song that was once too much for her sensibilities. She used to say it was raucous and jangled her nerves. Ha. She’s let loose and never been happier. She tells me that every time I tease her about her prim and proper ways. They pop up now and then, the manners and decorum drilled into her from birth. Which is why we’re spending our wedding night away from the palace on the royal yacht. She wanted the reminder of our first nautical experience (though at a much more luxurious level), and then we’ll be cruising along the South of France and to Italy. It’s gorgeous this time of year.
“Check out our cake,” she says, pulling me over to a long table filled with all kinds of pastries. In the center is a three-tiered white cake with a figure of a couple on top that looks remarkably like me and Emma. The rocker and the princess—me with my electric guitar wearing a black shirt pushed up to the elbows and ripped jeans, and Emma wearing a tiara and a pink gown. Even our decoration looks crazy in love. Wait a minute, is that…I peer closer. “Cocoa Puffs!”
“I had them added just for you.” She grins and admires the Cocoa Puffs ringing the edges of each tier. “I thought you should have your favorite food at our wedding.”
“Brilliant!”
“I can’t wait to smash it in your face.”
