“That’s more accurate.”
The baker made the cake out of tofu. (Michael’s attempt to be healthy backfired. It looked like a stack of wet paper towels.) The choir from the Genovian Royal Academy learned the wrong song—they were prepared to sing “Baby Got Back” instead of “Ave Maria.” And worst of all, the tiara arrived.
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Helga blinked. Then, for the first time in her career, she wrote something down without arguing.
Genovia is a small country, but everyone in it believes they are personally invited to my nuptials. The fishmonger who sold my father anchovies? Invited. The nun who taught me seventh-grade geography? She sent a formal RSVP—plus nine. “That’s more accurate
“It’s beige ,” she replied, horrified. “You will look like a slightly jaundiced ghost. No. We have commissioned a new tiara. A Meltzer tiara. The diamonds are the size of jawbreakers.”
“Hey yourself,” I whispered back.
One month ago, my handsome, sushi-obsessed, perfect-in-every-way fiancé, Michael Moscovitz, got down on one knee in the middle of a Genovian olive grove (he had an olive leaf stuck in his hair—it was adorable) and asked me to marry him. Obviously, I said yes. I’ve loved him since I was fourteen years old and he was a brooding artist who smelled like paint thinner and justice.