Royal Wedding by Meg Cabot

evening when Mo Mo brought a helper with him—he’d never done that before when setting up for any meals. The helper was a professional chef named Gretel.
    Mo Mo set up a little table for two in the sand, looking out toward the sunset, with a white tablecloth and two rattan armchairs. Then he sank a couple of tiki torches into the sand and lit them.
    Meanwhile, Gretel was setting the table and laying out all the food, which I couldn’t help noticing included several things that have lately become my favorites, such as grilled shrimp in pasta with mozzarella, jumbo lump crab cakes, and tuna tataki.
    Also, Michael had actually gotten dressed—and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just for Gretel’s sake, because he’d changed out of his board shorts into real pants—long khakis—and a white button-down shirt.
    I also spied a bottle of champagne sitting on ice in a silver cooler.
    I didn’t want to think anything was going on other than a nice Saturday-night dinner, despite what the press (and Tina Hakim Baba) has been saying for AGES. I love romance novels, too, but as I keep telling Tina, in real life things don’t always work out that way.
    But suddenly it seemed possible Tina could be right for once. She’s been asking me some odd questions lately, though I thought they were related to her breakup with Boris, or her love of The Bachelor .
    â€œWhich do you think is more romantic,” Tina asked me not even a week ago, “finding an engagement ring in a conch shell or a champagne glass?”
    â€œNeither,” I had replied. “Both are better than a big public proposal, like on a Jumbotron, which you know is the worst, because what if the person being proposed to wants to say no? She’d feel terrible.”
    â€œI know, but if you had to pick one.”
    â€œA champagne glass, I guess. Sticking a ring in a conch shell would probably kill the conch if there were one alive in the shell.”
    â€œTrue,” Tina said.
    â€œWhich did The Bachelor do?” I asked her.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Uh, conch shell.”
    â€œTypical,” I said.
    So when I suddenly saw Michael had put on a shirt, I thought, What if it isn’t because he simply feels like dressing up for dinner? What if he’s going to propose?
    Of course there was that ever-present voice of self-doubt in my head (that probably all those people who see me in magazines would never believe exists, because of the way I project myself publicly) that whispered: Don’t be an idiot. He’s not going to propose. He’s going to announce the news that he can’t take it anymore, and break up with you!
    But as Mr. Spock would say on Star Trek , that’s not logical. No one brings a woman all the way to the Exumas to break up with her. So I quickly squashed that voice.
    My next, more rational thought was Or what if he has a ring in his pocket?
    I decided Paolo was right: I do need to enjoy my diamond shoes. Not only enjoy them, but start dancing in them.
    So I ran inside and showered and put on the nice sundress that Marie Rose had, thankfully, packed for me. Then I added some mascara and came rushing back out, my hair nicely combed (since, whether I was getting broken up with or proposed to, I didn’t want it to be while I was wearing a swimsuit, my oldest Havaianas, and Michael’s own New York Yankees T-shirt with the holes under the sleeve, with my hair in a ratty knot on top of my head).
    But even though I’d been very quick, by my estimation, Mo Mo and Gretel and the boat were long gone, and there was only Michael standing there . . .
    . . . at the end of a path of pink rose petals someone had scattered from the porch of the cabana, where I was, to the little table, where Michael stood, holding a glass of champagne for me.
    â€œThirsty?” he asked. Behind him, the tiki torches were flaming merrily away.
    Okay. I was probably not getting