Royal Wedding by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

ashamed of myself, and wanted to grab my checkbook and make a large donation to a cause of Paolo’s choice right that minute (except of course I’ve already made several this year alone—not to mention having donated huge chunks of my time, including only last night when I attended that benefit for Chernobyl).
    â€œI’m sorry, Paolo,” I said. “You’re so right. I do need to find balance in my life. Only I don’t know how. Do you have any suggestions, other than keeping a gratitude journal, which I’m already doing?”
    â€œ Sì! I think my new boyfriend, Stefano, can help you, Principessa.”
    â€œHe can? That’s wonderful! How?”
    â€œStefano has the healing hands!” Paolo cried proudly. “He can cure you with one touch!”
    â€œHe’s a masseur? Oh, how—”
    â€œNo, no, not the massage! The ancient art of Reiki, laying on of hands. Only the hands, they never touch you.”
    I was confused. “If they never touch you, then how do they heal anything?”
    â€œThe flow of energy from the universe! And for you, Principessa, Stefano do it for free. But of course after first half hour, it’s two hundred dollars for every thirty minutes.”
    â€œUm,” I said.
    Of course sweet Paolo has fallen in love with some guy who’s convinced he can cure people’s problems by waving his hands over them and channeling the flow of energy from the universe.
    But if anyone could actually do that, wouldn’t all of life’s ills have been solved already?
    I said, plastering on my fake smile, “Thank you, Paolo, that’s so kind of you, but I don’t think I have time right now. Maybe another day, all right?”
    Paolo looked disappointed. I know he’s probably been fantasizing about having his current boyfriend magically restore balance to my universe, and then me raving about it to the press. Then the two of them could open some new spa— Paolo and Stefano’s Universal Beauty and Wellness. If we can cure royalty, we can cure you!
    But I think it’s going to take more than one pair of healing hands to find the balance in my universe.

CHAPTER 8
    11:36 p.m., Thursday, April 30
    Third-Floor Apartment
    Consulate General of Genovia
    New York City
    Ugh. So glad that’s over. At least I looked good. Paolo is a true artist of hair.
    I couldn’t tell Lilly the truth about why I didn’t want her or Michael around tonight. It wasn’t that I was afraid of them getting oranges thrown at them (no oranges were thrown; everyone behaved with perfect decorum when Grandmère and I went out to greet our guests. Except for the booing).
    It isn’t even that the security system is still glitchy and that I’m afraid Michael will get caught entering the building in the wee hours and we’ll get more bad press.
    It’s that Genovians are snobs.
    That’s why they don’t want the Qalifi refugees to be given Genovian citizenship, even temporary Genovian citizenship. They barely think I’m good enough to have Genovian citizenship.
    My eye was twitching like crazy the entire time (when my jaw wasn’t aching from fake smiling), but I don’t think anyone except Grandmère noticed.
    Of course, even though I overheard half of them making catty remarks about the fact that I’m a “commoner” and, even worse, an American (but of course the other half of me is royal, so to them that makes up for it), they were falling over themselves in an effort to get selfies taken with me (and the portrait of my dad in the Grand Hallway, since he didn’t show up—probably a good thing, given his current state of near-constant inebriation).
    Now they’ll be busy posting their pics to their social media accounts, saying what a fantastic time they had.
    Since Michael wasn’t there, several of them asked me with fake concern if “everything is all right” between