Free Royal Wedding by Meg Cabot Page B

college-​educated, vital, attractive, newly-turned-twenty-six-year-old woman, with meaningful employment, a loving (if sometimes challenging) family, an amazing boyfriend, loads of great friends, and tons to offer the world.
    So what do I care what some nutcase on Rate the Royals says? Screw Rate the Royals. Everyone knows that if 95 percent of the people don’t hate you, you’re not doing your job right.
    So I’m going to ignore the haters, get out of this bed, and get to work doing what human beings were put on this planet to do: leave it a better place than they found it.
    (Which is something Rate the Royals will never be able to say it’s done.)
    P.S.
    Oh, Lord, I see I once again forgot to add tea bags to my grocery-store delivery list, so as soon as I’m done with this pot Marie Rose brought me, I’m out.
    But for some reason I have tons of cookies, ice cream, cheese popcorn, and cat food. At least Fat Louie will be all right. He has a plethora of varieties to choose from in his finicky old age.
    I’m sure if Rate the Royals saw how incredibly giving and kind I am to the animals, it would be worth another point. Prince Harry doesn’t even own a cat.
    P.P.S.
    No! I must stop this! I don’t care! I’m not going to stoop to the level of Brian Fitzpatrick. You thought you would bring me down, didn’t you, Brian? But all you’ve done is make me more determined than ever to conquer the universe with my wit, charm, and kindness.
    P.P.P.S.
    Would having the Royal Genovian Guard look up the ISP address of Rate the Royals and then send Brian Fitzpatrick a cease and desist be an abuse of my powers? Check on this. Because this is what I’d really like to do for my birthday.
    Aside from getting out of seeing Cirque du Soleil tonight. And, of course, sending Brian Fitzpatrick a box filled with deadly scorpions.

CHAPTER 12
    9:25 a.m., Friday, May 1
    Third-Floor Apartment
    Consulate General of Genovia
    Rate the Royals Rating: 5
    Was getting out of the shower when I got the following text(s):
    Michael Moscovitz “FPC”: Picking you up in exactly one hour for a birthday surprise. Take the bag Marie Rose has packed for you and meet me in the consulate lobby. Don’t bring your laptop. There’s no Internet where we’re going.
    Before I could text back that I couldn’t possibly do as he asked, I got this:
    Don’t argue. Just do it.
    Then this:
    P.S. Make sure she’s packed that bikini you wore to the beach last New Year’s. The white one.
    He added an emoji of a penguin experiencing what appeared to be a fatal myocardial infarction, since its heart was exploding from its body.
    I think this was meant to show love or possibly lust, not a marine animal suffering a brutal death, though I’m not entirely sure. Guys are so odd, especially guys who work with computers (and robots) all day, like Michael does, and also like to design their own emojis as a hobby.
    I know Michael meant his new emoji to be funny, but considering how Mr. G. died, it’s a little insensitive.
    Wait . . .
    Could this be what’s behind that strange shadow in his eyes? Simply that he’s been plotting something behind my back?
    No.
    What kind of place doesn’t have Internet access, though? Does that mean it also doesn’t have cable television? What if it really is a yoga/meditation retreat?
    God, I hope not. Michael knows I freak out if I go too long without television. It’s embarrassing to admit, but television is my drug of choice. And how will I be able to keep abreast with what’s happening on all the NCISs in Qalif?

CHAPTER 13
    9:45 a.m., Friday, May 1
    Third-Floor Apartment
    Consulate General of Genovia
    Rate the Royals Rating: 5
    Just dialed Michael’s cell, but he wouldn’t pick up.
    So then I phoned his office number, but his latest assistant (Michael goes through assistants the way I go through tea bags, only because he keeps