This came from thinking more about a flashback scene in "Better Than Ice Cream." It is complete for now, but I might add a little scene later on if I can figure out how to work it in.
I don't own these characters, and that's alright as long as Meg Cabot and Disney don't mind that I play around with them occasionally.
As always, thanks for reading!
"I suppose you'll want to start thinking about your birthday ball."
"Hmm?" She was standing by the window, staring out of his warm-as-whiskey, book-scented office and into a beautiful, snow-covered day. Her thoughts were still with the previous topic on their agenda, and the more she became aware of the turn in the conversation, the more they wanted to stay there.
She hated her birthday ball. He knew that.
He walked over to where she stood and leaned his shoulder against the wall. From the corner of her eye, she could see that he stared at her openly, admiringly.
"Clarisse?" he prodded. He knew she was avoiding the subject.
"Rupert?" she returned, mimicking his drawn-out expression of her name, the emphasis he placed on turning up the last syllable.
"I know it's not your favorite event, but it is coming up in a mere couple months."
"So many women complain that their husbands never remember their birthday." She turned toward him now, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, and leaned against the opposite side of the window. She wondered how they looked, mirroring each other like a pair of monarch bookends. "I wish I had that problem."
"Honestly, I don't understand the issue. You are a queen, beloved of her people, and there is nothing wrong with marking the occasion of your birth."
"My people are not going to be there. Just the same group of tiresome, gossipy old women and their pompous, toe-stomping husbands who are disgustingly handsy when they dance with me."
"Perhaps you should consider a pair of steel-toed boots to go with your dress."
She smirked insolently at his remark. He laughed, considering both his humor and her reaction to be funny.
"Speaking of your dress, have you any ideas for it?"
"As I am trying not to think of the event, no. I have not."
His eyes glimmered mischievously. "Oh, really?"
"Really." She silently cursed him for knowing her better than that. No matter how dull or unpalatable the reason for it, she always did relish a new gown.
He ignored her insistence. Instead he pursed his lips and studied her carefully. "Something that sparkles. And red. You should go with red."
"I detest red."
"Because…?"
"Does there need to be a reason? I can't explain it. I simply don't like red. It's fine for others, but not for me. "
"I have a theory on that."
"Is that so? How I do wish to be enlightened."
He smiled indulgently at her sassing. "I think you believe it makes you stand out. That it takes the usual limelight and turns it up a notch."
"Intriguing."
"I'm right, aren't I." It was a statement rather than a question. Of course, he was right. He didn't need her to confirm it, so she remained silent. "I have news for you, my dear," he said with mock reluctance, his eyes sweeping over her form. "You could show up in a burlap sack, and you still would steal the show."
Even after all these years, he knew how to make her blush. Not that his compliments were borne out of a classic romance. Their marriage had been arranged, and with two sons well into their teenage years, physical intimacy had eventually receded from their relationship. And after all, she was well aware that he had a penchant for the sparkly type of woman who looked stunning in a red dress.
No, it was precisely the lack of intimacy that made her uncomfortable and prone to blushing. It made his assessment of her too casual and objective, coming from a friend and business partner who had the insight of a lover. She turned her head to look out the window again, hoping he wouldn't notice.
But he did. She sensed him smiling. He had always found her modesty in all areas of their life together to be endearing.
Suddenly, he came into view. She couldn't miss him, his dark figure in stark contrast with the bright white of the landscape. She told herself she hadn't been looking for him, although if she thought about it, this was the time he usually went for a run across the grounds on his afternoon off. Winter didn't freeze Joe Romero's ambition: if the walkways were sufficiently clear of snow and ice, he would bundle up as needed and run regardless of the temperature.
Her own temperature experienced a slight rise, and the color in her cheeks, much to her mortification, deepened slightly. Hardly enough to be noticeable.
But Rupert noticed. Without moving a muscle in the rest of his body, he shifted his eyes to look out the window. He did not seem surprised to learn what had caught his wife's attention. While he remained still, she began to fidget to try and cover up her embarrassment.
Rupert returned his gaze to her as he broke the silence.
"There certainly is no accounting for taste."
Her head snapped toward him and she felt indignant, although over what specifically she couldn't say.
He lifted his eyebrows innocently as if he had still been talking about formalwear. "Personally, I like red."
"I've noticed," she murmured. "And sparkly."
His eyes became sad and he gave her a rueful smile as an inadequate apology for a great many things, only some of which were truly his fault, and all of which they had long since given up arguing over. She sighed and turned away from the window as he straightened his posture.
"See you at dinner?" he asked kindly.
"Of course." She gave him an apologetic smile of her own before she left his office, having decided what color she would wear. Maybe when he saw her two months from now, Rupert would think she had chosen black rather than the usual pastel or neutral, to mourn the fact that she had to suffer through another birthday ball.
But she doubted it. He knew her better than that.
the end (most likely)