Today, my hair falls in soft waves over the blue and white pinstripe dress Madame Ella altered. Gone are the heavy sleeves my mother once wore, replaced by lace ties that refuse to stay up properly. The ruffles at the bottom of the skirt have been cut clean off, and she sewed on a length of baby pink fabric that grazes the tops of my matching pink slippers. I never would’ve paired the two together myself, but they create a stunning garment.

The prince grins from the stoop, one shoulder casually propped against the doorframe. “I couldn’t wait until noon to see you.”

Do they teach princes to be charming or is this an inherent trait?

From behind his back, Ronan reveals two boxes. The white one I recognize from Madame Ella. It’s hard to believe she sent another dress already. She must be working round the clock.

The second is from the café where we went on our first date.

The pie inside appears to be the very same peach and blueberry masterpiece I enjoyed so much.

“You mentioned that you wanted to figure out how to make it yourself,” Ronan says with a deep flush along his starched white collar.

The fact that he remembered not only what I ordered but also my desire to recreate the recipe means more than any words of flattery ever could. Now I can really test the flavors to figure out the ingredients—assuming I don’t eat all of it first.

When I go to put the boxes on the hall table, I notice something shimmering in his pocket. Is that a flower? “Are you meeting another woman or is that for me as well?”

He glances down, then chuckles as he withdraws the bloom. “Oh, yes. Of course it’s for you.”

I spin the stem between my fingers, fascinated by the sunlight sparkling on the silver petals. “This is gorgeous.” Quite possibly the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen. The scent reminds me of a lily but isn’t quite as strong.

“I’m glad you think so. I picked it especially for you, from the castle gardens.”

“What kind of flower is it?” The petals look as if they’ve been dipped in moonlight.

“I’m not sure. I can ask the gardener if you’d like.”

“Please, do. I would love to know.” I thank him and bring my flower into the kitchen to retrieve a bud vase from the cabinet. The bouquet he sent me the other day sits in the windowsill, already wilting because the water has dried up.

It’s silly, but this solitary flower feels even more special.

Not that I don’t love bouquets as well, but a florist curated the bunch of roses and baby’s breath, whereas he picked this one himself.