Here is how I met my husband:
On a chilly, fall afternoon, I decided to take a trip to the small, picturesque downtown area of the city I live in. To keep warm, I popped into the coffee shop and ordered my usual – a small nonfat latte. I picked up the cup and turned to leave, bumping into the person behind me. The latte spilled onto his navy quilted coat. Embarrassed by my clumsiness, I over-apologized and reached for some biodegradable napkins. “That’s quite all right,” he responded, in a plummy accent that was unmistakably British.
We sat and chatted all afternoon, finishing a latte, a scone, and a cup of tea. We chatted until the sun went down.
That Christmas, he took me back to England to meet his family. We celebrated the holiday at his ancestral home, filled with dogs and puddings and distant cousins. Of barely-royal blood, he will soon inherit a Lordship from his father.
A year later, we returned to London for the holidays, but that year we took a romantic getaway to Paris. And there, on top of the Eiffel tower, as the snow began to fall, he proposed with an emerald cut Harry Winston.
But here’s the thing – I’m not married. There is no British husband in my real life. He only exists in my dreams.
Nevertheless, once a week I go to the coffee shop in the small, picturesque downtown area of the city I live. I look for a boy in a navy quilted jacket. Or a black quilted jacket. Okay, I look for any man under the age of thirty.
And even though he’s almost never there, and I never bump into him and spill my coffee, I know that someday… my prince will come.