Chapter 18 #2
I rise to my feet and shake hands with them both. “It's a pleasure to meet you. You have a fine café here, and we’re very hungry.”
“You’re in the right place, sir. I’m Domenico, and this is my wife, Margaux. She does the cooking,” the man says, and his wife beams proudly.
“It would be an honor to prepare food for you, sir. Whatever you want,” she says. Her eyes slide to Fabiana.
“This is my friend, Fabiana,” I say, and as my eyes alight on hers, something passes between us.
“Hello,” she says as she raises her hand in a wave.
“Any friend of the prince is a friend of ours,” Margaux replies, and her husband nods his agreement. She gestures at my sweater. “Is this a new trend in Villadorata?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
“What can I get you both?” she asks.
We place our order, and Domenico and Margaux leave.
“I’m your friend, am I?” she says, toying with a paper napkin.
“I had thought of introducing you as my former arch-nemesis, but that might have caused an uprising in my honor. I thought it safest to go with ‘friend’.”
She lets out a laugh. “It would have made a great story, though. ‘Small town rises up in the name of prince’.”
“Are you always thinking of your next story?”
She shrugs. “A girl’s gotta eat. It’s my job to find stories.”
The knitter from the table at the back approaches us and gives a stiff curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to have you in our small town, Your Royal Highness.”
“That’s kind of you,” I reply, once again rising to my feet to shake her hand. Soon, the men join us, and I make small talk with all of them, complimenting them on their town and bemoaning the fact it’s not a clear day for us to be able to take in all its beauty.
This is not my first rodeo.
As they leave and I sit back down at the table, Fabiana says, “You’re good with people, and it’s clear they like you.”
“Does that come as a surprise to you?”
“It makes me wonder whether I should make a run for it before they work out I’m the one who’s written those stories about you. My life may well be at risk here.”
I shift in my seat, the question I’ve wondered the answer to many times on my mind. “How do you learn about what I get up to? It’s not like you’re there, recording it all, and if you are, I need to learn your disguise skills to up my game.”
“A good journalist never shares their sources,” she replies without actually answering my question.
I may have held myself back from pressing her on her past, but this part of her life concerns me personally. “Seriously. How do you get your stories? Although I haven’t loved what you’ve had to say about me, you’re always factually right, even if you’re sometimes missing the nuance.”
She leans her elbows on the table. “Tell me, Max, what was the nuance I missed when you slid down the slide into that pond, dislodging a school of fish?”
She’s teasing me, but it’s as though she’s purposefully deflecting.
Domenico arrives with our food and coffee, interrupting our conversation, placing a bowl of bacon on the floor for Toffee, who instantly chomps it all down, looking for more.
Fabiana and I devour our food like we’re competing in an eating competition.
“Oh, my. This is so good,” Fabiana says as she takes the final bite of her croissant, crumbs clinging to her lips.
“You’ve got a little croissant here.” I point at my own lips.
“Ditto,” she replies, and I quickly brush the crumbs away.
“Still hungry?” I ask, and she nods.
I signal Domenico, and this time we order pastries and cake, and a second coffee each.
I make a mental not to tell my PT about this carb-tastic meal.
Once we’ve finished, I lean back in my seat, totally full. “I may just slip into a diabetic coma after that feast.”
“No can do. I need you to drive me back to the city. Can you schedule your coma for after you drop me at the hospital?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Fabiana’s phone beeps, and immediately she pulls it from her purse to read the screen.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She breaks into a relieved smile. “Nona’s X-ray came back clear. No break, just a sprain.”
“That’s brilliant news.”
The door flies open, bringing in a whoosh of rain, and in steps a stocky man in wet weather gear and a police hat, rain dripping from him and pooling at his feet. “They’ve closed the road!” he announces.
“They’ve done what?” Fabiana exclaims.
He turns to look our way. “The road. It’s closed in and out of town.” Recognition flickers across his face, and he does a double take. “Are you…?” the man begins.
“He is!” Margaux beams, her hand held to her chest. “Royalty. Here, in our little café.”
The police officer removes his hat and bows. “Hello, Your Royal Highness.”
“Pleased to meet you, officer. What have you heard about the roads?” I ask.
Domenico asks, stepping from behind the counter. “What’s going on, Terry?”
“I was helping Juan Rogers get his tractor out of a ditch down on Grays Road when it came over the radio. Fallen trees to the north, a flooded river to the south. We’ll need to hold tight until the storm blows over,” Terry the police officer says.
Fabiana shoots me a look. “But surely there’s more than one road in and out of town?” she says.
He shakes his head mournfully. “There is but one road in and out of San Fiorenzo, miss.”
“One road?” She knits her brows, her mouth forming an “o”. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve lived here all my life. I’m sure,” he replies.
“But—” she begins, and I place my hand over hers.
“Your nona is in good hands. Her ankle isn’t broken. If we need to wait out the storm here, then so be it.”
She nods, her lips pressed together. “You’re right.”
“How long will it be before the road is opened, officer?” I ask.
He shrugs, his palms held out. “It could be hours. It could be days.”
I blink at him. “Days?”
“We will know when we know. By the looks of things?” He peers out the window, up at the gray sky. “I would say tomorrow or the next day.”
“Looks like we’ll need to find a place to stay for the night,” I say to Fabiana, who gives me a tight nod. “Is there an inn or a hotel nearby?” I ask.
“There’s an inn about four doors up the street. It’s run by Layla Foramina,” Domenico says.
“She’s my cousin,” Margeaux pronounces proudly.
“Is that the only accommodation here in town?” I ask.
“There’s a hotel about one kilometer up the road, but it’s full. My brother runs it,” Margeaux says.
“We don’t have any choice. Do we?” Fabiana says.
“Let’s go and see about some rooms,” I reply, and she gives a reluctant nod.
Fabiana tries to pay for our meal, but I pull rank, and then the three of us dash through the rain, arriving at the door to the inn. Sheltering under the awning, I knock on the door and read the sign, which says Osteria Delle Layla in peeling black paint.
“Thank goodness there's an inn or we might be sleeping in your car,” Fabiana says.
The door creaks open, and a woman in a dark blue dress, her white hair cropped short with a pair of purple-rimmed glasses balanced on her nose, greets us. “Margeaux said you were coming, Your Royal Highness.” She eyes my sweater, but she doesn’t pass comment.
“Word gets around quickly,” I reply. “You must be Layla. I hope you’ve got room for us, and that you take dogs.”
“You are all welcome. Please come on in out of the rain, sir, and—” her eyes land on Fabiana “—and friend.”
“I’m going to be reported as your latest fling,” Fabiana says under her breath as she steps inside.
“Are you going to report that?” I ask.
“Unlikely.”
Layla leads us up a narrow staircase, chattering about the storm and apologizing profusely.
“The view of the mountains is breathtaking. It’s such a shame you can’t see them.
” She comes to a stop outside a door. "I have only one room available.
The storm brought in several other travelers, and my inn is small but comfortable. "
Wait. Only one room?
She swings open the door to reveal a small but tidy room with a window overlooking the storm-lashed street.
And one bed.
One small bed, probably only a double.
My pulse leaps.
Fabiana and I both freeze in the doorway as Toffee pulls on her leash, eager to get inside.
Neither of us looks at the other.
“Are you sure you don’t have another room somewhere?” Fabiana asks, and there’s a distinct note of panic in her tone.
It doesn’t do my ego any good.
“We’re full to the gills, miss, but I’m sure you’ll find this room very comfortable. It has its own ensuite bathroom,” Layla says proudly, as though an ensuite will seal the deal.
“Thank you, Layla. You’ve been most helpful,” I say.
“I'll leave you to get settled, sir,” she says before she flashes Fabiana a look and leaves.
“Definitely your latest fling,” she mutters under her breath.
“There are no journalists here.”
“That doesn’t stop people from sending info to the media. Everyone’s a journalist these days.”
I reach for Fabiana’s hand and give it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about the one-bed thing. I’ll take the floor,” I tell her.
“No, I will,” she replies.
“Fabiana—”
“What? You’re the prince here.”
“I’m not going to sleep in a bed while you’re on the floor. It would be elitist and wrong.”
“There’s the socialist in you coming out again,” she says.
“I’ve slept on floors before.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “It’s a big enough bed for two, Max. I think we can both survive the night.”
“Right,” I murmur. Survive. “We're both adults. We can share a bed without—" I trail off, realizing what I was about to say.
Without what, exactly? Without me wanting to kiss her again, to hold her, to tell her how she makes me feel? Without noticing how beautiful she looks even when she's drenched in the rain, worried about her grandmother?
If she knew where I was going with that, she doesn’t mention it. “We could make a wall of pillows between us,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink.
“That sounds reasonable to me.”
“It should be only one night.”
An awkward silence settles between us as Toffee sniffs every corner of the room. Her little paws click against the wooden floor, the sound far too loud in the stillness.
The bed looms in my peripheral vision like it’s taunting me.
It’s time to address the elephant in the room. The very large, very plush, double-mattress-sized elephant.
“About last night,” I begin.
“We don’t need to talk about it. Really. It’s fine.”
“I think we do.” I run a hand through my hair. “Especially now we’re here for the night. Maybe two.”
She presses her lips together, her eyes flicking briefly to the bed before darting away.
“I don’t want you to think I’m the kind of man who would…take advantage of being here with you.”
“I don’t think that,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve seen what kind of man you are, Max. Remember?”
Her words land somewhere deep in my chest, and for a second, neither of us speaks. The air hums around us, my mind darting to things I should not be thinking about.
“I’m glad,” I manage, but my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Toffee hops onto the bed, circles once, and flops right in the middle.
“Well, it looks like the dog’s claimed Switzerland,” I say, hoping to cut the tension with a joke.
Fabiana’s lips pull into a tight smile. “You can have the left side. I’ll take the right,” she concedes.
“You sure?”
“Unless you snore, in which case I’m banishing you to your car.”
“No snoring, just endless sleep talking,” I shoot back with a grin.
Spending the night with her in this room gives me hope that I can break down her walls, get her to open up to the possibility of us. Yes, she’s shot me down. But this night together could be the thing that changes that.
Amusement flickers when she lifts her eyes to mine. “Are you likely to give away state secrets?” she asks.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
I swallow hard, because the image that conjures is dangerous.
I have no idea how I’m going to close my eyes tonight with her lying inches away from me behind nothing but a wall of pillows. Close enough to hear her breathing. Close enough to remember exactly what it felt like to almost kiss her.
Her phone rings, cutting through the moment. She glances at it, then back at me. “It's my nona.”
“Take it. I’ll get your suitcase. And no protests this time, okay?”
Her lips lift into a smile before she answers her phone. “Nona, how are you?”
I close the door behind me, hearing the lightness in her voice as she speaks to her beloved grandmother.
Tonight, we’re sharing a room, a bed. Even if she builds a wall of pillows made of stone, neither of us will come out of this experience unchanged. If I weren’t already halfway gone for her before, there’s no turning back for me now.
I’m falling for her, and there’s not a dang thing I can do about it.