Chapter Three
Allegra had a plan: blend in, drink cheap wine, and avoid doing anything that would end up trending on TikTok with the hashtag #PrincessGoneWild.
She perched on a wobbly stool at La Petite Reine—a dive bar across from the train station—swirling her rosé in a plastic cup. Beside her, Liam, an intern from the World Health Organization, was saying “epidemiology” like it was foreplay.
“So the burden isn’t biological per se,” he declared, swinging his blue UN lanyard, “it’s mediated by all these upstream social and economic drivers.”
“Oh, wow. Uh-huh,” Allegra said, fingers twitching toward her ponytail—newly walnut-brown courtesy of a drugstore dye job that had promised luminous confidence and instead delivered the texture of overcooked ramen.
She’d threaded the whole thing through the back of a Servette Football Club cap earlier, ostensibly for sporty credibility—the kind of woman who knew what a midfielder did and wouldn’t confuse a transfer window with an actual pane of glass.
In reality, the cap was there to shield her eyes and, hopefully, her face.
The ponytail was collateral damage: glued to the back of her neck by the July heat, refusing to swing, breathe, or show mercy.
Her thick-rimmed reading glasses, purchased from one of those racks by the toothpaste aisle, slid down her nose for the third time in as many minutes. She shoved them back up with a knuckle, willing them to stay put.
For her first outing as a normal person, Allegra had reinvented herself.
Tonight, she was Generic European Backpacker.
Yes, she’d Googled it. The budget clothing store on Place de Cornavin had been her battlefield; the racks of discounted summer wear her arsenal.
She’d emerged victorious in high-waisted denim shorts, a mustard-yellow tank top with a plunging neckline, and a push-up bra doing the Lord’s work.
The goal was simple: keep attention south of her collarbone. A lifetime in the tabloids had taught Allegra that men and cameras alike were drawn to all the wrong places.
Liam droned on. Something about mosquito-borne diseases.
Or food-borne diseases in cafeterias. Or mosquitoes in cafeterias?
Allegra had checked out around “vector control” and never quite found her way back.
She nodded along, swirling her wine as if contemplating the fragility of the global health system instead of his cheekbones.
He really was unfairly cute. The kind of cute that made her want to lean closer, just to check those lashes were real. And the accent? Each sentence rolled out like a lullaby for very bad decisions.
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” he said, raking a hand through his hair.
“It totally does,” Allegra replied, though she had no earthly idea what it was. Whatever. His forearms looked like they could lift a piano.
“So, you agree?”
“Uh, absolutely! Like, health is just so important to life, right?” She cringed, drained the last sip of her wine, and waved a hand as though that might magic away the sentence. Okay, so maybe she was a little drunk. But in that pleasantly fuzzy, I-have-no-title-and-no-security-detail kind of way.
“I’m going to grab another,” she said to Liam. “Want something?”
“No, I’m good,” he said, waggling his beer.
She hauled herself up and navigated the narrow stairs to the ground-floor bar. “Un verre de rosé!” she shouted at the bartender, who cupped his ear. “Rosé!” she repeated, pointing at the bottle behind him.
He poured and slid the cup toward her. Allegra paid, turned, and was immediately sabotaged by her own feet. Not entirely her fault. Someone had left a stool out. Her sneaker found it, and suddenly she was careening into a human brick wall.
Thud.
A startled “oof” escaped the very warm stranger she’d just body-slammed. Her drink? It exploded. A rosé waterfall splattering across his pristine white T-shirt like a Jackson Pollock of alcoholic regret.
“Merde!” Allegra gasped, steadying herself.
“Huh?” came the confused reply.
“Uh! I mean, sorry!” she said, fumbling for her purse. “Oh God, hang on—tissue—yes, here!” Without waiting for permission, she began dabbing, determined to erase evidence of the crime. Her tissue disintegrated, smearing the stain into a pink bruise.
“Please, it’s fine,” the man said.
But Allegra wasn’t listening. She was too busy focusing on the broadness of his chest, the way the fabric clung to it, and how the hell he managed to smell like soap and sin after being doused in house wine.
She looked up.
And froze.
Shit.
Okay, the intern was pretty—in a boyband, mom-approved kind of way.
But this guy? Dark hair sneaking out from under his cap, stubble outlining a jawline so precise it could’ve been carved by Michelangelo, and hazel eyes that latched onto hers as if she were the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
Her stomach lurched, her throat seized, and when she swallowed, she was convinced he heard the pathetic gulp of her dignity drowning.
“Hey,” he said finally, voice irritatingly smooth. “You okay?”
American. Of course he was.
Allegra shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose and nodded once, decisively, hoping it would somehow convince him she was totally in control. “What? Oh, yeah, fine.”
“So, always introduce yourself like that?” the man asked, one eyebrow quirked.
“In my defense, I was trying to get a drink!” She brandished her empty cup like Exhibit A. “And you just appeared out of nowhere!”
He tilted his head, wrinkling his nose. “I was standing still. You appeared into me.”
Allegra barked out a laugh, heat creeping up her neck and painting her cheeks. “Okay, maybe my depth perception’s taking the night off.”
“Uh-huh. So how many drinks are we blaming for this?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his damp T-shirt.
She wiggled her fingers. “Somewhere between three and definitely more than that.”
“Ah,” he said, the corners of his lips tugging up. “That include the one you just baptized me with?”
Allegra grimaced. “I’ll fix it.”
“Really? And how would that work?”
Her mind blanked, then latched onto the first idea that popped into her head. “We could swap tops?”
He frowned, but his eyes were dancing. “Swap tops?”
“Yeah!” she said, pointing between them. “You get my tank, I take your wine shirt. Fair trade.”
His face did the universal oh, really? expression.
“Kidding!” she blurted. “Obviously! I don’t just strip in public! Well, except that one time in Playa del Torn with my sister. A dare. Parents found out. Disaster. Total disaster. Shit.”
He bit down on his lower lip, cheeks quivering as if he were holding back a laugh. “Riiight.”
“Anyway,” she said, prodding him in the pec—purely for emphasis, definitely not research—“you’d actually fill this top out, and then I’d have to hate you.”
His eyes dipped and snapped back up, face turning the color of a stop sign. She couldn’t help it. A smug thrill unspooled in her chest. Despite their bluster, Americans were adorably terrified of boobs.
“Uh… yeah,” he mumbled, clearing his throat.
Neither of them moved, as if trapped in some invisible force field of awkward tension and body heat.
Her brain screamed at her to say something smooth, something cool, something that didn’t betray the fact that her stomach was performing cartwheels. Instead, her mouth panicked.
“So you, um, do the bitey-sucky stuff too?”
His pupils flared, and he jerked back half a step. “I—sorry, what?”
“Mosquitoes and vectors and shit,” she said, waving her hand in a circle.
“Oh.” His shoulders drooped, though one eyebrow stayed lifted. “Vectors?”
“Yeah. Like work here? In Geneva?”
“Ah! No, just visiting. You?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding like a bobblehead, not answering anything.
He took a breath and offered his hand. “Well, I’m Nate.”
“Alle-er-Ella,” she said, shaking it. A zing shot up her arm, and she hoped it didn’t show on her face. “From Austria,” she added quickly.
He hadn’t asked, but his grin said he didn’t mind.
“Right. I’m from—”
“The US.”
He blinked. “Uh, yeah. The accent.”
“Also, the crew socks and sandals. And the, like, head.” She lifted her shoulders, a spark of mischief humming beneath her ribs.
“Okay, first of all,” he said, glancing down at his feet, “the socks-sandals look is a vibe where I’m from. And second, what’s wrong with my head?” He reached up to pat it, as if checking for hidden corners.
Allegra snort-laughed. “Nothing. It’s just…” She squinted at him, then mimed a box in the air. “Very Ken Doll, you know?”
“So, we’re profiling now? Footwear, skull shape.” He clutched his chest, mock-offended. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me these shorts are too cargo-y for Europe?”
“Oh my God, they so are,” she giggled, gesturing at his thighs before realizing how that looked and yanking her hand back. “And your smile, too white. And your teeth, too many.”
“Too many teeth? What, do Austrians ration them?”
“Only the good ones,” she said, tapping her chin as if she were considering. “You must’ve stolen yours from a dental clinic.”
“Got me.” He flashed a grin again.
“See?” she said, pointing. “Perfect. It’s gross.”
“Alright, alright,” he conceded, holding up his palms. “But if we’re doing stereotypes, I bet you’ve got lederhosen hiding in your closet?”
“I do,” she said, deadpan. “They’re my formal judging attire.”
“Ouch. Douse me in rosé. Insult me. Your whole country this mean, or is it a you thing?”
“I’m doing you a favor,” she said, chin lifted. “Someone has to save you from those fashion crimes.”
“You are mean.”
“And yet, you’re still talking to me.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes flickering to her lips. “Weird, right? Must be your flawless English.”
Her cheeks warmed. “No other reason?” she asked.
Nate opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, an arm slid around her shoulders.
“I wondered where you’d got to,” Liam’s voice rumbled behind her ear.
Ohhh. Right, him. The Irish guy, whose face had somehow vanished from her brain. Her head twisted toward Liam, then back to Nate. “I, uh, spilled my wine. On… this is Nate.”
Liam’s eyes flicked to Nate, a thin-lipped smile cutting across his face. He made no move to shake Nate’s hand. Allegra felt a tiny shiver of nerves—or maybe excitement—run down her spine.
“Well, anyway,” Nate said, “nice to meet you, Ella from Austria. I should go clean myself up.”
He tipped his head in a quiet goodbye and slipped back into the crowd. Allegra inhaled to call him back but paused. Something gleamed near her toes: a silver rectangle. His phone. Fantastic. She’d literally tackled the man and mugged him in the process.
“Wait!” she yelped, scooping it up and weaving through bodies. She followed the path he’d taken, pushing her way toward the exit until the humid night air hit her. Outside, the crowd thinned to scattered groups. And there, just ahead, a man in a cap, turning toward the station. Her pulse leapt.
“Nate!” she called, jogging after him. He didn’t turn. She picked up speed, reached out, and tapped his shoulder.
The man spun.
Not Nate. A bewildered stranger.
“Oh, sorry! Wrong cap,” she said, backing away. She scanned the station entrance again. Nothing but a rush of commuters and the screech of an arriving train. He was gone. Deflated, she tucked the phone into her purse. He’d have to come back for it eventually, right?
With a heavy sigh, she trudged back inside.