Alex's expression softens further. "We could stay longer than a week, you know. Or come back whenever you want."
The thought lingers, a pleasant daydream as we approach a small marina attached to what appears to be a restaurant perched right at the water's edge. Terracotta pots overflowing with bright flowers line stone steps that lead up from the dock, and tables with crisp white cloths are arranged on a patio overlooking the lake.
The captain expertly maneuvers the yacht into a spot, and a young man hurries down to secure the lines. Alex exchanges a few words in surprisingly fluent Italian while Julian helps me step carefully from the boat to the dock.
"You've been holding out on me," I tell Alex when he joins us. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."
"There are still a few things about me you don't know," he replies, his hand finding mine as we walk up the stone steps.
"You gotta keep her guessing, right?" Julian winks at him over my head.
"Something like that," Alex agrees, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips.
The maitre d' greets us warmly, kissing Alex on both cheeks before leading us to a prime table on the patio. I catch a few curious glances from other diners—not hostile or judgmental, just interested in the unusual grouping of a visibly pregnant woman with three attentive men.
"They're just jealous," Julian murmurs in my ear, having noticed my awareness of the looks.
"Actually," Tristan says quietly as we take our seats, "I don't think anyone here cares much at all."
He's right, I realize. The glances are fleeting, without the lingering stares or whispered comments we've grown accustomed to in New York. People notice, then return to their own meals, their own conversations.
"Italians have a different relationship with love and family," Alex explains, unfolding his napkin with precise movements. "Less puritan than Americans."
"Plus, who has time to judge others when there's food this good?" Julian adds as a waiter arrives with a basket of warm bread and a plate of glistening olive oil.
We order a feast of fresh seafood, handmade pasta, and local vegetables. The conversation flows as easily as the sparkling water that fills my glass and the wine that fills theirs. We talk about everything and nothing—Julian's plans for a new youth sports program, Tristan's latest development project, the nursery design I've been working on for weeks now.
Halfway through our meal, I notice them—a stunning woman with olive skin and dark hair pulled into an elegant knot, surrounded by three equally attractive men. They sit at a table close by, laughing and talking with the easy intimacy of people who know each other well. The men take turns filling her wine glass, touching her hand, leaning in to whisper something that makes her smile.
"Look," I say quietly, nodding in their direction. "Seems we're not as unusual as we thought."
My men follow my gaze, each with different reactions. Julian grins appreciatively, Tristan observes with calm interest, and Alex's eyes narrow slightly with recognition.
"The man on the right is Philippe Moreau. He owns half the luxury hotels in Monaco,” Alex says.
"You know him?" I ask, surprised though I don’t know why–Alex knows everybody.
"We've crossed paths." Alex takes a sip of his wine. "I don’t know the others though."
"They're not getting any weird looks either," I note, watching as a waiter delivers dessert to their table with the same professional courtesy he's shown us.
"It's like I said," Tristan comments, his voice thoughtful. "Different culture, different norms."
"Maybe we should move to Italy," I joke, though part of me wonders if life would be easier somewhere the raised eyebrows and scandalized whispers don't follow us.
"Or maybe," Julian says, covering my hand with his, "we just need to stop caring what anyone thinks."
"I stopped caring the moment I decided I wanted all three of you," I reply, feeling bold in this place where no one seems to bat an eye at our arrangement. This isn’t actually true, but I so want it to be.
Alex's eyes darken with something possessive and pleased. "To us," he says, raising his glass. "Exactly as we are."
"To us," we echo, our glasses meeting with gentle clinks.
As we finish our lunch, I catch the dark-haired woman looking our way. Our eyes meet and she smiles at me. I smile back, feeling a strange kinship with this woman I'll most likely never meet.
When we return to the villa, I kick off my shoes in the entryway, feeling the smooth tiles beneath my feet as my body feels like it’s still swaying from the time spent on the water.
The four of us move through the space with a comfortable rhythm—Alex heading to the wine cellar, Julian flopping onto the nearest couch, Tristan carefully placing our things from the boat trip in their proper places.
