“Fine, fine.” Leslie Ann raised her wine goblet. “Never, ever.”
In the distance, the singer with a guitar began a James Taylor song, one Mum used to play when she wanted Dad to dance with her.
“Just yesterday morning…”
As he pulled the notes from the guitar strings, he pulled a few more thorns from Daffy’s holiday. She smiled at Leslie Ann. Yes, all was well. Mum was right. Good friends were a treasure.
The blonde presenter with porcelain skin and apple-green eyes reached around Ella to hug Daffy.
“All this emotion.” Jones feigned tears, dabbing his eyes with his napkin. “I can’t take it. So much love.”
“Jones, what is it about emotion you can’t handle?” Albert, the psychiatrist of the group. Always analyzing.
“No more pints for him.” Rick slid Jones’s glass to the center of the table. “And I have an announcement. I closed on the estate I’d listed last month. Finally. My commission will keep me well into next year.”
Applause and hoots circled the table.
And just like that, theirnormalresumed. Teasing banter, laughter mixed with serious news, and job details.
Daffy snuggled against Thomas, relaxed, half-awake and half-listening as Tonya detailed what she could of her day in court. With a long inhale, Daffy breathed in the woodsy notes of Thomas’s cologne. Most of it had faded, but what remained lingered in his shirt threads. She nestled a little closer and he gently stroked her arm.
The table talk moved to a debate over food. Just when they worked out which starters to order next, the pub door opened, escorting in the sounds of the streets along with three tall, broad men with the chiseled profiles of aristocracy.
One bearded bloke bore the undeniable kiss of the sun on his high cheeks.
Prince Gus.
Daffy looked away too late. The warmth of hertellspread across her face.
Dressed in a chocolate-brown coat and gray slacks with his dark hair wavy and loose around his face, he was no longer Pete George, the man toting a bin of dirty dishes.
He was the chap who rode into every girl’s dream on a white horse. Daffy’s blush burned hotter.
“Blimey, the princes are here with their friends.” Big, burly Frank, a former rugby player, rose from his chair. “Come in, lads. Shut the door.”
The first man removed his hat as he scanned the overstuffed room. Charles Larrabee, a longtime friend of the princes. He pointed to a man in the far back corner—Lute, yet another longtime friend.
Walking three abreast through the semi-silent pub, the trio made their way to the large table reserved for them, their regal confidence sparking the atmosphere.
Daffy watched Prince Gus, thinking she should look away. Not be caught staring. Buthewas here. She rubbed the tingling chill from her arm. As the men passed their booth, the prince’s gaze met hers and he nodded. Daffy just might implode.
Once they were seated, the pub chatter resumed normal volume and the singer covered another song. Daffy yanked up her jumper sleeves, loosened her scarf, and fanned herself with her hand.
“Are you warm, love?” Thomas flashed her a saucy grin. “From being so close to me.”
“See, I told you. She’s blushing.” Leslie Ann all but shouted as she pointed to Daffy. “That’s how I knew the prince was in Florida. Daffy blushes—”
“Will you be quiet?” Ella clapped her hand over Leslie Ann’s mouth. “Do you want him to hear you?”
Leslie Ann yanked Ella’s hand away, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Then stop shouting about blushing.”
“I never shout.”
“Then don’t say everything that wanders into your head.” Under the table, Ella squeezed Daffy’s hand. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, LA.”
“I beg your pardon—”
