“How’s married life suiting you?” I ask Dante, whose wedding I was best man at in the spring.
“She sends her best, and these.” Dante opens a tub of scones. “Freshly baked.”
“Cheese?” I ask.
“What else?”
“Tell her I adore her,” I reply as I breathe in the delicious scent.
“Who do you adore?” a feminine voice asks behind us, and we all turn to see Fabiana walking down the steps.
Right on cue, my stomach flips at the sight of her. She’s now wearing a pair of country-appropriate khaki shorts,sneakers, and a T-shirt, her hair tied up in her usual high ponytail, swinging from side to side.
She looks…well, she looks like she belongs here, there’s no other way to put it—not to mention completely hot. Her legs are long, slim, and lightly tanned, and her T-shirt is close fitting enough to show off the curves I’ve become all too aware of these past few days.
Both Dante and Rocco’s brows lift towards their respective hairlines, shooting me meaningful looks.
“Oh, it’s not what you think,” I say swiftly, before they say something to embarrass me.
“It’s not?” Dante asks with a smirk on his face.
“You didn’t tell us you were bringing a new girlfriend,” Rocco says.
The idea of Fabiana being my girlfriend fills me with a cocktail of emotions that I push away, andfast.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Fabiana Fontaine,” I say, and the looks on my friends’ faces turn from questioning towhat the heck?!before you could mutter the wordsarch nemesis.
“Fabiana Fontaine,” Rocco repeats dumbly. “As intheFabiana Fontaine? The journo?”
Fabiana offers her hand to my friends. “That’s right,” she says pleasantly, but then I’ve seen firsthand how she deals with her haters. All in a day’s work for her.
Dante narrows his eyes at her. “You’re the one who called Max a man-child, aren’t you?”
“Among other things,” she admits brightly with her usual confidence, seemingly unfazed. “Max has certainly delighted my readers with his antics over the years. I’ve simply labelled those antics.”
“Labelled? Is that what you call it?” Rocco grinds out. “Tell me, how do you always seem to know what he’s doing?”
“I could never reveal my sources,” she replies.
My friends share a look.
“So, why are you here? I mean, the two of you…together?” Dante asks.
“I’m working on a project with Max,” she replies. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your names.”
I’ve been so busy worrying about how this will go that I forgot my manners. “Forgive me. This is Rocco Mansoni and Dante Brownley.”
“We go way back with the prince,” Dante says.
“Royal Air Force,” Rocco adds.
“Great,” she replies. “So, you’re involved in the youth program, too?”
“We helped Max set it up,” Rocco says, his eyes narrowed at her, assessing.
“In that case, do you mind if I film you? I’m making social media content as well as writing articles, a kind of ‘here’s the real Prince Max’ exposé. You might have seen the TikTok of Max doing archery. I’ve just posted a picture of him looking all pensive on the train.”
Rocco’s eyes dart to mine. “And you’re down with this?”
