Page 18 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

Jensen gave a curt nod and the team fanned out ahead of them. Once they’d checked out the café, and alerted the proprietor, two of the team sat at a table on the far side of the porch while the others took up positions at vantage points around the square.

Isabelle turned to him. ‘Okay?’ she asked.

Not really.

He swallowed his frustration and squeezed her fingers. ‘I guess.’ Leading her up the porch steps, he asked the proprietor—who had rushed out to greet them—for a table for two.

‘Yes, of course,monsieur,’ he said, then bowed so low to Isabelle, Travis was surprised he didn’t topple over. ‘It is a great honour and privilege to have you frequenting our establishment, Your Majesty.’

Travis bristled some more. Isabelle might be their queen but she wasn’t a supreme being—and the way people treated her like one was getting old fast.

The guy directed them to a table on the porch beneath the eaves, with enough bowing and profuse thanks to get on Travis’s last nerve.

He was used to some media scrutiny, and occasionally to being spotted and asked for his autograph—especially back when he’d been a champion sportsman—but this was next level. He was going to need the ten days after the wedding just to figure out how to handle this kind of attention for a year. How the heck had she managed to deal with it for a lifetime?

Isabelle, though, seemed unfazed, the polite shield firmly back in place as she thanked the man graciously.

Travis ordered a couple of hot chocolates, fully loaded—even though he was jonesing for a beer.

Once the proprietor had left them alone, he lifted her hand to tug off one of her gloves, then threaded his fingers through hers. The photographers were still shooting from across the square—but he knew the move wasn’t entirely selfless when she shivered deliciously.

‘That’s gotta suck,’ he said, keeping his voice low, so only she could hear.

‘What has?’ she asked.

He gauged her reaction, and realised she had no clue what he was talking about.

He had a vision of her as she had been as a young girl—taking on the responsibilities of a monarch when she was still grieving, still just a little kid. The weird pang of sympathy—and anger—on her behalf stabbed under his breastbone.

Not your business, Lord. Not your problem.

As far as he was concerned, monarchy was a load of hooey, a clever way to push tourist numbers and maintain the status quo. But he’d never given any thought to what it might be like for the people born into those roles. Was it a privilege or a curse?

A perplexed expression furrowed her brow and he had the sudden desire to make her forget they were on show.

He traced his thumb down the side of her face. Her vicious shudder had the heat curling in his groin—and the desire to distract and unsettle her became even more compelling.

Who cared if this was a business proposition? Didn’t mean they couldn’t give those parasites a show they’d remember.

He lowered his hand to rub his thumb across her knuckles.

‘Don’t you hate people treating you like a queen, instead of a woman?’ he asked, attempting to focus on the conversation, while also focussing on that plump bottom lip—which had captivated him in the forest.

‘Oh, that...’ She released a breath, her relief obvious. ‘You get used to it. I suppose.’ The wistful sigh made him wonder if she was lying to him now, or to herself.

Their drinks arrived, and an unguarded smile brightened her features. ‘I’ve never seen so much cream. Thank you, this looks delicious,’ she said to the young server, who beamed then left them alone again.

She lifted the long-handled spoon beside the tall glass, scooped a marshmallow off the top and popped it in her mouth.

‘You’re doing it all wrong,’ he murmured.

‘I... I am?’ she asked. The concerned furrow made him smile, her artlessness almost as appealing as how easy she was to tease.

‘Yeah.’ He lifted his own glass and took a sip, aware of the cream hitting his upper lip.

She gave a surprised chuckle when he lowered his glass. Then pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser.

‘Here,’ she said, reaching across to hand him the napkin, the stiff self-consciousness finally fading.

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