“Seriously,” I say, refusing to let her brush me off. “You’re in the prime of your life. There’s no reason for you to be alone if you don’t want to be. You should start dating again.”
Mother rolls her eyes and sighs as her hand falls from my face. “Wouldn’t the tabloids have a field day with that?”
“Forget the tabloids. Let them gossip. I don’t care, and neither do Jeffrey and Andrew. We’re not like Grandfather. Your happiness is more important to us than maintaining some kind of flawless royal image.”
She pulls in a deeper breath. “I know.”
“Do you really, though? Because I mean it. You could bang half the population of Baden-Bergen for all I care. I say get you some, Felicity, and Godspeed to you.”
“Oh, stop,” she says with a laugh, fluttering a hand through the air. “I will do no such thing. And this conversation isn’t about me. It’s about you and Zan.”
“No, it’s not. Because there is no me and Zan. Not now. Or ever. We both know that we’re better off as friends.”
Mother’s brows inch higher on her forehead. “Really? You’ve spoken about your feelings, then?”
“Not in so many words,” I hedge. “But we’ve come to an…understanding.”
“Well, then…” Her shoulders rise and fall. “I suppose my instincts are off this time. But just in case, please do be careful. I’m sure Vivian and Charles did the best they could, but it’s clear the girls practically raised themselves and bear the scars from being on their own as children. Sabrina and Lizzy seem to have come through that with their emotional resiliency intact, but I’m not so sure about Zan.”
I should keep my thoughts about that to myself, but I can’t help saying, “I think she’s more resilient than both of her sisters put together. If you google ‘tough cookie,’ Zan’s picture pops up as the top hit.”
“But it’s the tough cookies that sometimes crumble the fastest. Don’t confuse rigidity with strength, my love. Not with Zan and not with yourself.” She puts a hand on my back, her touch warming me even through my thick coat. “Focusing only on the positive can be its own shiny little trap.”
I ponder her words because that’s what smart people do when my mother tells them something. She truly is one of the most brilliant minds of her generation, and not just as an innovative heart surgeon.
She’s book smart and people smart.
And she’s not wrong about me—I know my tendency to look on the bright side can be a liability. It’s why I’m so careful when planning a mission. I force myself to imagine five worst-case scenarios and then brainstorm at least three more. And yes, I suppose my natural optimism can be a problem when it comes to relationships, too.
It’s important to see your partner for who they really are—warts and all.
But I definitely see Zan’s warts.
I’ve also read her agent file. Her record is exemplary. She doesn’t often make mistakes, and on the rare occasions she does, she’s quick to admit responsibility, change course, and come back stronger.
If the sky came crashing down, Zan would be the last one to crumble.
But my mother can’t help missing the mark when she isn’t in possession of all the facts.
So, I nod and say, “I hear you. I’ll keep an eye out for shiny traps—and for Zan. When we’re together, of course. Which won’t be often. With Andrew busy running the country and Lizzy and Jeffrey starting a family, group ski weekends are probably a thing of the past, at least for a little while.”
From there, the conversation turns to grandbabies—and how absolutely delighted Mother is about the news—and what I’d like Cook to prepare for my birthday dinner when I return from my trip, and things fall into an easy pattern once more.
Right up until we return to the castle to find Sabrina, Lizzy, and Zan playing a board game in the drawing room, all of them laughing so hard tears stream down their faces.
Seeing Zan like that—so full of joy, with her defenses down and her secretly sweet heart on full display—and then seeing how quickly she sobers, shutting down her happiness when she spies me in the doorway, I wonder.
I wonder if my mother might be on to something.
If maybe Zan isn’t as tough as she seems.
And if maybe I’m not, either.
Chapter Eight
Alexandra
The Von Bergen family’s plane is the epitome of swanky.
Very posh. Very royal.
And very private.
I pass the bundled-up flight attendant at the bottom of the steps, anticipating another inside the cabin, but there’s…no one. There’s only a plush leather couch on my right, four equally comfy-looking leather seats on my left, a bar with stools in the center, and if I’m not mistaken…
As I unwind my scarf, I shift over to peek past the bar.
Yep, that’s a bed, all right. A queen-sized number made up with pristine white linens and a quilt that particular shade of Gallantian blue folded at the bottom.