“Oh my god, don’t we all know it.” Imogen rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “God help us all until this wedding is over.”

“Are there lots of people in town for it?”

“They’re expecting a few hundred guests. And I’m full up.” Imogen pointed at the ceiling—she had guest rooms above the pub. “But if you mean tourism, or media, I don’t think there will be a lot of attention. Eldovia doesn’t really do tourism, other than of the skiing variety, and that’s not based out of here.”

“And there won’t be tabloids trying to get information?” Dani asked.

“No. The royal family doesn’t command that much attention. It’s not like the Brits, or even Monaco. The only one the tabloids seem to care about is Max von Hansburg.”

Right. “Leave it to you to choose the lowest-key monarchy to marry into,” Dani teased Leo.

“And thank god for it,” he said, raising his glass.

Imogen produced menus. “Are you staying for dinner?”

They did, and they lured Max and Marie down to join them. Marie wasn’t a celebrity in the way that Meghan Markle appearing at the local pub would be, but she did cause murmurs when she showed up. Imogen relocated them to what she called a snug, which seemed to be a huge wooden booth that had a door that closed.

The food was great, and the conversation was easy. After their plates were cleared, Leo scooted closer to Marie, and they started whispering, their heads together looking at something on a phone.

Which left Max, who was sitting across from Dani. They didn’t speak, just looked at each other and smiled. Like they had an inside joke. Like they both had a few screws loose. She didn’t even know, except that it felt impossible to stop smiling.

She’d missed Max these recent days. They’d seen each other only in passing, and though they’d been texting up a storm, it wasn’t the same. She had gotten used to the rhythms of him. Of banter and silence, of attention and retreat. In fact, attention and retreat pretty much summed up their entire relationship. Max could talk her ear off and make her never want to stop talking, but he could also create attic garrets and give her long stretches of time alone so she could work. She tried to tell herself that when she went back to New York, it would merely be a longer episode of retreat. She would see him again. Probably when he next decided to pop into town for a party—be it one of hers or one of his.

She didn’t like thinking about his parties, the places he picked up artists or met potential brides.

He tilted his head, and his smile changed. It didn’t go away, not entirely, but it grew kind of . . . wistful?