Page 83 of Royally Matched
“That spreadsheet was… well, I’m not sure it’s been quite as useful as I thought it would be.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“Really,” she echoes, and I wish I wasn’t driving us up a winding mountainous path, with no place safe to stop, so I could instead look into her eyes.
“I suppose I’ve been working out you can’t choose a life partner based on data.”
“Is it okay for me to agree wholeheartedly with you?”
Her face creases into a smile. “It’s okay.”
“Do you want to talk about that?” I ask tentatively.
“I think I’ll just sit with it for a while, if it’s all the same to you,” she replies, and I respect her privacy, although inside my heart is beating hard in the hope that her realization could mean something big. Maybe even something concerning… me.
In silence, I continue to wind the car around the narrow road as we climb higher and higher up into the mountains. As we curl around corner after corner, the sheer drop to the valley below gets steeper and steeper until I can’t imagine getting any higher.
“Here it is. Monteluce,” I say as I turn up an even narrower road, the wheels bouncing along the cobblestones.
I slow the car as we slowly drive through this ancient village. Cobblestone streets wind between centuries-old stone houses bathed in the glow of the midday sun. Locals and tourists are enjoying coffee at outdoor cafes, and flowers add bright pops of color to the earthy tones of the buildings. There’s a church spire that rises above the town, a testament to the history of this place, with lush trees and rolling hills in the distance.
At the end of the street, there’s a roadblock with people milling around, with string lights crisscrossing overhead from one side of the street to the other, and food trucks and stalls selling what look like knickknacks.
“We’ll have to turn off,” I say, taking the first road on the right, leading up the hill toward the church spire.
“It looks like it’s a festival,” Sofia says.
A group of elderly people watch us from their seats at a café, and I can see Sofia trying not to wave at them like she’s on a royal procession. She’s not Princess Sofia today—just plain Sofia, my friend. There’s something freeing in that, and I can tell she feels it too.
I find a parking spot between two cars on one of the winding streets, smoothly parallel parking in one go. “Shall we go find us a professor?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
We climb out of the car, and I hand her the keys. “Thanks for letting me drive your sexy car.”
She laughs. “You did a great job.”
“Do I get a gold star to add to my sticker chart?”
“Of course you do. Top of the class.” She looks around for a street sign but finds none. “Do you know where we are?”
“A small village in the mountains called Monteluce, Your Royal Highness,” I reply, teasing.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what I meant. How do we find the professor’s street if there aren’t any street signs?”
“How about we ask some locals?” I gesture at the two elderly women deep in conversation. As we approach, I notice their intense expressions, likely discussing family or neighborhood gossip. They’re both dressed from head to toe in black, with bright white hair and crinkled skin, like carbon copies of my grandmother.
“Excuse me, ladies,” I say, taking the lead. Sofia’s trying to keep a low profile, after all. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Both women turn to look at us, and I hold my breath. Will they recognize Sofia as the princess?
“Aren’t you a lovely couple?” the taller one remarks. “Aren’t they lovely, Constance?”
“They are, Erma,” the other agrees, a shorter, plumper version with thick-rimmed glasses. “Such a lovely young couple. Are you here for the festival?”
“Of course they are, you silly old duck. Why else would they be here?” Constance retorts.
“Who are you calling a silly old duck, you silly old… goose,” Erma fires back, but they’re both smiling, like ribbing each other is a great game.