Page 33 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

brIANNA

A fter visiting Blake at the hospital this morning, I’ve spent the rest of the day trying to understand what happened. No matter how many times I replay our conversation, it still doesn’t make sense.

When Dr. Shepard said I could see Blake, I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders. I was excited—relieved, even—to see with my own eyes that he was okay.

I thought he’d be happy to see me. He wasn’t.

He didn’t even want me there. That stung.

I told myself he was just weak and needed rest. But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure that’s the only reason he pushed me away.

Something else felt ...off. I’ve racked my brain for an explanation. Still nothing makes sense.

The good news is that Blake is being released. Josh is on his way to the hospital to bring him home. They should be here after dinner. It’s hard to believe that only twenty-four hours ago we weren’t sure Blake would survive.

I’m relieved he’s recovering quickly, but I don’t know what to expect after this morning’s frosty reception.

What if he still doesn’t want me around?

How am I supposed to continue investigating him if he shuts me out completely?

Not to mention—it’s a blow to my ego. A princess is rarely unwelcome company.

Steeling myself, I walk into the kitchen. Fausto is preparing a salad while Erin and Natalie chat nearby.

Plastering on a smile, I ask, “Should we ask Fausto to make some comfort food for dinner while we wait for Josh to return with Blake?”

“That would be great. I’m starving,” Natalie says.

“Sounds good,” Erin agrees.

I turn to Fausto and ask, “ Potresti cucinare spaghetti alla marinara con pane all'aglio, per favore? ”

“ Sì, naturalmente, ” he replies.

Following up, I tell him that we want him to share the spaghetti marinara and garlic bread with us.

He nods, already humming as he scurries around the kitchen gathering ingredients. I smile. The request clearly made his day.

An hour later, the smell of butter, garlic, toasted bread, and simmering tomato sauce draws me back to the kitchen. Natalie and Erin are standing at the kitchen island across from Fausto. I’m jealous when I see that they’re tasting slices of garlic bread while they watch our chef cook.

“Hey! That’s not fair. Where’s my garlic bread?” I ask, pretending to pout.

Erin slides a breadbasket toward me, stealing another piece for herself in the process. Between bites, she says, “This is the best garlic bread I’ve ever had. You need to tell him to make more.” She winks at me, knowing that Fausto understands her English fine.

“Let me try it.” I take a bite. “Mmm. Erin, you’re right. This is fantastic. Fausto, questo pane all'aglio è delizioso. Pane extra, per favore. ”

Remembering to translate everything is tedious, but I grew up speaking French, Italian, and English, so it’s not difficult.

“Sì,” he says with a satisfied nod.

“I need to check in with my superiors. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay, but you better hurry if you want any more garlic bread,” I call after her.

This is the perfect opportunity for me to learn more about Blake’s doctor, so I ask, “Natalie, do you work for Blake full time?”

“Yes, at least for now. He’s hired me to be available full time though Wimbledon. I’m not sure what he’ll need afterward.”

“It’s wonderful that you were able to do that for him. Did you have to refer your other clients to other doctors?”

“I typically only work with one player at a time. It allows me to give them the best experience.”

“Oh. That’s interesting. Is that common?”

“More common than you would think. Most of us who work with top-level players only have one to three players at a time.”

“I didn’t realize that. You and Josh make a good team for Blake. Have you worked together before?”

“Not really. I’ve worked with Thomas before, and Josh is good friends with his coach. That’s how we met.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?

“Definitely.”

“It seems that Noah is well connected. Blake is lucky to have him too.”

“Hopefully, Blake appreciates him. They’ve been butting heads lately, so I’m not sure.”

“Really. Why’s that?”

“Who knows. You’ve seen how testy Blake is. He’s stressed.”

“Don’t I know that. He was annoyed I showed up at the hospital this morning. What’s up with that?”

“As a doctor, I can’t share what he’s dealing with. I just hope he doesn’t introduce more change into his life.”

“Do you mean like hiring a new manager?”

“I do. He’s under enough pressure without making major changes in his team. In my professional opinion, that wouldn’t be healthy for him.”

“Change can be difficult, particularly if one already has stress,” I agree.

“It can. I told him that. If you have any influence with Blake, maybe you can help steer him in a steady direction. Sometimes advice is more convincing when it comes from a friend.”

“We’ll see.”

Erin returns just as Fausto starts plating dinner. We’re all starving, so we decide to eat at the kitchen island.

While we wait, I think about what Natalie said. I understand her hesitation about Blake making changes while under stress. But didn’t Blake say she recommended changing his Wimbledon routine this year to calm his fear that something bad would happen? Why is changing managers different?

As soon as Fausto places a bowl of pasta in front of me, I twirl a forkful of spaghetti and raise it to my lips.

The tangy tomato sauce and perfectly al dente noodles nearly make me moan. Pasta has always been my comfort food—and that’s exactly what I need tonight.

We’re enjoying the calm quietness that accompanies a satisfying meal.

Then—bang. The front door slams against the wall.

Jarred by the sudden noise, my fork clatters against my pasta bowl.

We all jump to our feet and rush toward the front of the house to welcome Blake home.

Blake looks pale except for the dark circles under his eyes. He’s uncharacteristically hunched over. He’s clearly been through hell. I don’t know what’s hitting him harder: the physical trauma or another emotional Wimbledon loss. All I know is that he’s broken.

Josh says, “The doctor said you should eat a small meal tonight. I’ll have Fausto make something bland.”

But Blake snaps, “No way! I’m not eating anything else he cooks. He poisoned me. Bring me an unopened bottle of water and a new box of energy bars. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be in my room.”

I cringe. Did he just accuse Fausto of poisoning him? How dare he?

“Be reasonable, Blake. Fausto didn’t poison you. We all ate his food. Everyone else is fine. You need a real meal tonight.”

“I said no. Do as I asked—or leave.”

Wow. Talk about storming in under a dark cloud of negativity.

“Blake, I know you’ve been through quite an ordeal, but I can assure you that Fausto didn’t poison your food. I’m sure the authorities will determine who did this to you. Please don’t worry about Fausto’s cooking though,” I say as calmly as possible under the circumstances.

“You can’t tell me not to worry. You aren’t the one who almost died. Feel free to eat whatever you want to, but I’m not eating another thing from this house that isn’t from a sealed package. Period.”

“But you need your strength for our match in two days. That requires real food, not just energy bars,” I say.

“You know that’s not happening. I didn’t want to play doubles in the first place. Now, I can’t play.”

“When I spoke with Dr. Shepard this morning, he said you will be fine to play,” I say.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m going to bed.”

Blake’s being bloody stubborn. To say his mood is morose would be an understatement.

We can only hope Blake cools down by tomorrow.

After that exchange, I’ve lost my appetite entirely, so I retreat to my room to send a message to the princes.

Me: My time here may be coming to a premature end.

CR: Not acceptable.

Me: It’s not my choice.

CR: Make it work. Be creative.

Me: I’m not a magician.

CR: You are now. No choice. Improvise.

Me: Understood.

How am I supposed to convince a man who almost died—and now wants nothing to do with me—to play a match in two days?

Given his attitude, I don’t really want to be around him either. He’s letting me down. He doesn’t care about my Wimbledon dream. He’s not any different than all the other men who pretended to care about me. All he really cares about is himself.

A familiar knock-pause-knock-knock at my door announces Erin.

“Come in.”

“Are you okay?” Erin asks as she enters and shuts the door behind her.

“I’m fuming and hurt. I can’t believe that Blake said the things he did. Fausto would never poison someone. And why is Blake brushing me off so harshly? I know he’s upset that he lost his chance to win this year, but it’s not my fault or Fausto’s. I thought Blake and I were friends.”

“Is that all you thought you were?”

“I made a mistake letting myself believe there might be a chance for us when this is all over. Apparently, I was wrong. I can’t think about that now.”

“Don’t give up yet. I suspect he’s lashing out at everyone.

After you came up to your room, Blake stormed off to his room.

The rest of us stayed in the kitchen to chat.

Josh shared that Blake was a pain in the arse the whole ride back from the hospital.

I don’t think it has anything to do with you or even Fausto.

He’s mad at the universe. He’ll calm down by morning. ”

“If I weren’t on a covert mission, I’d tell him that I’m fed up with his selfishness, and then I’d move out of the house tonight. But I can’t. I’m stuck. Even worse, now I have to beg him to play our match in two days. If I can’t convince him, it will compromise the mission.”

I don’t share that if he leaves Wimbledon now, we’ll lose the opportunity to learn whether he’s involved in the smuggling, and I’m still holding onto the hope that he could be innocent.

“I suspected as much. How are you going to talk him into playing?”

“Didn’t you know I’m a magician? Just call me Bri the Brilliant .”