Free Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) by Celia Kennedy Page B

leaving readers to wonder if you’re buying bric-a-brac for Des’s house.”
    “Don’t even say it, because it’s probably true,” I replied, unable to find the humor in it. “Could we change the subject? When are you and Gianni getting married?” I asked Tiziana, changing the subject.
    After she recovered from choking on a bite of warm, crusty bread she asked, “Do you know something I don’t? Gianni hasn’t mentioned marriage!”
    I sensed she wasn’t unhappy about the lack of a proposal.
    My assumption had always been that this was the direction they were heading. They’d been together forever, they were Italian Catholics, and I assumed one or both would want children soon.
    “Well, after all the phone calls and dreamy looks, I just assumed that the next time we’d all be getting together, you would be getting married,” Kathleen said.
    “I’ll be sure to let you know,” Tiziana answered, appearing more interested in the menu than anything else.
    Lunch was an oddly silent affair. Generally, we have a lot more to talk about. To be fair, I spent most of lunch locked in my own thoughts. It was only when we were sipping coffee that I realized my friends were preoccupied, as well.
    Grabbing Kathleen and Hillary’s hands, since they were within reach, I said to the group, “I’m really sorry! I’m responsible for all the bedlam. Do you just want to go back to the chalet?”
    After pishposhing my concerns, there was no choice but to gracefully and gratefully accept reassurances. We paid the bill and resumed the day’s events with a little more enthusiasm than before. A few hours later, we schlepped our bags down the sidewalk in the direction of the car.
    Some photographers offered to help Tiziana with her bags.
    “Figures,” Marian said. “My arms could be dragging behind me, leaving a trail of blood, and no one would notice. Especially with her around.”
    “It’s truly amazing, isn’t it? The paparazzi have been following us around because I’m the reported ‘other woman’ in Des Bannerman’s life, yet when they come in contact with her, they wouldn’t care if Des Bannerman and I were naked in the snow in front of them,” I added, reassuring Marian it wasn’t only her.
    The rest laughed. “True, so true,” Kathleen and Hillary agreed, while Tiziana was oblivious as she gazed in shop windows.
    Either the trip back was less eventful, or we’d become accustomed to having cars and motorcycles swerve around us and people call out our names. My favorite was a big German guy on a motorcycle two sizes too small for him booming, “Charlotta!” That fella was intimidating.
    That all changed as we unloaded the trunk of the car. The normal, tedious task was made much more challenging since there was a gauntlet of people stepping in our way, cameras flashing, and shouting. Eventually, we carried our purchases into the house.
    “Thank the good Lord that’s over. I thought I was going to pee my pants, I have to go so bad,” Kathleen shouted as she dashed up the stairs to the bathroom.
    “Could someone explain to me why she feels the need to inform us of her bodily functions?” Hillary said to Kathleen’s retreating back.
    Marian laughed, “I can just picture the tabloids tomorrow, a picture of Kathleen running through the snow leaving behind a yellow trail. The title would be, ‘Charlotte Flees, Friend Pees!’” Everyone laughed; well, everyone but Hillary. She only raised an eyebrow and gave us a disparaging glare.
    Returning to the previous day’s guard duty, Marian walked to the window and peeked out.
    Kathleen had returned and was doling out glasses of white Bordeaux to everyone. Marian had just taken a sip from her glass when she gasped, “Oh my god, one of the paparazzi is coming to the front door. The nerve!”
    “Well, don’t open it! All I want to do is enjoy this glass of wine and probably a few more,” I said.
    I took a big gulp from my glass and headed to the kitchen to get