Oh là là.

“Here,” she said, and pressed something smooth and rectangular into his hand. “In case you feel woozy again.”

He looked down at the juice box he now held, decided the illustration of a dew-speckled peach on the box was not a hidden message, then looked back at her.

This might have been a joke at his expense—fainting wasn’t manly after all, and being saved by not one woman but two was even less so. Johan had grown up being told so many of the things he did weren’t manly. He’d chosen playboy as his public persona because he could hold a grudge and enjoyed petty revenge as much as the next person.

However, if it wasn’t a joke, then that meant Nya, the woman who had captured his attention completely as she stood quietly trying to make herself smaller, and whom he’d been rude to for months, had worried about him. This morning, she’d thought of him and searched out a juice box, specifically to give to him. It was a kindness. It was a connection.

Oh là là là là.

He’d been wrong about her, had seen her as some timid woodland creature who might skitter too close to him if she wasn’t careful, and get caught in his snare if he wasn’t even more careful than her, but in fact she was simply kind. Nothing so benign as nice or pleasant, but kind. There was nothing soft or gentle about that trait in a world that specialized in crushing it.

If he were a superhero, a kind woman would be his kryptonite. Good thing he wasn’t one; it meant he could fight the urge to say something deliberately cutting and crude just to, figuratively, hurl her into the sun.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem!” She smiled at him once more, revealing two front teeth that were slightly too large. Johan had seen her teeth before, had never paid particular attention to them, but now he felt a throb in his chest and his brain shouted that those two teeth were somehow extremely cute.

Oh là là là là là là.

She walked over to Portia and Tav, who were chatting with a palace guard about his scimitar. Likotsi, Thabiso’s assistant, and her wife, Fabiola, had shown up, and apparently neither had received the memo about dressing down, as Likotsi was wearing a linen suit and leather loafers and Fabiola looked like she’d stepped out of a pinup calendar right into a pair of six-inch heels. Each of them pulled Nya into a hug, and they each kept a hand on her arm as they talked to her.

Nya grinned and seemed to fawn over Fabiola’s shoes—Johan refused to imagine what those heels would look like on Nya. He slipped the juice box into his backpack and walked over to his friends.

“Let’s take a selfie,” Portia said, grabbing him and placing him next to Nya, then pulling out her selfie stick. Everyone huddled together, and though Johan mostly avoided impromptu photos unless he had staged them to be impromptu, he moved closer to Nya, resting his hand on her shoulder on one side and his cheek against her braids on the other.

She smelled good, like ylang-ylang and the musk of whatever oils she used on her hair, the same scent he’d gotten a whiff of when he’d awoken on the plane. And she was warm, but not soft—she’d gone stiff at his touch.

“Sorry,” he murmured, beginning to move his hand away, but she reached up to stay him. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but she was looking at Portia’s cell phone, lips slightly parted.

“Say ‘hashtag Thesolo forever’!” Portia called out.

Johan didn’t say anything because all of his attention was on Nya’s hand atop his. It was hard enough tearing his gaze from her to look toward the phone, but he finally did.

“Perfect,” Portia said, scrolling through the photos as everyone broke apart.

“Attention guests!” The commanding, unignorable voice of Thabiso’s mum, Queen Ramatla, boomed over the small gathering and they all turned to her. She was flanked by her husband the king on one side and Nya’s—and Naledi’s—grandparents on the other. “We thank you all for making time in your busy schedules to see our beloved Thabiso and Naledi joined before Ingoka and the goddess legion. Now, on this day before the wedding, we will have our traditional wedding hunt.”

“And you made fun of my fixation on medieval hunting after I found that book at Mary’s,” Tav said smugly, grinning at Portia. “Now my useless information gets to save the day.”

“You know I love all of your useless information, honey,” Portia said warmly.

“Enough, you two,” Johan said lightly. “Save it for the hunting trail.”

Portia raised her hand, as if they were in class. “So by hunting . . .”

“Of course, times have changed, and we will not be asking you to actually harm any animals,” the king said.

“Thank goodness,” Portia exhaled. She slid her arm through Tavish’s and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Johan felt the pool of envy lapping at his toes again and looked away. He flexed his hand, still tingling from Nya’s brief touch.

“You are here because you are closest to the hearts of our beloveds,” Queen Ramatla said loudly.

“And because we are too old to be bothered with such sport,” Makalele added, drawing laughter from the group. He tweaked Naledi’s elbow and she beamed at him.

“The tradition used to be that the bosom friends of the beloveds would form hunting parties of two, sent out to bring back meat for the next day’s feast. But, as our kitchen is well stocked, the goal is simply to bring back a living animal of the type required.”