Chapter 13Sofia
Chapter 1 3
Sofia
Shocking, shocking news, good people of Ledonia! A pack of wild, rabid dogs destroyed Princess Sofia’s garden party—at which Enzo the Dull was in attendance as her “friend”—causing mayhem among the guests and destroying more than one canapé. Disaster!
Word on the grapevine is that the crazed canines were in fact Princess Sofia’s own labradors, Lemon and Pepper, which begs the question, good people, whether the dogs were in fact trying to tell the princess something about Enzo Revera.
I leave you with that thought to ponder.
Your ever devoted royal correspondent,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#CanineCapers
#DoggieIntuition
#WhoStoleMyCanape
I balance the large picture book on my knees as I turn the page. “Sammy’s heart raced as he spotted something shiny, half-buried under a pile of autumn leaves. He brushed them aside to reveal a small, golden key, glinting in the sunlight. He knew the key must open something very special. Sammy clutched the key tightly in his tiny paw. ‘I must find out what it unlocks!’ he says.”
I look up at the riveted faces, gazing at me as they hang on my every word. I always think there really is nothing like an audience of children to tell you whether you’re capturing their imaginations or failing altogether. Right now, Sammy Squirrel and his golden key have them utterly enthralled.
I’ve been at the Sunrise Community Center for the past twenty-five minutes, having been greeted by local dignitaries, community leaders, and a group of enthusiastic children waving handmade welcome banners that say things like “Reading makes us smart!” and “We love books!” Words that warm my heart .
I smile at my audience, none of them much over four foot tall, all riveted by the story, sitting cross-legged on the floor at my feet. “What do you think the golden key could be used for?” I ask the children, and immediately several girls and one of the boy’s hands fly up eagerly into the air.
I choose one of the girls, a redhead with thick bangs and a high ponytail whose nose is covered in the most adorable freckles. “It’s used to unlock a mystery box, Princess Sofia,” she says with confidence.
“Have you read this story before, or are you just a good guesser?” I ask.
“I’m a very good guesser,” she replies with the sort of clear confidence that comes with being a child. “I can work out puzzles and everything. Mummy says I’m an expert at them. I can do my brother’s jigsaw puzzles, and he’s already eight and three quarters.”
“You must be very good indeed,” I say. “Shall we read on and find out what Sammy will do with the key?”
“Yes!” call several children, so I turn the page and read the rest of the story to them, learning that the key does in fact unlock a mystery box, just as the redhead said.
Closing the book, I ask the children if they had any observations. Once again, most of the girls’ hands shoot up, and the same solitary boy, sitting at the back, raises his hand.
“The boy at the back. What did you have to say?” I ask.
“I liked how the owl told Sammy to never give up because that’s what my daddy said when I was learning to tie my shoes,” he says.
“Can you tie your shoes?” I ask.
“I can,” he replies proudly.
“Well done. It sounds as though your daddy had some good advice for you. What other thoughts do you have about the book?”
This time I choose a little girl with a blunt bob wearing clothes that are a size too big, and no shoes on her dirty feet.
“I like pheasants,” she says, although there were no pheasants in the story.
“You know what? Me, too,” I tell her and win a big grin.
“Pheasants are our natural bird,” another child offers.
“You’re right,” I reply, although I know she meant national bird, not natural.
I choose another girl from the group, a pretty girl with black hair and sparkling dark eyes. “My mummy says you should wear your hair down because you look much nicer that way. She doesn’t know why you didn’t wear it like that at your Husband Hunting Ball.”
Self-consciously, I touch my hair, curled into a French twist, my hairstyle of choice for all official visits. It’s neat and tidy and I don’t have to worry about it looking like it needs a brush or, worse yet, captured on film blown in my face. People can be so harsh, and I know I’m not the media’s favorite royal. And besides, it’s practical. Smart. Boring? Perhaps a little. But the other reasons far outweigh boring.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I might just do that.”
She grins back at me. “Will you wear it down when you get married?”
Married? My stomach twists into a knot. “Perhaps.”
“Where was your husband hiding?” the boy from before asks, and the adults at the back of the room laugh.
“He wasn’t hiding so much as I hadn’t met him,” I reply, silently cursing the media for coming up with the “ Husband Hunting” name. “Not that I have a husband yet.”
“Why not?” one of the girls asks.
How do I answer? I could be honest and tell her that my initial choice hasn’t exactly turned out the way I was anticipating, and in fact I have begun to develop feelings for his brother, a man so wildly wrong for me he may as well drape himself in a giant red flag with the words “guaranteed to break your heart” splashed across his chest.
On second thoughts, that would be a hard no . TMI, as Amelia might say.
“I suppose because it’s not something you should take lightly. You need to be really, really sure before you agree to marry someone,” I say. I’m aiming for sage wisdom—and hoping not to be asked any more uncomfortable questions.
Someone clears their throat, saving me from having to delve any deeper into my current conundrum, and I look up to see Bartholomew, my bodyguard. He taps his wrist a couple of times to indicate my time reading with the children is now over. I thank the children, inwardly sigh with relief, say goodbye, and move to the foyer of the library, where I announce the donation of 1,000 new children’s books to the center, catering to all age groups.
People applaud, and the woman who runs the center, Gwendolyn Tattersfield, calls for quiet.
“We are honored to have Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia, with us here today, and indeed as patron of our community center,” she says before she turns to me. “To recognize all the good work you have done for us over the years, ma’am, it is our utmost pleasure to present you with this commemorative plaque.”
She gestures at a man in a suit who tugs on a gold rope that opens a set of small red velvet curtains, revealing a polished brass plaque. As people applaud, I read the inscription.
In Grateful Recognition. The Tideswell Community Center extends heartfelt gratitude to HRH Princess Sofia for her commitment to promoting literacy and education. Her generous donation of books and her inspiring visits have opened new doors of opportunity and knowledge for the children of our community. May her dedication to fostering a love of reading continue to inspire future generations to come.
Genuinely touched by the unexpected gesture, I place my hand over my heart. “That’s so lovely of you all. Thank you so very much. I do this work because I am privileged enough to be a member of the Royal Family. It is I who am grateful to you for allowing me the opportunity to do what I can for you.”
“Not at all. You deserve ten such plaques, ma’am, although our budget won’t quite reach that far,” Gwendolyn replies with a smile.
A few minutes later, Bartholomew has bundled me into the crown vehicle and we’re crawling through the busy inner-city streets of Villadorata on our way back to the palace.
“That went very well, ma’am,” he says from his seat at the front of the car.
“I didn’t expect a plaque. It was very kind of them, but they should spend their money on something that would help the community, not on me. Perhaps they could buy more books or—” I trail off as we pass a community garden where people are building raised beds, with lines of small potted plants waiting for their new home. A familiar figure in wellington boots, grubby jeans, and a T-shirt is resting one arm on a spade as he talks with another similarly dressed man .
Before I fully examine my motive, I ask George to pull the car over and I climb out, trailed by a nervous Bartholomew.
“Don’t worry, Bartholomew. I’m just going to say hello to someone,” I reassure him. “I won’t be long, and I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.”
“Who? If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am.”
“Lord Strozzi’s brother.”
“Right you are,” he replies, his mouth set in a grim line.
As I approach the men, they turn to look at me in obvious surprise.
“Your Royal Highness,” the other man says with a bow.
“It’s… errr, nice to see you… here… Your Royal Highness,” Marco says haltingly.
Of course he’s thoroughly thrown by my sudden, unexpected appearance. Is it bad of me that I quite enjoy wrongfooting him?
“I hope you don’t mind me dropping by, but I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I might like to see your work,” I say.
I admit I had no idea that Marco was working in Tideswell today, but don’t they say you shouldn’t let the truth get in the way of a good story? And besides, I’m here now and I refuse to overthink my motive for getting my driver to stop the car.
“You’re very welcome here. No dogs today, ma’am?” His lips curve into a smile, and it’s as though it can reach inside of me, tugging at my belly, sending warmth through me.
“No dogs. They would be far too distracting for the children. I’ve been at the community center, you see, where I read a book to a wonderful group of children. ”
“Reading to children? You are a multitalented princess,” he replies, and it feels a little flirty. “I bet they’d love Lemon and Pepper, but probably, as you say, too distracting.” Marco gestures at the man beside him. “This is Mohammed Badawi, ma’am. He and I are heading the project here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Badawi. What exactly are you doing here?” I ask, looking around.
“We’re building some veggie patches for the locals to grow vegetables,” he explains. “We’re planting lettuces and carrots and potatoes, that sort of thing, and we’ve got some fruit trees at the back over there.” He points at a row of small plants stretching across the back fence.
“Is this a community led project?” I ask.
“No, ma’am. It’s all a donation from—” Mohammed begins only to be cut off by Marco saying, “From Enzo.”
Mohammed gives Marco an odd look, and I wonder why.
“Enzo has donated the money for this?” I ask. I don’t know why this seems like such a surprise to me. Why shouldn’t Enzo be charitable? He’s a decent person, albeit a lot more opinionated and judgemental than I expected. Of course he likes to support worthy causes.
“Enzo might not like dogs, but he has a social conscience,” Marco says.
“That’s very kind of him,” I reply.
“Shall I show you around?” Marco offers.
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
“I’ll get back to it,” Mohammed says, picking up a shovel. “Nice to meet you, Your Royal Highness, ma’am.”
I laugh. “Protocol dictates you call me Your Royal Highness only once and then ma’am after that, but really, I prefer plain Sofia.”
Marco raises his brows, but I ignore him. I’ve not once asked him to call me by my first name. With him, it feels too familiar, and I need the protective blanket of formality wrapped around me.
Much safer.
Mohammed grins at me. “Sofia. Got it. Enjoy your tour.”
Marco and I meander through the dirt and plants and mess of a garden in the midst of being created. I step carefully, trying not to land in any mud, and as Marco clasps my arm to help me over some uneven ground, I’m thankful for the long sleeves of my jacket, protecting me from his touch.
I know what effect his gaze has on me, and I can only imagine what his touch could do.
Volunteers are building plant beds while others are digging and clearing the jumble of items not needed in a garden, such as an old bicycle wheel and a tattered sofa.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you here,” I comment.
“This community, like so many in this part of town, lacks green spaces. With free, organically grown produce, we hope to give the inhabitants alternatives to the low quality food offerings here.”
“You and your friends are donating your time?”
“It’s a small price for us to pay.”
I work hard at not allowing his kindness to touch my heart, but I’m fully aware it’s a losing battle, and my heart gives a little squeeze, just as it did the day of the garden party after Lemon and Pepper had done their best to destroy the event.
“Tell me, what draws you to gardening?” I ask.
“During my travels, I ended up working on a project in the Amazon to replace abandoned areas that were once decimated by industry. I wasn't in charge of the project or anything, but I learned from the guy who was. He was generous enough to explain to me the reasons behind his decision making as regards design and plant choice. I loved the way he had this encyclopaedic knowledge of which plants to put where for different purposes. Then, I got to work on the redesign of the gardens at a stately home in Scotland. The designer planned the whole thing around color, so that at any time during the year the owners could look out at their garden and see something bright. It blew my mind how she could do that.”
“And you wanted to learn how to do it, too.”
“I did.” He pauses for a beat, his eyes on mine, and I find it hard not to be swept up in his passion for what he's chosen to do with his life. “Actually, I’m glad you stopped by, ma’am.”
I press my lips together and make a snap decision, one I hope I won’t regret. “Sofia.”
“Sofia,” he repeats, my name on his lips like dripping honey. It has the effect I most feared, creating a new sense of intimacy between us.
I lift my chin, pushing away my feelings. “Why are you glad I stopped by?”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a dog-eared piece of paper. “I’ve been given something I want to share with you.”
“You have? What is it?” I ask in surprise.
“I was sent something yesterday with no return address, but as far as I can see, it seems to concern you.”
“Me? What does it say?” I eye the paper in his hands. “Is it an invitation?”
“Not exactly. Shall I read it?” he asks, and I nod. He unfolds the paper. “To the Seeker of Truth,” he begins .
I raise my eyebrows.
“I know. It’s cheesier than a Frenchman’s fridge, but it gets better.” He clears his throat and continues. “In the library’s hidden nook,” he says.
I know I should be concentrating on what he’s saying. But there’s something irresistibly captivating about the way his stubbled jaw tightens as he reads, the way the furrow of his brow deepens. “Rugged” is the word that springs to mind, but somehow Marco is so much more than just his manly good looks, his thick, tousled hair, his muscular torso—as appealing as they are. He’s caring and funny, he’s passionate about what he’s chosen to do with his life, and the way he looks at me makes my belly hum, sending my heart into orbit.
I’ve thought way too often about the way he came after me when Lemon and Pepper tried their best to destroy the garden party. He wanted to know if I was okay, to check in with me. In that moment, with a concerned look in his eye, he went from being the man I shouldn’t feel attraction for to the man I shouldn’t genuinely like as much as I do.
In that moment, I mourned the loss of the time when all I felt I had to do was conquer my attraction to him.
It was as though he went from being a partially drawn character in my mind, with all the attributes of a deeply desirable man, to being fully drawn, someone who could capture my heart in a way that I find both fascinating and terrifying in equal measure.
The thing is, I’ve been down the road with a man like Marco before, and when it ended, I was left hurt and alone, a shell of my former self, who had nothing to cling onto but my role as a princess.
I refuse to let that happen again.
And yet here I am, dropping in to see the one man I should stay far away from—not just because he’s Enzo’s brother and not my choice, but because he’s so very, very dangerous to me.
That’s why I had my spreadsheet. That’s why I had a series of check boxes against which a man like Marco Revera would never get the green light.
That spreadsheet kept me safe. It kept me from feeling the sorts of feelings that would only serve to muddy the waters. It allowed me to make a clear and reasoned decision, unsullied by emotion.
And right now, as I listen to him read with his deep, velvety voice, as I watch the way the light highlights his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, I know I’m nothing short of riveted by this man.
My biggest fear grips my chest, squeezing painfully. I could be losing myself and everything I’ve worked so hard for.
“So? What do you think?” he asks, looking back at me.
I can’t believe I didn’t hear a word he said. I was so busy being swept up in my thoughts and all the emotions he elicits in me, I totally missed his words.
“Do you think you could repeat it? I want to make sure I’ve got it straight,” I say. Yes, that’s good. I’m double checking. Nothing more.
His lips tilt upward in a smile. “Of course.”
“To the Seeker of Truth.
Seek the wisdom in an ancient book.
Beneath the throne, where shadows lie,
History’s secrets quietly sigh.
Trust the clues and use your mind,
The rightful ruler you shall find.”
I pull my eyebrows together. “I wasn't expecting that.”
“It's a little left field, that's for sure. ”
“What do you think it means? If it’s questioning who the rightful ruler is, then that’s questioning my parents, which is odd, to say the least. Possibly treasonous.”
“Will you be cutting off a lot of heads now, do you think?” He throws me his smile that does nothing for my state of equilibrium.
“We haven’t gone in for that for quite a while now,” I reply.
“That's good to know.” His face lifts into that smile again. “I had wondered if it was from a pro-republic supporter. Someone trying to get at the royal family through me, but why someone would want to pull a prank to do with your family on me , I don’t know.”
I shrug, at a loss. “There are a lot of people out there with strange ideas, and being associated with the royal family makes you a target. You’ll get used to it over time.”
“But I’m not associated with your family. Enzo is.”
“Clearly, someone sees it differently.”
I don’t meet his gaze.
He folds the paper and stuffs it into his back pocket. “Well, I thought I’d show it to you anyway. I figured you might be interested in the whole righteous ruler thing, but I’ll file it under ‘Crazies.’”
“On that note, I must go. Thank you so much for showing me your project.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He pauses before he adds in that voice of his, “Sofia.”
Instantly, my belly does a flip.
Why did I ask him to use my name?
He walks me back to my car, helps me over the rough terrain, and I offer him a brief wave as George pulls the car into the street, heading back to the palace. I sink into the soft black leather of my seat, wishing all the feelings he elicits in me would float out the window .
There are so many reasons not to have feelings for a man like Marco, I don’t even know where to start. I do a quick mental tally to show myself how very wrong for me he is:
He’s Enzo’s brother, and Enzo is my rational, logical choice as a future partner.
He’s my complete opposite and totally wrong for me.
He doesn’t have a steady job or a career.
He’s spent most of his adult life gallivanting the globe, doing who knows what, totally carefree and happy.
He’s two years younger than me—and it shows.
He’s Enzo’s brother.
Oh, and number 7. He’s Enzo’s brother.
Really, the guy has so many red flags, it’s as though he’s bought all the red flags in the shop. The red flag shop is now empty, closed for the day with nothing more to sell, everyone gone home.
I think of his smile and ready wit. The man doesn’t seem to have a serious bone in his body. He’s like a golden retriever puppy, excited by everything around him. I never knew what a cinnamon roll hero in a romance novel actually was until I met Marco Revera. He’s warm, caring, and sweet, just like the baked treat, like he’s wrapped in pastry and rolled up in sugar and cinnamon. Only the end result is a breathtakingly handsome man I find I can barely keep my eyes from.
And now he’s got his landscape gardening business—the community garden pulling on my heartstrings way too hard—that results in him having permanent dirt under his fingernails and means he looks all tanned and rugged and manly and… I let out a sigh.
Where was I?
That’s right. He’s wrong for me. Now, if only I could combine his looks, personality, and the way he makes me feel with Enzo’s seriousness, I’d be all set.
It’s such a pity humans don’t work that way.