Chapter 13
Max
Less than half an hour later, the members of my team arrive, and I greet them at the house entrance as Toffee darts across the driveway toward the gardens once more. Rocco Mansoni and Dante Brownley, a couple of my Ledonian Royal Air Force buddies, greet me with handshakes, smiles, and backslaps.
They’re as passionate about this program as I am. They live locally and leapt at the chance to be involved when I set the program up three or so years ago.
“Your Royal Highness,” Rocco says with a sarcastic bow, his dark eyes sparkling.
“There’s no need to stand on protocol, my man,” I tell him.
“My mama would kill me if I didn’t show you the appropriate respect,” he replies with a wink.
That’s one of the weird things about being royal. Even your oldest friends are meant to call you by your official title, despite the fact they've seen you in less than royal situations in the past.
“I haven’t seen you since that garden party at the palace. Still a man-child, I hope?” Rocco asks.
A laugh rips out of me. “Actually, I have something to tell you about that.”
“You’ve moved your slip n’ slide game up a notch?” Rocco asks.
“Eyeing the Olympics, I bet,” Dante agrees.
I arch a brow. “Is there an Olympic slip n’ slide event?”
“There should be,” Dante replies. “You’d win, hands down.”
Rocco nods. “You’ve got that right.”
“How’s married life suiting you?” I ask Dante, whose wedding I was best man at in the spring.
“She sends her best, and these.” Dante opens a tub of scones. “Freshly baked.”
“Cheese?” I ask.
“What else?”
“Tell her I adore her,” I reply as I breathe in the delicious scent.
“Who do you adore?” a feminine voice asks behind us, and we all turn to see Fabiana walking down the steps.
Right on cue, my stomach flips at the sight of her. She’s now wearing a pair of country-appropriate khaki shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt, her hair tied up in her usual high ponytail, swinging from side to side.
She looks…well, she looks like she belongs here, there’s no other way to put it—not to mention completely hot. Her legs are long, slim, and lightly tanned, and her T-shirt is close fitting enough to show off the curves I’ve become all too aware of these past few days.
Both Dante and Rocco’s brows lift towards their respective hairlines, shooting me meaningful looks.
“Oh, it’s not what you think,” I say swiftly, before they say something to embarrass me.
“It’s not?” Dante asks with a smirk on his face.
“You didn’t tell us you were bringing a new girlfriend,” Rocco says.
The idea of Fabiana being my girlfriend fills me with a cocktail of emotions that I push away, and fast.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Fabiana Fontaine,” I say, and the looks on my friends’ faces turn from questioning to what the heck?! before you could mutter the words arch nemesis.
“Fabiana Fontaine,” Rocco repeats dumbly. “As in the Fabiana Fontaine? The journo?”
Fabiana offers her hand to my friends. “That’s right,” she says pleasantly, but then I’ve seen firsthand how she deals with her haters. All in a day’s work for her.
Dante narrows his eyes at her. “You’re the one who called Max a man-child, aren’t you?”
“Among other things,” she admits brightly with her usual confidence, seemingly unfazed. “Max has certainly delighted my readers with his antics over the years. I’ve simply labelled those antics.”
“Labelled? Is that what you call it?” Rocco grinds out. “Tell me, how do you always seem to know what he’s doing?”
“I could never reveal my sources,” she replies.
My friends share a look.
“So, why are you here? I mean, the two of you…together?” Dante asks.
“I’m working on a project with Max,” she replies. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your names.”
I’ve been so busy worrying about how this will go that I forgot my manners. “Forgive me. This is Rocco Mansoni and Dante Brownley.”
“We go way back with the prince,” Dante says.
“Royal Air Force,” Rocco adds.
“Great,” she replies. “So, you’re involved in the youth program, too?”
“We helped Max set it up,” Rocco says, his eyes narrowed at her, assessing.
“In that case, do you mind if I film you? I’m making social media content as well as writing articles, a kind of ‘here’s the real Prince Max’ exposé. You might have seen the TikTok of Max doing archery. I’ve just posted a picture of him looking all pensive on the train.”
Rocco’s eyes dart to mine. “And you’re down with this?”
How can I tell them that she and I have come a long way since the time I once despised her? That I’ve found myself opening up to her in a way I would never have anticipated. That she’s not the headline-seeking hack I was so convinced she was.
That I can’t stop myself fancying the pants off her—and more, developing some real feelings for her.
“Fabiana has been employed by my father to show the country who I really am,” I say.
“Like a soldier behind enemy lines?” Rocco asks.
Fabiana’s gaze captures mine. “Something like that.”
Toffee scrambles over to us, and I lean down to make a fuss of her. Dogs are so much more straightforward than women, particularly the one currently chatting with my suspicious, loyal mates.
A low rumbling grabs my attention, and I look down the driveway to see an approaching bus.
“Are they about to arrive, sir?” Pippa asks, arriving at our group, and I introduce her to the men.
“We’re about to be swarmed by a bunch of hormonal teens,” Rocco announces, and I scoop Toffee up in my arms.
“Brace yourselves,” Dante says.
Fabiana shields her eyes from the sun with her hand. “How many teens are there on that bus exactly?”
“About twenty, give or take,” I reply.
As the bus rounds the fountain, we can hear the laughter and good-natured shouting through the open windows.
“Sounds more like fifty,” she says.
The bus comes to a stop, and the kids pour off the moment the doors creak open, spilling out onto the gravel driveway with backpacks on their backs, greeting Dante, Rocco, and me with high fives.
At first, Fabiana holds back as I chat and joke with the familiar faces. Then, to my surprise, she approaches a group and introduces herself, asking them about the program. She looks totally at ease in a group of strangers—teenage strangers at that.
Is there anything that fazes this woman?
“Yo, Max! When are we going to start the obstacle course challenge?” asks Dean, a sixteen-year-old who has been part of the program since its inception.
That’s one of the things I love about the teenagers on this program. They couldn't care less about my title. I muck in with them on all their activities, helping them out, giving them advice, sometimes showing them how not to do it.
“Give us a minute. You only just got here,” I reply with a laugh.
Over the years, Dean has gradually morphed from surly and disengaged, his top lip permanently curled upwards in distaste, to one of the leaders of the group. It's been an absolute privilege to play a small part in his transformation.
I remember when he arrived at our first session, with arms crossed and eyes fixed on his shoes, his shoulders tight.
He radiated teenage resentment. From his file, I knew it was the kind of hostility that came from too many adults letting him down.
His social worker had described him as “challenging”, which I worked out is code for a kid who learned to expect disappointment and closed himself off as protection against the world.
But something shifted during a rock-climbing session that first summer. He smiled. Not in a sarcastic way, but a real, genuine smile. It was the start of a shift, and one that blossomed over the following months.
Now he's the one organizing equipment before sessions start and explaining knot techniques to newer participants with the same care Rocco had once given him.
Many of the teens here were volunteered by teachers or social workers, initially attending with significantly more reluctance than enthusiasm.
But they needed a place where they could be themselves, where they could get involved in activities they otherwise wouldn't have access to.
Where they could build friendships, and most importantly, build their self-worth.
“I'm glad you mentioned the obstacle challenge, Dean, because you and Daria can help set it up on the back lawn right now,” Dante says, and the already excited group begins to buzz with enthusiasm.
A couple of the kids groan.
“I get it. Obstacle courses aren’t for everyone, but it’s part of what we do here, so you need to at least give it a shot,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Max. I’ve got it,” Dean says. He gestures for the groaners to follow him, which they do with the same level of reluctance Dean himself showed that first year.
As we make our way around the house to the back lawn, Fabiana falls into step with me. “Can you tell me a little about the kids in the program?” she asks.
“Off the record?”
“Of course. We already agreed on that. I'm not a monster. I'm just a journalist, trying to do her job.”
“I never thought you were a monster.”
She raises her brows at me.
“Okay. Maybe a touch of the monster. But I can see you're not.”
She pauses for a beat before she replies, “And I can see you're more than some playboy prince.” She holds my gaze, and that now familiar feeling in my belly begins to build. “Tell me about the kids.”
“That one there in the red and yellow striped T-shirt is Aria,” I say, nodding toward the girl with copper curls currently holding some camera equipment, snapping shots as others set up the course.
“She started on the program three months ago.
She had social anxiety so severe she couldn't even make eye contact, let alone be involved in any of the activities.”
Fabiana's gaze follows mine. “She looks pretty involved now.”
“She’s come a long way. Her foster mum, constantly apologizing for her behavior, had to practically drag her here. Now she's become our unofficial photographer and shows real skill.”
“That's quite a transformation,” Fabiana says. “What about him?” She points to where Ant is animatedly explaining something to a cluster of younger participants, his hands gesturing wildly.
“That’s Antonia. Ant. He has ADHD, with emphasis on the ‘H’.
He acted out at enough schools to get expelled from three.
" I can't help but smile as Ant spots some wild herbs growing nearby and immediately redirects the group's attention.
“Put him on a wilderness survival course and suddenly his hyperactivity becomes a total asset. He spots edible plants faster than anyone.”
“Do you know all their stories?”
“Of course I do. Many of the kids come from difficult backgrounds, the kinds of situations I can only imagine from my life of privilege.” I pause, aware I'm revealing more than I typically would to a journalist.
But then, Fabiana is more than a journalist to me now.
“What do you think they get from this program?”
“I think it’s a bunch of things, but mostly a need for purpose.
For a space where their worth isn't determined by their circumstances.” I look out at the scene.
Rocco now has all the kids lined up, ready to start the course, and I can tell many of them are champing at the bit to get into it.
“Here they get to be who they want to be.”
She looks out at the group. “They’re lucky.”
I turn back to look at her. She’s got a look on her face I can’t read. “These kids are the closest thing to a genuine purpose I've got. I’m the lucky one.”
“You see that purpose in Aria's confidence behind the lens, or in Dean's leadership.”
Her understanding makes something move in my chest. “Exactly,” I reply.
Rocco yells for the first group to begin, and we watch as they dive under the low net before popping out the other side, dashing with all their might towards the rope wall.
“I appreciate you opening up to me about this, Max. It’s…” She trails off, her eyes on the competitors.
“It’s what?”
“It’s showing me why your father invited me to do this with you. You’re not some privileged rich guy with an easy life who seeks out pleasure at every turn. You’re this.” She gestures at the kids. “Your father understands who you are, and he wants me to show the country.”
The way she's looking at me makes my pulse quicken. Without even knowing it had happened, we're standing closer than we were a moment ago, close enough that I can smell the subtle floral perfume she wears, close enough to once again count the freckles scattered across her nose.
“Fabiana, I—”
“Max! You coming or what?” Rocco's voice cuts through our moment, and it jolts me back to reality.
I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “I should go.”
“You should.”
I turn and jog toward Rocco and Dante. As I help line up the next group for their turn at the obstacle course, I can sense her watching me.
I can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted between us, that she understands me in a way no one has before. Part of me wants nothing more than to tell her what she’s slowly coming to mean to me.
To tell her that with every passing moment, my heart is beginning to beat more and more for her.