Chapter 17
Valentina
The early morning sun creeps across my bed, and I lean back on the pillow, listening to the dawn chorus echo around the mountains as I slowly wake up.
It brings back childhood memories of waking up not too far from here, leaping out of my bed to begin my day feeding the goats, baking bread, traipsing around after my papa on the farm.
I stretch my arms above my head and let out a sigh before my mind turns to Max.
My chest tightens.
Last night, he wanted to kiss me, and I was so very close to letting it happen. It would have been so easy simply to surrender to the moment, to give in to my ever-growing feelings for him. To fall into his arms and show him exactly how much he’s worked his way into my heart this past week.
If I were just Fabiana Fontaine, journalist, I would have let it happen. No doubt. I find him utterly intriguing. The program he's running, the way he is with the teens, the way his friends show obvious loyalty and love for him, even the way he is with Toffee.
But I’m not. I’m Valentina Romano, daughter of the disgraced Lord Romano, a woman who has been forced to hide her true identity from the world for her entire adult life.
Valentina cannot fall for the son of the king responsible for that.
It’s unthinkable.
Impossible.
No matter how much I want it.
I push myself out of bed and pull back the curtains. The blue of the sky is rapidly being taken over by dark, skittering clouds, and there’s a distinct smell of rain in the air.
I collect my wash bag and towel and make my way down the hallway. I knock lightly on Pippa’s door and then push it open. She’s lying in bed in the dim light. I watch her rhythmic breathing for a moment, and not wanting to wake her, I turn and creep out of the room.
“Is that you, Fab?” a croaky voice asks.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine.”
“How are you?”
“Better than yesterday. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Do you think you could eat anything? Maybe some dry crackers?”
“I do.”
“I’ll get you some once I’ve had a shower.”
“I might sleep some more until then.”
I close the door quietly and head to the bathroom. When I get there, the door is closed, so I knock tentatively. When no one answers, I push it open only to become swamped in steam. Through the mist, my eyes land on a lone figure, wearing nothing but a towel, his back to me.
Max.
“I'm so sorry,” I mutter, stumbling back.
As Max turns, the steam begins to evaporate, and I can see his hair is damp, and droplets of water cling to his broad shoulders and shapely pecs.
He’s holding a toothbrush in his mouth, and without giving permission, my eyes roll over him, taking in the sprinkling of hair across his chest, his taut belly, the way his towel is slung low on his hips.
I suck in a breath, rooted to the spot.
He removes the toothbrush. “Good morning.”
I should look away. I should run away.
But all I do is gawk at this Adonis of a man, wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms, to run my fingers over his muscular chest, the touch of his lips against mine.
Stop it!
“Err…hi,” I mutter as I back away further.
The corners of his mouth quirk. “You’re staring, Fabiana.”
Of course I’m staring. Have you seen yourself?
With the strength of Thor, I wrench my gaze away. “I'll come back later when you’re…finished.”
“I’m nearly done,” he calls out, but I’m already dashing back down the hallway, my cheeks flaming hot, closing the door behind myself as I reach my room.
I scrunch my eyes shut, humiliated, willing the image of him to disappear from my mind. But there he is, looking all tall and muscular and sexy, his body glistening, his lip curving into a soft, teasing smile.
Now that he showed me what he feels for me last night, resisting him is going to take a will of steel.
I pull on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I'm not going to risk heading back to the bathroom. Instead, I make my way down to the kitchen where Rocco is cooking breakfast.
“Morning, Rocco,” I say brightly.
He turns to me, and I wonder how much of Max and my interaction around the fire he heard last night. “Hey.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Up at the crack of dawn, thanks to the birds,” he replies as he returns his attention to whisking eggs in a large bowl.
“Can I help?”
Being busy is so much better than thinking right now.
“You can heat up the baked beans.”
“I can do that. Are they in the pantry?”
“There's a few big cans on the table behind you.”
I turn and spot the cans. I rummage through some of the drawers, looking for a can opener, finally locating one. Rocco works in silence as I set about my task, opening the cans and pouring the contents into a big pot. I light an element on the gas hob, collect a wooden spoon, and start stirring.
“I don't understand why anyone wants to eat this,” I say.
“Look, Fabiana,” Rocco says, turning to me. “It must be obvious to you that I don't trust you, but I'm willing to try, for Max's sake.”
“You're a good friend.”
“I don't think it's easy being him.”
I turn the heat down and place the wooden spoon on the counter. “How so?”
“He's grown up in the public eye with people judging him.” He shoots me a pointed look, clear he counts me in the ranks of those people.
“At the risk of making him sound like a poor little rich boy, I don't think it was easy for him to be the last-born son, with certain expectations about what he should do with his life.”
“You mean he was never going to inherit the throne.”
“Yeah, but more than that, he didn't get a choice about what he did with his life. He was expected to go into the Royal Air Force, just like his brother did, but he can never have a career like you or I can.”
“He has this program,” I say, looking out the kitchen window at some of the kids slowly emerging from their tents. “Which he’s obviously passionate about.”
“Don't get me wrong, I think the life of Max is probably pretty good on many levels. But he could never be a lawyer or a scientist or all the things you and I could be.”
“Believe me, I could never be a lawyer or a scientist,” I reply, hoping to lighten the mood. When he doesn’t smile, I say, “I get what you mean. He didn't have a choice in who he could be.”
“But I do have a choice in what I have for breakfast, and I hate baked beans,” a voice says, and we both turn to see Max standing in the doorway.
Even though he’s now fully dressed in a pair of pants and a polo shirt, his hair now dry, the sight of him makes my whole body buzz, and I quickly turn my attention to the pot of beans.
Toffee bounces in beside him, her tail wagging as she sniffs the ground.
“That's something you and Fabiana have in common,” Rocco says. “Isn’t that right?”
I chance looking at Max, and I swear my heart skips a beat. “You don't like baked beans?”
I shake my head. “It physically pains me to have to stir them right now.”
“Thank you for your service,” he says with a grin, and I wonder how he can be so relaxed and easy around me with what happened just now in the bathroom, let alone what happened between us last night.
He rubs his hands together. “I’ll feed Toffee, and then shall I get on with cooking the bacon? I’m starving.”
“The rabble is awakening, so now’s good,” Rocco says.
Max places Toffee’s bowl on the floor for her, and she gobbles it up. He then slices open packets of bacon and sets about frying it up.
The three of us work together. Whenever Max comes near me, electricity sparks inside, and I do my best to push it away.
“Are you still going to do all the activities today for me to film?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he replies.
Because you wanted to kiss me last night and I rejected you? Because you laid your cards on the table and I kept mine close to my chest?
I bite my lip. “No reason. Is it okay if I get some footage now?”
“The world needs to see Prince Max cooking bacon,” Rocco agrees.
“Be my guest,” Max replies, and I pull my phone from my back pocket and begin to film him as he turns the sizzling bacon with a pair of tongs.
I pan out to show the kitchen, with Rocco cooking the scrambled eggs, then focus on the attentive Toffee on the floor, hoping for scraps, before I zoom back in on Max as he concentrates on his work, his brows pulled together in concentration.
Why does he need to look so darn good all the time? Even when he’s cooking over a hot stove, he looks like he could effortlessly grace the cover of GQ magazine.
He’s not playing fair.
My phone rings in my hand, making me jump, and I glance at the screen to see it’s Mr. Beckman calling. Alarm bells instantly begin to sound in my head, and I press answer, stepping away from the men for some privacy.
“Hi, Mr. Beckman,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
“Valentina, I'm so glad I got you,” he says in a rush. “Your Nona is just fine, but she did have a little accident.”
My heart leaps into my mouth. “An accident?” I repeat, my voice breathy and thin, like it belongs to somebody in another room. “What kind of accident?”
“She had a fall, and luckily, I was there with her. I called an ambulance—”
“An ambulance!” My shocked voice is so much louder than I expected, ringing around the room, and I clamp a hand over my mouth.
It's too late. Both men are now watching me, and Max has left the stove, concern written across his face.
“An x-ray will tell us more, but she might have broken her ankle. I assure you, she's in good hands, Valentina.”
“Where is she?”
“She's at Villadorata Central. But you—”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I reply, my mind reeling. My nona is hurt, and I wasn't there for her. Guilt twists my belly. My nona needs me. I have to get to her.
“She’ll understand that you’re working and—”
I cut him off. “Mr. Beckman, I'll be there as soon as I can. Does she have her phone with her?”
There's no way I'm not going to Nona. She's my everything. The thought of her being in pain without me there is too much to bear.
“I'm bringing her phone to her this morning.”