Chapter 17Sofia
Chapter 17
Sofia
Of all the activities on this planet, what I’m currently watching as I stand with Enzo at the top of a cliff on a windswept day on one of our private get togethers, has got to be one of the more extreme. From what I can see, this sport involves having someone strap something akin to a giant rubber band around your ankles before you step off a perfectly serviceable bridge, plummeting like a boulder, inevitably screaming at the top of your lungs, before being pinged up and down like a human yo-yo. Then, someone lowers you into a waiting boat, where you doubtlessly check that your eyeballs are still attached, and then proceed to vomit over the edge from the severe vertigo.
But despite its clear insanity, there is a part of me that thinks the wild sport of bungee jumping may in fact be rather thrilling, particularly if you get to tandem jump with someone you trust, someone who joins in your excitement of the jump, like you’re diving into the unknown together.
Someone like Marco.
I blow out a breath. The fact of the matter is I find my mind wandering all the time, and it’s always to the same destination, time and time again.
I think about Marco more often than I care to admit, even to myself. Not that I would ever admit to thinking about Marco to anyone else. Imagine if I confided in Amelia about how I feel about him? The mere idea has my insides shrivelling into a raisin. She would give me a knowing smirk, and all she would have to do is say one little word to sum the entire situation up, and that word would inevitably be “sizzle.” Oh, and “I told you so.” She would definitely say that, as well.
But the fact of the matter is that I’ve developed feelings for Marco that will not go away, no matter what I do or what I tell myself. Feelings that go beyond simple attraction.
Feelings that tell me he’s a good man with a good heart.
Feelings that make me want to spend time with him, getting to know him more and more, to learn what makes him tick, who he is.
Feelings that tell me how good it would be to be held in his arms as he presses his lips against mine, claiming me as his.
I’ve thought about that rather a lot in fact .
Surely no one could blame me. Not only do I find being with Marco brings out a side of me long forgotten, but when a man as handsome as him pulls his shirt off in the middle of the palace to reveal a muscular torso, strong arms, and shoulders that could block out the sun, and then proceeds to work alongside you to discover a concealed entrance to a hidden room beneath the thrones where you find an ancient scroll? Let’s just say I can’t imagine solving this riddle with anyone less than him.
Marco is exciting, fun, adventurous. He has the power to set my blood on fire with a mere flick of his eyes in my direction, a mere tilt of his lips upward in his knee-weakening smile. Being around him feels like a breath of fresh air.
He has this effortless way of helping me loosen up, making me forget my worries and responsibilities. His presence is like a gentle nudge to relax and simply enjoy the moment, something I’ve never been good at. With him, before I know it, I’m laughing and at ease, simply savoring his company.
What’s more, we’ve got to the point where all we need is for the scroll that’s currently burning a hole at the back of my wardrobe, hidden behind a row of handbags, to be translated and we’d have cracked the riddle. It’s within our grasp now, and this whole righteous heir conundrum could be unravelled.
I glance at Enzo. His face is pulled into a scowl, his arms crossed over his chest, his foot tapping the ground, showing me just how much he’s enjoying this.
I would give anything to feel even half of what I feel for Marco for Enzo. The man who is currently watching the bungee jumping, muttering things like, “Why doesn’t my brother take up a sensible hobby like stamp collecting?” and “I prefer the thrill of a good opera to this kind of lunacy.”
But the simple fact of the matter is I don’t. I don’t have any feelings for Enzo beyond wishing he was not so… well, Enzo . I know that’s a terrible thing to think, because he’s a perfectly nice man.
But what I’m beginning to wonder, what’s been gnawing away at me is this: is he my nice man?
Yes, he’s great for me on paper. Perfect, in fact. That isn’t up for debate. But what I’ve begun to understand—and it’s something I won’t admit to anyone, particularly Amelia—is that my spreadsheet failed to incorporate such abstract concepts as “sparks,” “attraction,” the way someone’s sense of humor can light up a room, the way you can feel so very drawn to what someone says and does. These are unquantifiable things that I know are crucial in forming a romantic attachment. Crucial for love .
I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself that the sorts of feelings I have for Marco are dangerous. They expose me. They make me vulnerable. Those are the two very things I’ve worked so hard to avoid in this whole “find a husband” quest of mine. The very reason I chose head over heart, logic over emotions. Enzo over Marco.
Choosing Enzo may not be exciting. It may not set my heart on fire. But he can offer me something Marco can’t with his adventurous spirit, openness, and zest for life: Enzo is safe.
Enzo will never break my heart because he’ll never even come close to touching it.
I cannot say that of Marco.
Of course, it doesn’t help that the man who’s currently bungee jumping is none other than the man in question. I catch my breath, my heart hammering as I watch Marco, standing at the edge of the bridge, readying himself to jump off it. He looks our way, waving and flashing his confident grin before he steps backwards off the bridge—backwards!—falling through the air down, down, down, until the string pings him back up and I hear his laughter, floating through the air.
My heart is in my mouth.
And then, as they collect him and pull him to the safety of the boat below, I let out a relieved breath. He made it. He’s alive.
“Thank goodness for that,” I say with a breathy smile.
“Younger brother syndrome. That’s what I call it,” Enzo sniffs.
“I think he’s awfully adventurous.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
I glance at Enzo’s profile as he studiously watches the next bungee jumpers—two people, holding on to one another before they take a literal leap of faith off the bridge—his brows knitted together in concentration. Although Enzo’s features bear some similarity to his brother’s, where Marco’s eyes are piercing blue and playful, his are gray and serious. Where Marco’s hair frames his chiseled face, Enzo’s is short and neatly combed, exposing a balding patch at the crown. Where Marco’s jawline is strong and sharp, with a spray of manly stubble, Enzo’s is more rounded and soft, cleanly shaven and smooth but for his thick mustache. Where Marco’s appearance is rough and ready in that oh-so masculine, outdoorsy way I never expected to be drawn to, Enzo’s polished appearance exudes professionalism and appropriateness.
Altogether, Enzo looks like the man I should be marrying—and Marco looks like a walking heartbreak.
Enzo leans toward me. “All I can say is I’m glad it’s not me at the end of that cord, bouncing away like a human-sized cat toy,” he says as we watch the latest contenders to cheat death.
“I imagine it is rather thrilling, though.”
He blinks at me in surprise. “You want to bungee jump? I wouldn’t have expected that to be an appropriate activity for a woman in your position, Sofia. You’re a member of the royal family. There are certain expectations of decorum that go with such standing, as I’m sure you are aware.”
I bristle. I don’t need Enzo to tell me about decorum and my standing. Decorum is my middle name. I know precisely what is expected of me as a Ledonian princess.
Smile pleasantly, ensuring it’s neither too big nor too small.
Ensure I look poised and thoroughly put together at all times in appropriate dress befitting the occasion.
Nod and smile as people tell me about their interests, no matter what I may think in private.
Ask appropriate questions, without probing, while showing the right level of interest.
And above all, show no emotion other than pleasantness at all times.
I nail each and every one of them, every day of my life.
I know what’s going on. This is Marco rubbing off on me. I never would have been interested in doing something as dangerous as bungee jumping before I knew him. I would have seen it the way Enzo does: as pointlessly perilous .
So, instead of responding defensively, I pull my lips into a smile and reply, “I’m not saying I want to bungee jump, exactly, Enzo. But I do wonder how it would feel.”
“Falling to your imminent death, that’s how it would feel.”
“So, you would never do it?”
“Bungee jump?” he scoffs. “I would never do such a thing, and nor would I expect you to, either,.” He holds my gaze, the look on his face stern, and I can’t help but feel I’m being told off.
And there I go again, thinking about how Marco stepped backward off the bridge, and how I know he would encourage me to do it with him, throwing caution to the wind, living right here in the moment.
Not Enzo. Sensible, considered Enzo. The man who reflects everything I know about myself to be right and appropriate.
I pinch my lips together. “I have no plans,” I reply, but I can’t stop the dull ache in my heart. I know Enzo is absolutely right. As a member of the royal family, I shouldn’t even entertain the idea of doing something as risky as bungee jumping. It hardly fits into the tight specifications of my job title.
Which is why Enzo is the right match for me for a whole host of reasons. Good reasons. Important reasons. Reasons that make sense.
He would never encourage me to do something like bungee jump. And that’s exactly the way it should be.
“Shall we get going?” he asks as Marco approaches us. “I could do with a coffee after that.”
“Of course, Enzo. Let’s go back to the palace, just you and I. We can have a coffee and chat.”
He nods, his face unsmiling. “That would be nice. ”
Marco strides over to us, his hair wilder than usual, a look of utter exhilaration on his face, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. He looks so happy, so lit up, like he could power the national grid with his enthusiasm. “You have got to try this, you two. It’s incredible!”
“You know this isn’t my sort of thing, Marco,” Enzo replies.
“It should be. Go on. Give it a try,” he says.
“I said no,” Enzo replies sternly.
Marco looks at me. “What about you, Princess Sofia? Will you take a jump? I’ll do it with you, if you like?”
I look between the two brothers, both watching me for my response. The idea of being wrapped in Marco’s arms, our bodies pressed tightly against one another’s as we step off the bridge and into the unknown, fills me with a potent cocktail of anxiety and excitement. To know that he would be there, holding me, keeping me safe, fills my heart.
But that person isn’t me. Or at least it isn’t who I choose to be. Who I’ve always chosen to be. I’m Princess Sofia, a member of the Ledonian Royal Family. I don’t do things like jump off bridges in the arms of gorgeous men. I cut ribbons and smile pleasantly, I know how to make small talk with absolutely anyone. I know how to climb out of a car elegantly, how to sit up straight with my hands resting in my lap. I know how to greet dignitaries and royalty from other countries.
“Sofia?” Enzo questions. “What’s it going to be? Coffee or plunging off a bridge?”
I can feel Marco’s eyes boring into me as I reply, “Coffee sounds lovely.” I look briefly at him and add, “But thank you, Marco. I appreciate the offer.”
As Enzo and I make our way to our respective cars, it feels as though I’ve made a momentous decision today. I’ve chosen what’s right, and what should be, over taking a giant leap of faith, both literally and metaphorically. A leap of faith with a man who could hold my heart in his hands—and could break it in two.
Now all I have to do is convince myself it’s the right decision for me.