Chapter 4
Max
“Come on, Toffee. Time for some more training,” I say as I click the leash onto the collar of the household’s newest addition, a brown lab with paws better suited to a creature five times her size.
She’s got delightfully gangly legs, a rich, chocolate-y coat, and a pink tongue that’s constantly trying to lick my face whenever I’m near. She’s totally captured my heart.
The elder statesmen labs, Lemon and Pepper, cock their heads in my direction.
“Not you two. You’re going out with Marco and Sofia shortly,” I tell them, and my sister looks up at me from her spot snuggled up against her husband on the sofa.
“My feet are sore from being on them all day. You don’t think you could take them out for me, could you, Max? Please? Be a good brother,” she says.
“Three dogs are a lot to handle on your own, you know. Particularly with Toffee’s four-month exuberance,” I reply, watching as Toffee gnaws at her leash as though it’s a chew toy.
But better that than one of my shoes, which she did yesterday, leaving it looking like vintage fashion, if “vintage” means “partially digested by rabid canine.”
“Your brother can handle three dogs. Can’t you, Max?” Marco says, grinning at me. “While you’re there, take a look at the flower bed by the south tower. I planted it only last week, and already it’s taking off.”
My brother-in-law is totally delusional if he thinks I’m going to look at a bed of flowers. Gardening is his jam. It’s definitely not mine.
Toffee tires of chewing the leash and begins to tug on my trouser leg in a not-so-subtle way of telling me that it’s time to get a move on.
“All right, you two. Let’s go for a walk,” I say, and both Lemon and Pepper rise from their beds. They look positively sloth-like in comparison with their younger counterpart.
With a total of three tails wagging, one like a windscreen wiper in a driving blizzard, I tell Sofia she owes me one, and together we leave the room, heading for outside.
It’s a warm and sunny afternoon when we reach the garden, and I collect a couple of tennis balls from the tub by the stables and hurl them out onto the lawn for Lemon and Pepper. Toffee immediately bolts, yanking on my arm and coming to a sudden stop when she reaches the end of her leash.
“Sorry, Toffee. You’re not long enough in the tooth to run with the big dogs yet.” She looks up at me with a questioning look on her adorable puppy face. “Quite literally, cutie.”
I trudge across the lawn, trailing after the older dogs, who have now secured a tennis ball each, making their way back to me to repeat the exercise.
They drop the balls at my feet, and as I lean down to pick them up, Toffee, little minx that she is, worms her way out of her collar and darts across the lawn.
Hastily, I throw the balls for the dogs and rush after her.
“Toffee! Come back here!” I call, doing the one thing you’re never meant to do with a dog—chase her.
Of course, my puppy thinks this is a great game and goes careening through an open gate in the garden wall with happy abandon, her tail wagging like it’s trying to power a small wind turbine.
And then I lose her.
“Toffee! Toffee! Come back here, you furry little maniac!” Fear grips my chest. The staff carpark is behind this wall, and that means frequent comings and goings. At only four months old Toffee is small and could easily… No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
With my heart pounding, I sprint through the gate. “Toffee! Come here, girl!”
The parking lot is packed with cars. She could be anywhere.
I sprint between vehicles only to come to a crashing stop when I see a stunning blonde woman in a skirt suit leaning down to pick Toffee up in her arms.
“Hello there, gorgeous,” she coos in a soft, melodic voice. “What are you doing running wild through a carpark? Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”
Relief washes over me.
She’s safe.
I slow my pace, my fear over Toffee’s brush with death evaporating as I make my way over to the woman.
They say having a dog is good for your health, and perhaps it can also be good for your love life, too.
Toffee wriggles like an excited brown bundle of limbs in her arms, her long tongue trying desperately to lick the woman’s face.
“Thank you so, so much,” I gush as I approach her.
She looks up at me, a smile on her face, and I come to a sudden stop as recognition hits me.
Icy cold rushes through my veins.
“You,” I accuse, my tone as cold as I now feel.
Her smile falters, but only for a fraction of a second before she pulls her lips back into place. “Your Royal Highness,” she says as she curtsies, bowing her head enough that Toffee manages to plant a slobbery kiss right on her nose. She brushes it away with her fingertips, nuzzling my dog.
My dog.
The enemy is holding Toffee in her arms as though she might run off with her. And considering she’s Fabiana Fontaine, judge and executioner of my character, I would not be surprised if she did.
I narrow my eyes at her. Of all the people to rescue Toffee from imminent death, it had to be her. The bane of my existence, the thorn in my side.
The woman Father has instructed I spend the next month with.
Wow. A month with this woman and her acerbic wit.
Give me strength.
Something flickers at the edge of my memory, but I push it aside. I've met hundreds of journalists over the years. They all blur together.
“Please hand over my dog, Ms. Fontaine” My voice is commanding, but I can’t keep the irritation from my tone.
Instead of simpering and blushing like women often do around me, she looks me square in the eyes, unflinching.
“Who? This furry missile? You’re lucky I caught her, sir,” she says with a thoroughly mocking tone.
“There are a lot of cars here. The poor little thing might have ended up squished if I hadn’t caught her. ”
I’m in no mood to humor this woman, who’s done her best to make me a public laughingstock.
I throw my gaze over her. Dressed in a blue skirt suit and pair of shoes that have seen better days, her blonde hair catches the afternoon light, creating a sort of halo effect around her face.
But she’s no angel. She is in fact essentially a professional assassin armed with a laptop.
Or in this case, a puppy.
My puppy.
And not only that, but Toffee seems more than pleased to be held in the arms of this woman who relishes sharing my every mistake with the country, questioning my very character. She casually throws around terms like “himbo” and “man-child” as though for sport, not caring how deep her words can cut.
And now here she is, standing right in front of me, smiling as though she isn’t the devil incarnate, and me, her favorite victim.
“Hand over the dog, please, Ms. Fontaine,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
She’s looking at me with the greenest set of eyes I’ve ever encountered, her lips twitching in amusement as Toffee licks her cheek like she’s a lollipop.
But darn it all, the way she's looking at me like she’s one half amused and the other half challenging me to a duel, makes something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with the fact that Fabiana Fontaine is absolutely, undeniably, and completely gorgeous.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that impossibly green, like emeralds. Clichéd, but it’s the best word to describe them. The only word to describe them.
And they’re trained on me as though a gauntlet has been thrown down, the corners of her mouth tipped upwards.
This collaboration’s going to be torture.
And then I note with more satisfaction than I ought that my puppy got some dirt on Fabiana’s lapel.
Good work, Toffee.
And yes, I’m being petty.
I’m fine with it.
“Are you under the impression that I've kidnapped your dog, sir?” she asks, her tone light. “I rescued her. She came barreling around the cars as though chasing something, but now it would seem she was in fact running away. From you.”
“She wasn’t running away,” I snap, utterly wrongfooted.
I’m used to women simpering and flirting. My royal title makes me an instant hit wherever I go.
This woman? She’s rude and snarky and…and still holding my dog.
“You're trespassing on palace grounds,” I blurt before I have the good sense to stop myself.
There’s a flash of something on her face as her veneer drops, and even if it’s short-lived, I wonder if I’ve somehow got under her skin.
Good. She’s gotten under my skin too many times to count. It’s about time we redressed the balance.
“Actually, sir,” she replies, the word dripping in sarcastic deference. “I've just had a meeting with your father. He’s invited me to move into the palace, which I’ll be doing tomorrow. And now I'm on my way to my car. But thank you so much for the very warm welcome.”
My scowl deepens. Of course I knew she was here to see my father, and the topic of conversation was none other than me. Me, “the problem”.
The real problem here, however, is the fact that this woman now has the power to make or break me with what she chooses to report over the coming month.
Father has made it painstakingly clear that he wants me to go about my everyday life with her shadowing me, confident that she’ll learn I’m more than she reports on.
But what if she’s right? What if I am as immature and unworthy of my position as she already believes?
The thought clutches at my chest like a fist that won’t let go.
Because I have done all the things she’s reported on. I have been irresponsible and reckless, just as she’s said.
Even though my decisions are not me, they’re a part of me, and admitting that is hard enough to do to myself, let alone my harshest critic.
Perhaps I should be a little less direct. Bring out some of the famous Prince Max charm.
“Look. We got off on the wrong foot,” I begin, despite the words catching in my throat. “Thank you for rescuing Toffee, Ms. Fontaine. I really do appreciate it.” I flash her the smile that usually has the effect of softening the heart of even my sternest judge.
But all she does is pull her full lips into an amused smile, her big eyes dancing with mirth. “You’re welcome.” She places a soft kiss on Toffee’s head before she passes her to me, and as I take my dog in my arms, she squirms with delight at the prospect of licking someone else’s cheek.
Fabiana reaches into her purse and pulls out a set of keys. “I believe you and I are going to be spending quite a lot of time together.”
“That’s correct,” I grind out, the prospect hanging over my head like a storm cloud.
She notices the dirt on her lapel and brushes it. But it doesn’t budge.
Is it terrible that I have a small sense of victory?
Probably.
Giving up on the dirt, she lifts her chin and turns her green-eyed gaze to mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow to start on Project Prince Maximilien.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling this?”
She pulls the door open of a car that looks more like it belongs in a junkyard than on the road, and it makes a terrible grinding noise of metal on metal.
“That’s what I’m calling it, sir. You can call it whatever you wish.
” She slides inside the car and then pulls the door over.
She starts the engine and begins to back the car out of the space.
She comes to a stop beside me, winds down her window—which she actually manually winds, the car is so old—and says, “Bye, Toffee. Sleep well, sir.”
And then she turns the wheel and drives off, gravel flicking up behind her wheels.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” I mutter as she disappears from sight, her gaze lingering in my thoughts. “A complete and utter nightmare.”