Chapter 8 #2
I shrug. “They’re okay.” I gesture at her phone. “You're not going to use that footage, are you?”
“Do you think you can do better?”
It's more of a challenge than a question.
“Of course I can. You put me off, that’s all.”
“Did I.” It's not a question, and I note it isn't an apology either.
“Well? Go on, then,” she challenges. “The goal is to hit the yellow in the middle, I take it. Do you think you can do it while I film?”
“Only after you've taken your shot first.”
Two can play this game.
“All right.” She unbuttons her blazer and slides it off, exposing a form-fitting white, sleeveless top underneath. Coupled with her pencil skirt, all her womanly curves are plain to see.
Another involuntary shiver races through me before I have the chance to look away.
Why does she have to be so darn sexy? I mean, she’s not even trying, and she somehow manages to make me incapable of doing anything other than gawking at her like a love-struck teen.
She’s just a woman here to do a job. I’ve got this.
My brain may be shouting No! Stay away! at the top of its lungs, but my hormones? They’re another matter entirely. My hormones are telling me in no uncertain terms that this woman is sexy as all get out. Sexy and beautiful and smart and totally under my skin.
How the heck am I going to get through the next day, let alone the next month?
She’ll be in my face virtually 24/7, filming me, asking me questions, always…
there. Always looking the way she does. Always with that knowing smirk of hers that does things to me, wearing that sexy business outfit.
It’s like every one of Ami’s rom-com movies I’ve ever rolled my eyes at have come to life, with me in the starring role.
Only this isn’t a rom com movie. This is my life. And I refuse to allow any misplaced attraction for Fabiana Fontaine to cloud my better judgment.
As she pulls an arrow from Sofia’s quiver, something catches the light. It’s a necklace with the letter V.
Why would Fabiana Fontaine wear a V necklace around her neck?
Biting her lip, she attempts to attach the arrow to the bow, looking every inch the amateur I hoped she would be.
“Do you need help, Fabiana?” I ask.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
She fumbles with the bow. “I've done this before, but it was a very long time ago.”
I raise my hands in the air, stepping back. “Okay.”
She holds the bow up and pulls back the string, the arrow bouncing around. I press my lips together to suppress a satisfied laugh bubbling up inside of me.
She has no idea what she's doing.
She releases the arrow, and it glides to the ground in an inelegant arc, landing only two feet away. She looks up at me. “This is harder than it looks,” she admits. “It’s clear I’m no toxophilite.”
“Toxo-what now?”
“It’s an old-fashioned word that means ‘lover of the bow’.”
The word “lover” hangs between us.
I clear my throat. “How do you know that?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Words are my business.”
“I thought you were more into words like ‘man-child’ and ‘himbo’ rather than anything quite so technical,” I say in retort, and to my surprise she lets out a laugh. It’s girly and cute and totally not what I expect from her. “What’s so funny?”
“I really bothered you with those names. Didn’t I?”
“Not in the least,” I lie, because let’s face it, being called a man-child by her burrowed deep under my skin like a mole.
“Max, I—” she begins and then breaks off.
“What?”
She lifts her chin, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. “I’m sorry I called you those names.”
I blink at her in surprise for a beat. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I was wrong. You may have man-child tendencies, but you have other qualities, too. I overlooked them.”
I look into her big, emerald eyes, half expecting some snarky quip to follow. But nothing does.
“Thank you,” I say in reply, not sure what else to say.
She pulls her full lips into a smile. “You’re welcome?”
I smile back at her. This concession is like one step closer to us burying the hatchet completely. “What name would you give me now?”
“Oh, Mr. Grumpy for sure,” she replies, and I bark out a startled laugh.
“Please don’t.”
“You have been rather grumpy.”
“Fair call.”
“But I won’t call you it.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, my belly going all kinds of crazy.
“See? We can get on, Max. We can do this project together now that you’ve stopped hiding from me.”
“You might be right,” I concede, not quite sure what to do with my newfound camaraderie with this woman I’ve despised for so long.
She holds up Sofia’s bow and arrow. “How do I do this?”
“Not that way,” I say, gesturing at the arrow she shot into the ground.
“That much I know.”
“The first thing you need to understand about archery is that it's not about strength. It's about being precise and controlling your breathing.”
“Breathing? I held my breath, but it didn’t help.”
“You see, that's where you went wrong. Well, that and having no clue how to use a bow and arrow.”
She lets out another light laugh, and the tinkling sound makes my belly buzz. It's the strangest sensation, and I don't think a woman's laugh has ever had this kind of effect on me before.
“You're not going to hit your target if you hold your breath. You need to exhale as you let the arrow go.”
“Like this?” She holds up the bow with another arrow, pulls it back and pushes out a breath. The arrow flops to the ground as the bow twangs.
She bites her lip as she turns to me, sheepish. “That didn't go quite as planned.”
Without pausing to examine any motivation other than teaching, I position myself directly behind her. “May I?” I ask as I hold my hands out.
“Of course,” she replies.
I place my hand over hers and adjust her grip on the bow. As our flesh touches, electricity shoots through me, just as it did in the library, and my heart rate kicks up. I’m close enough to catch her scent, something floral and pretty, perhaps with a touch of vanilla.
It doesn’t help me concentrate on archery, that’s for sure.
“The way you're standing is all wrong,” I say, my voice a little gruffer than I intend. I place one hand on her hip to turn her so her shoulders are correctly positioned in relation to the target. “Do you feel how you're aligned now?”
“I do,” she replies, her voice suddenly breathy, and it occurs to me that perhaps she feels more than just the right archery position. Perhaps she feels the intensity of our proximity the same way I do.
I lift her elbow, lightly holding it in position. For just a moment, something tugs at my memory. There’s something in the way she tilts her head, a familiar gesture I can't quite place. But it's gone before I can grasp it, lost in the distraction of our closeness.
“Now, pull the string of the bow back.” I guide her hand with mine, acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch. Her back against my chest, my arms bracketing hers, the way she leans slightly into my guidance when I adjust her aim.
Why did I put myself in this position?
“When do I breathe?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Breathe in as you draw back until the bowstring touches the corner of your lips.”
She does as I tell her, the bow creaking into position.
“Now exhale and release.”
The arrow jolts as she lets it go, slicing through the air and hitting the target.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say as I gawk at the circular rings.
“Is that a bullseye?” she asks excitedly, spinning around to face me.
Standing close enough to me that I can see the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose, she looks up into my eyes, her own eyes gleaming, and I have the sudden urge to pull her roughly into my arms and press my lips against hers, to know how she tastes, this beautiful, feisty woman who’s invaded my brain.
My heart is thudding against my ribs like a wild animal, her enchanting scent filling the air, messing with my mind.
No. Not happening.
Fabiana Fontaine is the last woman I should ever want to kiss.
She’s the journalist who called me all those names. She’s the woman I’m being forced to spend a month with.
She’s the one responsible for rehabilitating my image.
But none of the reasons is enough to stop me wanting it. Wanting her.
“So?”
“Yes,” I murmur, my eyes sliding to her full, pouty lips.
“Is it a bullseye?” she asks.
I need to break this spell, and I need to do it now.
I take a step back.
The right decision. The only decision.
Clearing my throat, I gesture at the target. “That is indeed a bullseye. Well done, Fabiana. You're a natural.”
Her full lips pull into a grin, her whole face lighting up. “I can’t believe it! I suspect we make a good team, Max.”
Why is she looking at me like that, like she means what she says, that we do make a good team?
“Can we try again?” she asks, already reaching for another arrow.
I want to say no. I ought to say no. I should collect my bow and arrows, bid her adieu, and walk away.
But instead, I hear myself saying, “Let's see if we can replicate the same magic, shall we?”
This time, when I position myself behind her, I make sure not to allow my body to touch her back. But despite my care, just as before, my heart rate leaps.
I tighten my jaw.
What kind of a masochist am I that I’m deeply drawn to a woman I hate?
Or at least a woman thought I hated.
Man, this is beyond confusing.
She pulls back the bow at the wrong angle, and I adjust her grip. Then she forgets to hold the arrow against the bow, and it drops to the ground.
“I thought I was doing it right,” she says in frustration as she collects the bow in her hand.
“You're overthinking it. Just let it happen.”
As the words leave my mouth, they seem loaded, and she snaps her attention to me. “What do you mean?”
What do I mean?
I’m talking about archery. That’s all. Nothing else going on here.
I press my lips together before responding. “Archery is as much about instinct as it is about your technique. You need to feel the bow and arrow, allow it to become an extension of yourself.”
“That's easy for you to say. I bet you've been doing this since you were in nappies.”
“You think I started archery lessons as a toddler?” I ask, thankful for the chance to make a joke, to release some of this excruciating tension between us.
“Isn't that what you do when you're royalty? Learn all the outdated practices that are of no use in the modern world?”
“Such as?”
“Archery, obviously, and how to rock a crown.”
I arch a brow. “You think I had actual lessons on how to wear a crown?”
“Why not? You're a member of the royal family. You and crowns are synonymous.”
“Ah, but you forget, I'm the last born. The only crown I will ever wear is a paper one from a Christmas cracker.”
She looks into my eyes for a beat, and that urge to kiss her slams me, full force.
What is it about this woman that draws me in? Yes, she’s beautiful. She’s smart and witty. And her body in that outfit? Let’s just say she deserves a round of applause.
But this level of attraction is beyond anything I’ve felt before, particularly for someone I don’t even like.
I’ve got no clue how to handle it.
“Does it bother you?” she asks.
“Does what bother me?” I reply, my mind blank. This woman is scrambling my brain, making it hard to think straight.
What were we talking about?
“That you'll never be king.”
That's right.
“No. No, it doesn’t. Not in the least.”
I need to break this spell. Remove myself from the danger zone.
In one brisk move, I step back and collect my things. “I’m sorry, but I've remembered I have an appointment, and I'm going to be late if I don’t leave now.”
She slots the arrow back into the quiver. “I'll come with you.”
Not the plan.
“It’s personal. The…dentist,” I say as I back away from her like a coward. “I’d prefer you not to document that.”
“Of course,” she replies, her face looking confused. “Thank you for the archery lesson.”
“Anytime,” I reply without looking at her.
“I’ll see you this evening at the state dinner?”
The dinner. Right.
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you then. I throw her a brief smile before I turn on my heel and stride away from both her and the conflicted, growing pull she has on me.