Chapter 11
Valentina
The royal family’s train is just as pretentious as I’d expected, with its polished mahogany panels, crystal decanters, and Ledonian red upholstered seating.
Uniformed staff move discreetly through the carriage, catering to any need, and the overpriced two-day-old sandwiches and terrible coffee I usually get from the food carriage have been replaced with a silver service three course meal, accompanied by local wines and coffee the best barista in Villadorata would be proud of.
I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
As the train chugs along, I gaze out the window as the Ledonian countryside rolls past, marveling at what my life has become.
Only a few days ago, I was lying on the floor of the kitchen, water dripping on my forehead, as I tried to tighten the leaking tap, catching the distinct form of a rat scurrying by.
Now, here I am, being whisked north inside a luxurious metal bullet with a prince I’ve got conflicting feelings for, heading straight for the summer palace in the mountains.
Toffee is sleeping in her crate, and the human version of a labrador puppy, Pippa Chen, is slunk in her seat across from me, her laptop on the table between us. She's reviewing the content strategy we’ve been working on since we left the city a couple of hours ago.
“I still can't believe we're actually doing this!” she gushes. “Can I call you Fabiana? Mr. Clementine expects everyone to be super formal at the palace, but I'm about 90 years younger than him, and I call everyone by their first names, even my parents.”
“Plain old Fabiana is fine by me,” I reply as I take another sip of my coffee and resist the urge to purr. Seriously, it's that good.
“There's nothing plain or old about you. You're so amazing! And the ideas you came up with in the strategy meeting and how you didn’t back down when Mr. Clementine was pushing for a boring old TV documentary? Chef’s kiss.” She mimes kissing her fingertips as Max slides his gaze across the aisle at me for what seems like at least the thirtieth time since we left Villadorata Central.
I catch his stare and immediately he pulls it away, running his fingers through his hair as he returns his attention to some papers on the table in front of him.
I take the opportunity to assess him. He’s removed his jacket to reveal a buttoned-up white cotton shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to show off his sinewy forearms, a couple of buttons undone at his neck.
The white of his shirt contrasts perfectly with the olive of his skin, his thick dark hair slightly mussed up from the number of times he’s run his fingers through it whenever I catch him looking at me. As I said, it’s at least thirty times.
That’s a lot of hair mussing in anyone’s book.
And the looks he shoots me, all brooding and intense, would make a weaker woman melt.
Thank goodness I’m not a weaker woman.
I glance at him again and catch his eye, and instantly a shot of electricity courses through me.
Okay, maybe I’m a little weaker than I should be around him.
The thing is, now that I’ve seen glimpses of a man I didn’t know existed, he’s wormed his way into my head, and for the life of me, I cannot get him out. I find my mind wandering to him at all times of the day and night.
Especially at night.
As I lay in my huge bed after he left me on the balcony last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d acted toward me at dinner.
The way he took my arm as we entered the dining room, perhaps sensing I was unnerved to be there.
It was a little like he was my ally, not the journalist he’s being forced to work with.
Perhaps he was just being a gentleman or a good host, but there was something in the way he looked at me, the way he stood beside me, the way he spoke up for me, that made me feel as though he had my best interests at heart.
Which has got to be the biggest U-turn in the history of driving.
“The behind-the-scenes access you're planning alone is going to be absolutely revolutionary for royal digital engagement,” Pippa says, pulling my attention from the prince.
“’Revolutionary’ might be overstating it a little, Pippa,” I reply as I lift my phone to capture Max.
He’s studiously reading his papers, his brows pulled together in concentration.
Judging by the way the fabric of his shirt strains against his arms, a hashtag appears before my eyes: #BicepsAndBookmarks.
Even as I think of it, I’m aware Max is so much more than the hashtags I’ve given him over the years.
I vow to come up with more authentic versions over the coming days.
“Are you kidding, Fab?” Pippa says. “You’re totally revolutionizing the way royalty will be seen in this country.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Fab?”
“Has anyone ever called you ‘Fab’?” she asks.
“I can’t say they have.” I click my phone off.
“It totally works for you. Fab for Fabiana and fabulous.” She beams at me.
Well, I've got a new fan.
“What you’re doing is going to change completely how people see the monarchy! You've got to understand that!”
In my line of work, I’m not exactly used to being fan girl-ed over. I’m not quite sure how to manage it now.
“Thanks?” I offer, and Pippa laughs as though I’ve made a brilliant joke.
No more coffee for Ms. Chen.
I raise my phone once more to record Max as he frowns at whatever he's reading, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably makes women go wild. He looks genuinely engrossed, and I find myself watching him closely.
This man is way more complex than I’ve ever given him credit for. This is good content. Sitting here, unaware I’m filming him, he’s not putting on a show. He’s not performing. He’s simply reading, not performing. Not being a party boy prince.
He glances up and catches sight of me filming, and his entire demeanor stiffens. "What are you doing?"
“Fab is capturing authentic content, sir,” Pippa clarifies helpfully.
“Fab?” he asks, his eyes sliding back to mine.
I shrug.
“Fabiana, of course! I shortened her name,” Pippa declares proudly, as though she’s conquered Mt. Everest, rather than removed the “iana” from Fabiana.
The corners of Max’s lips tilt upwards.
“I’m capturing the real you, not the public version,” I say.
“Perhaps they're the same thing," he counters, but there's something playful in his tone. “If you’re going to insist on filming me, why don’t you do it from here.” He gestures at the empty seat across the table from him.
It’s not a bad idea.
I slide over, and he immediately straightens, offering me that practiced royal smile.
“Should I stare pensively out the window?"
“Heck, no. I want the person who was actually reading, not someone performing for the camera.”
“You certainly studied me closely,” he says, lowering his voice. The comment sends a flutter through my chest. He lowers his voice for my ears only. “Or should that be ‘Fab’?”
A snicker threatens to morph into a laugh, and I work hard at not allowing it to escape my lips. “She’s super enthusiastic. I like that about her.”
He widens his eyes, those lips quirking once more.
“Toffee’s having a good long sleep,” I say to change the subject.
Max turns to look at his dog, asleep in her crate, her paws twitching.
“She looks like she’s dreaming about chasing bunnies across the lawn.”
“I imagine she is,” he replies. “How did you enjoy the dinner last night?”
“It was very tasty,” I reply.
We both know he wasn’t asking me about my food.
He places his elbows on the table, leaning toward me, and I try not to notice how the muscles in his forearms ripple as he moves. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I felt you were a little nervous going into that room last night.”
I think of the way he walked in with me as though I weren’t just the hired help, there to do a job. He’d been gentlemanly, proud, almost.
But that could have been a figment of my imagination.
“I don’t usually attend state dinners,” I reply, although that wasn’t the real reason I was nervous.
“Some of the guests were, shall we say, less than polite.”
“Oh, you mean Lord Blackwood? He’s nothing I can’t handle.”
I remember Lord Blackwood from childhood as a self-interested man my dad didn't like.
They had some kind of professional rivalry that I didn't understand at the time but have since learned was around their respective businesses.
I remember hearing him referring to him as “a snake in the grass” and my eight-year-old self-wondering how someone so portly could be a snake.
“You held yourself well.”
“You’ve got to when you’re a journalist who makes a living out of writing about people’s lives.”
“I imagine you do.”
“How did you enjoy yourself? Have you been DM-ing with your octogenarian today?”
He chuckles, his eyes dancing. “We’ve got a date next week.”
“I bet you do,” I tease.
This bantering is easy. Fun.
Dangerous.
“You have a way with people, Max. I’ve seen it before, but I’ve not really written about it, other than saying how charming you can be.”
“Charming? I thought you said I was flirting.”
“I’ve been told recently that those are two different things.”
We share a smile, the intensity in his rich espresso eyes trained on me making my belly perform a somersault.
“Oh, I’m so glad I captured this,” Pippa says from across the aisle, her phone pointing in our direction.
We both turn to look at her.
“Captured what?” I ask.
“Your interaction, of course. It’s gold!” she says.
“What’s gold, exactly?” Max asks.
“You’ve got this whole ‘will they, won’t they’ thing going on. Like Ross and Rachel from Friends,” she replies.
Oh, good grief.
“I really don’t think—” Max begins at the same time as I say, “That’s totally crazy.”
“Are you sure? Because my phone says otherwise,” Pippa replies, waving her phone in the air.
The surrounding air thickens, and I can’t look at Max.
“May I take a look at your footage?” he asks.