Prince Max may have eluded me once more, but it’s my job to spend time with him, and I’m not going to let him get the better of me.
By the afternoon, I've had words with a confused Ronan, who provided me with what is Prince Max’s actual schedule, and after freshening up in my room, I head to his office. Apparently, he’s reviewing some documents there after lunch.
He’s not getting away with this. I’m not just some mouse for him to toy with his big cat paws. I’m a serious journalist, here to document his life. Here to do him and his family afavor.
Doesn’t he realize I could publish horrible things about him? Tell the country he’s worse than a man-child? Worse than a himbo?
And you know what? I might just do that.
I’ll give him one last chance, and then that’s it.
With my jaw clenched so tight I might crack a molar, I arrive at his office a handful of minutes early. It’s a stunning room, with wood paneled walls, the obligatory high ceilings, and a large desk. I make my way over to the fireplace, where I squat behind one of the high-backed leather chairs. I have a clear view of the entrance, and I’m ready.
This is what that man has reduced me to: hiding behind furniture like some oversized kid.
I push out a frustrated breath. I'm supposed to be documenting his daily life, providing intimate access to the real Prince Max. My career cannot become a series of failed ambush attempts with Ledonia’s most elusive prince.
And I’m going to do my darndest to make sure it isn’t.
Finally, after my knees begin to cramp, Prince Max appears.
He saunters into the room as though he owns it, looking all relaxed in his post-shower pair of slacks and white polo shirt that does everything for his broad shoulders—and absolutely nothing for my mental state.
Really, for a guy who’s successfully led me down the garden path today, he sure looks relaxed. He’s humming a tune as he sets some papers out on his desk.
I spring to my feet, my knees creaking in protest, and his eyes land on mine. With more than a touch of satisfaction, I watch his expression shift from relaxed to something rather closely resembling trapped prey.
“Ms. Fontaine.”
“You’ve sent me on quite the royal goose chase today,Your Royal Highness,” I say in a clipped tone that leaves him in no doubt of my displeasure.
“I did?” he asks as though it comes as a surprise to him.
“Did you purposely send me to the wrong location this morning?”
“The wrong location?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Please don’t play coy with me. You sent me a schedule from last month and I waited in the Blue Drawing Room for half an hour. You’re well aware I need access to you to do the job your father is paying me to do.”
“Perhaps the schedules got mixed up.”
I raise my brows. “Perhaps?”
“These things happen.”
“Admit it,” I spit. “You did this on purpose.”
“Are you being a little paranoid?”
I throw my hands on my hips and glare at him.
He raises his palms in the air. “Okay, I admit it. I had a schedule from last month sent to you.”
“What?” My jaw drops open. Hedidsend me on a wild goose chase!
“I was being childish.”
“You said it,” I scoff. “You need this more than I do,” I bluff, because a broken-down house and a pile of bills tell me otherwise.
