Tomorrow, we head north together, just her and me and Pippa Chen. The thought should terrify me, and in a way it does.
But as I finally force myself to walk away, leaving her silhouetted against the fairy lights, I can't shake the feeling that everything has shifted irretrievably between us.
I had once thought this was going to be the longest, most difficult month of my life, but now, with these new, uncharted waters we’re both wading through, I wonder if it might in fact be the best.
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 wouldbe 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 hisjacket 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 digitalengagement,” 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.
