“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 isgood 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.”
