Page 31 of Gilded Princess

“Crème brûlée? How do you know I’m not vegan or allergic to berries or something?”

He sits back in the booth, a smug smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You ordered a salad with strawberries and feta—you’re not allergic or against either of those things.”

He rubs the back of his neck, the movement straining the material of his shirt. The color blue is so pale, it’s nearly white, and it does everything for his sun-kissed complexion and green eyes. It’s hard to tell, but it almost looks like a light blush colors the tops of his cheekbones.

“I need to confess something.”

Dread coils low in my gut and I sit back against the booth, the cool material sticking to my skin instantly. My heart pounds, and I surreptitiously glance around, looking for someone to clue me in. I knew this—he—was too good to be true. This was all just some prank or something.

“Okay.”

“My aunt and uncle own Louisa’s.” He expels a breath when I don’t react right away. I’m too busy letting the relief course through me.

“And?” Am I missing something?

He drops his hand to the table. “And that’s it. My aunt and uncle own this place and a few others. And I didn’t tell you at first because I didn’t want you to think I was only bringing you here because of the free food.”

I let my smile grow. “You had me scared for a moment. I thought you were about to confess you have a wife and kid at home or something. Your aunt and uncle owning this restaurant isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Me, married with a kid? Babe, how old do you think I am?” He smiles at me, and those dang dimples wound me they’re so potent.

I reach for my glass with a chuckle. “I don’t know. That’s just where my mind went when you said you had to confess something.”

“Don’t phrase it that way again. Noted,” he murmurs. He finishes his drink in one swallow and sets it down on the table. “Well, Louisa’s makes some of the best crème brûlée in the city. Just don’t tell my aunt Rosalie that.” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

“You have another aunt who owns a restaurant too?” Though we’ve chatted, we didn’t really dive deep into any family stuff. It’s been mostly basic get-to-know-you questions. Typical first date stuff. Or is this our second date? Does the coffee shop count? I make a mental note to ask Lainey when I see her next.

“She runs a bakery that sells to other businesses in the city. But not here.”

“That sounds awesome. I bet your family holidays are full of food. And what about your parents? Are they restauranteurs or chefs too?”

The skin around his eyes tightens for a moment before he reaches for his glass, sipping his cocktail. I was surprised they didn’t even blink when he ordered a whiskey, but knowing that his aunt and uncle own the place, it makes sense that they didn’t object.

“Nah, my dad’s a businessman, and my mom does a lot of charity work. What about you? What do your parents do?”

“My dad died when I was younger. Military. And my mom splits her time between the city and wherever her newest boyfriend wants to visit. Usually somewhere in Europe.” The words come out quick, I don’t offer him the chance for any comment. Embarrassment feels itchy along my skin, and my nerves creep up my throat, threatening to strangle any more words from spewing all over the table.

Either the fates are smiling down on me or he picks up on my social cues, because he doesn’t ask me to elaborate. And I’m grateful for it.

“Siblings?”

“Yeah, I have a twin sister—and a cousin who’s like a sister.”

“What a coincidence. Twins run in my family too,” he says with a smirk.

“We’d for sure have twins then—” I cut myself off as the words register in my brain and disbelief etches across my face. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean it like that. I—uh—just genetically speaking, the probability of us having twins if we—” I snap my mouth closed, cutting off the rest of my embarrassing ramble. My face feels like it’s on fire, and I curse my fair complexion for broadcasting my embarrassment to everyone within a twenty-foot radius.

His laugh pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. “It’s fine. I know what you mean. And before you even think it, no, you didn’t scare me off with your talk of genetic probabilities. I like it.”

Some of my chagrin cools as a different kind of warmth fills me.

I’m saved further when our server places a saucer and ramekin of crème brûlée down between the two of us, two spoons resting on the saucer beneath. “Enjoy and please let me know if you need anything.”

We murmur our thanks before we each pick up a spoon.

“You do the honors.” His voice is low, the smooth tenor rolling over me.

I gently tap the rounded part of my spoon on the torched caramel top, cracking it perfectly to let the baked custard peek out and grabbing a spoonful.

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