Page 52 of The Heir's Bargain

"He's sure," I said. "I'll take another ale as well, Roth."

"You got it, Ferrios."

As Roth made to turn, I said, "Oh, and Roth?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Keep 'em coming."

Roth winked. "Anything for my favorite gal."

Once Roth was out of earshot, Fynn placed an elbow on the table and sat his chin atop his curled fist. "Favorite gal, huh?"

"Mhm," I mumbled, throwing back the last remnants of ale.

"You might want to watch out, Your Highness," Sylvia said from across the table, chuckling. "I’ve heard that Roth is Ferrios' favorite barkeeper."

"Is he now?" Fynn asked, his eyes locked on mine.

I leaned against the table, propping myself onto my elbow and cocking my head in Fynn's direction, mimicking his position. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for a man who makes a good cocktail."

Sylvia spat out a stream of ale onto the table.

"So, he does make cocktails," Fynn said, leaning closer.

Moris snorted. "Not the kind of cocktail you're looking for, Your Highness."

"Then what kind?" Fynn asked, turning to Moris, his brown eyes wide and innocent.

I knew that look all too well. He knew precisely what Roth had meant, for he had seen it within the barkeeper's mind. Fynn was playing the role of the foolish, naive prince to get a rise from everyone around him.

Two could play at that game, though.

I grinned, my fingers tapping on my jaw. "Why don't we ask Roth himself, hmm?"

"Ask me what, darling?" Roth asked, setting down the pints.

"Oh, the prince here was wondering?—"

"If I can buy a round for everyone," Fynn finished, standing up, his knee banging against the table. Liquid splashed onto the wood.

Sylvia and Moris snickered.

Meanwhile, Roth's jaw dropped. Wiping his hands on his apron, he asked, "Everyone?"

"A gift from the crown," Fynn said.

As if the mere promise of coin was pulling the corners of his lips up, Roth grinned and shouted to the rest of the tavern, "Next round's on the Crown Prince!"

It seemed Sylvia and Moris would get their free drinks after all.

Cheers erupted across the tavern, and Fynn lifted his mug to the cheering patrons.

A nearby drunken patron slapped him in the shoulder and leaned heavily against him. Fynn quirked a brow. When the man met Fynn's gaze, he stumbled back once he realized whom he was touching. But Fynn, being the man he was, only laughed and nodded at the patron before another man guided the drunk away.

Fynn sat back down in his seat and leaned over to me. "Do you think he'll put it on my tab?"

"Your tab?"

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