Page 21 of How to Date a Prince

“I really, really can’t take another minute of this,” says a familiar voice behind me.

To my credit, I don’t jump, whirl, or panic.

Instead, I look over my shoulder as casually as I can. Thomas Golden comes to stand beside me, neatly sidestepping the egg on the floor in an elegant motion. Wordlessly, he passes me a dish towel, and I wipe my hands clean enough for now.

A muscle works in his jaw.

Glancing around, I see people putting things on baking sheets and into baking tins. A couple of men have already gone over to the wall of preheating ovens to put their baking in.

I haven’t even started combining ingredients. It’s going swimmingly in the deep end.

“What,” Thomas Golden asks slowly, surveying the rather disastrous scene before us, “are you doing?”

“Baking,” I say a little more defensively than I need to, with a broad gesture at the floury egg-enhanced mess before us. “Obviously.”

He purses his lips, glancing at me. “No, seriously. What’s with all of the eggs everywhere?”

“I’m… separating a yolk. Apparently,” I say as casually as I can muster with a shrug, “it’s more difficult than it looks. Who knew?”

Thomas Golden’s gaze is on me fully now. I resist the urge to shift from foot to foot, and I stand tall at my scene of floury egg carnage like I’m a page from Debrett’s book of etiquette on comportment, as if that will compensate for my sweeping ineptitude in the kitchen.

“I see.” His expression shifts from one unreadable mood to another. “Hold that thought.”

At least he’s not openly laughing at me. Which makes this experience a notch less miserable than school.

But there’s no Gav to save me here either.

Thomas Golden goes back to his station and returns with a damp cloth and a small empty bowl. He passes me the cloth. Before I have a chance to start cleaning up, he reaches for an egg, efficiently cracks it one-handedly, and separates the egg using the egg shell to let the whites fall neatly into a bowl. He drops the yolk into the small ramekin bowl in front of me.

Unlike me, he does it without making a spectacle. In fact, he does it with great finesse. It makes me feel a little murdery.

“Only one?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. His dark hair falls over his brow as he leans ever so slightly.

Don’t think about how close he is. Or that I can feel his body heat radiating beside me.

“Yes.” I try not to do a double take. He did that like he does it every day. Maybe he does. But I don’t know why he would want to help me. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. It’s totally for my benefit.” Thomas Golden’s voice is cool. “I couldn’t take it any longer.”

“Fair.” I try not to let the sting bother me. He remains close beside me, a little longer than entirely necessary. Or it could be my imagination in the too-warm kitchen. Whatever the reason, I’m very aware of his nearness.

And then, he steps away.

I’m left alone at my workstation. I look down at the worktop for a moment and get to work wiping and cleaning, making a couple of trips back and forth to the sink.

Why would Thomas Golden want to help me? I guess it’s not much of a challenge for him when I’m failing so badly.

And finally, I turn to the recipe. I already have the baking trays, and no idea what parchment paper is, other than something more fitting for an archive than an estate kitchen. I start to sweat when I see the first step of the recipe involves low heat on a burner. I combine the butter, sugar, golden syrup, and fresh ginger in a saucepan. I turn the gas burner on.

While I wait, I look at the next step. I put the dry ingredients in a bowl and stir. Then I add my yolk, courtesy of one Thomas Golden.

Compared to everyone else, I’m quite behind schedule. So, I don’t wait for the burner to heat up to dissolve everything as it should in the saucepan. Instead, I pour a lumpy mixture into the flour, shutting off the burner before I forget and start a fire.

The oven will sort everything out, like the buttery lumps.

Knead briefly, the recipe says.

Tentatively, I put a hand in the bowl and squish the cool, sticky mixture. Gritting my teeth, I try to mix everything together. It doesn’t look like a convincing batter like the photo shows in the recipe book. So much forEasy Gingersnaps.

---