Page 10 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
You get to live on it.
Claire was tempted to swim to the beach, but time was getting on, and she was already in Anton’s bad books for the incident with the lavender cookies. Swimming back towards the yacht, she started thinking about breakfast — about the prince’s breakfast. She’d put out croissants and a platter of fruit. There was cheese and continental meats, and she’d make a fresh pot of coffee and juice some of the oranges she’d bought at the market.
So occupied was she with thoughts of breakfast that she’d swum right up to the yacht before she noticed the prince at his cabin window. He was standing there shirtless, leaning out with his elbows resting on the sill, watching her swim. Claire was horrified, knowing just what Anton would say if he could see her now. The prince seemed to find it somewhat amusing, straightening up, and watching as she scrambled out of the water. As he did so, he revealed his taut muscular body, the darkhair on his chest running to a perfect trim. Folding his arms, he continued smiling as Claire glanced up at him from the ladder. She didn’t know whether to apologize or simply flee, and, having done the latter the previous evening, she did so again.
Oh, why was I so stupid?
Returning below deck, she hurried to her cabin, showering before changing into her chef’s whites and going to the galley. Anna-Marie was already there, eating a pastry and drinking a cup of coffee.
“I think he’s up — the prince, I mean. He’ll want his breakfast soon,” she said.
“I know he’s up,” Claire replied, though she didn’t elaborate on how she knew as much.
Seeing the prince had embarrassed her, though there was no reason why it should’ve done. He hadn’t been angry with her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d appeared to find the whole brief episode amusing.
He looks just like he did inTatler.
Thatphotoshoot — when the prince had been photographed on vacation in sportswear — had garnered considerable attention, and it made Claire smile to think she’d now seen far more of him than many women could dream of. He really was a very handsome man. It was no wonder so many women found him attractive. As she prepared breakfast, Claire allowed her mind to wander. She was thinking about the prince without his shirt on.
If I was that sort of woman…
In truth, title, celebrity — even bare-chested royalty — held little sway for Claire. People were people. They were either nice ornot. The rest was just window dressing, and she still didn’t know enough about the prince to know if he was nice or not.
“Shall I take all this up?” Anna-Marie asked, pointing to the plates Claire had prepared for the prince’s breakfast.
“Yes, and don’t forget the coffee. I don’t want to have to come up,” Claire said, for she didn’t think — despite his smiles — the prince would want to see her again that day.
If anything, he was probably bemused by her — the forgetful chef who couldn’t keep out of the way. With breakfast served, Claire turned her attention to lunch. She was going to make gnocchi again — something simple in anticipation of the prince spending the afternoon swimming or lounging on the deck. She made the dumplings herself, grating parmesan into the potato mix, and adding spinach and nutmeg. She’d make a sauce with fontina cheese and cream and dress the plate with rocket and tomato. The crew would have the same, and Claire found herself ahead of time, all ready to boil the dumplings and serve by noon. She’d just finished clearing down the counter when footsteps on the stairs down from the deck announced a visitor. It was probably Anton coming to ask what wines to serve, or Anna-Marie looking for something to do after the beds had been made and the deck chores seen to.
“I hope you like gnocchi,” Claire said. “You’re having the same as His Highness.”
“Oh, I like it very much,” came the reply, and turning round, Claire was astonished to find the prince himself standing in the doorway of the galley, a smile on his face.
CHAPTER 6
ADRIEN
Adrien was bored. He’d risen late that morning, finding the yacht moored in a beautiful bay, where the crystal-clear waters shimmered below a bright, cloudless sky. Île Sainte-Marguerite was a paradise, and far enough from anywhere to be discreet. But the price for discretion was distance — distance from anything that might’ve been fun. He’d been so intent on escaping from Monaco he hadn’t thought about the possibility of boredom, and he was still dreading turning on his phone, for fear of his mother’s continued wrath, or another mean-spirited story about him in the newspapers.
I bring it on myself, I suppose.
But Adrien was tired of being “the playboy prince.” Reputations were hard to shake. A lifetime of good works could be destroyed in an instant, a single misspent deed could cast a shadow for life — such was the price paid for royal title. That morning, he’d swum and swum again, enjoying the deep waters surrounding the yacht, into which he’d dived and snorkeled, remembering the amusing incident with the chef earlier on. She’d certainly been embarrassed at the sight of him without his shirt on. Itmade him smile to remember it, not because he’d purposefully set out to shock her, but because he rather liked the thought of what she might now be thinking, just as he found himself thinking about her. She was attractive — far more so in her bikini than in her chef’s whites.
Hurrying in with the cookies.
He remembered the look on her face — that same nervousness as he’d seen that morning. Did she think he was angry with her? He wasn’t. Adrien had always gotten on well with the staff who served him. His mother treated the palace servants with only thinly veiled disdain. She could be a difficult woman, and Adrien’s father, the king, was a formidable figure too. But, as a kid, Adrien had made friends with all the servants. He treated them as equals. It was the same at boarding school. He didn’t like airs and graces. People who did a job should be treated with respect.
I wonder what she looks like when she smiles?
The smell of lunch was wafting up from below deck. The lamb dish he’d eaten the previous evening had been exquisite, and Adrien was curious to know what he’d be eating for lunch. He could’ve asked the maid, who seemed to be forever hovering close by, but, instead, he decided to do so for himself, wanting to know more about the woman whose dishes he’d so much enjoyed, and who the sight of swimming had caused the amusement of the morning.
Having emerged from the water and dried off, Adrien slipped on his shirt and went to explore below deck. The yacht was large, but not enormous. A flight of stairs led down to a corridor, and another ladder led below again. The corridor was narrow, but Adrien could see the galley at the far end, and the chef with herback to him preparing lunch. As he approached, she called out to him.
“I hope you like gnocchi,” she said.
Adrien smiled. “I like it very much,” he replied.
At these words, the chef turned round with a look of shock on her face — it was their third encounter, and shock seemed to be her staple response to his presence. Adrien found it was often the case. People became awkward around him when there was really no need.
