Page 20 of Prince Charmless
Unknown:im coming over.
Unknown:do you have any dietary restrictions?
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
“That’s not how conversation works. You don’t just say something, and then it happens.”
He shrugs. “It’s usually how my conversations work. You wouldn’t think it, but I’m a bit of a diva.”
I hate that he’s funny. You shouldn’t be able to be hot, rich,andfunny.
“How did you get in here?”
“You weren’t home, so I asked the guy who runs the dry cleaners downstairs if he had the keys to the unit. I think his name is Mark.”
“It’s Clark. He’s my landlord. Why would he give that to you?”
“Because I’m the—” He pauses because he knows I’m not going to like his next words. “Prince of St. Claire.”
I cross my arms. “That doesn’t give you the right.”
“I told him to fix your door, by the way.”
“Why are you cooking in my kitchen?”
Taylor gives the pot on my stove a stir, then taps the spoon on the lip. “You were taking too long to tell me what you wanted, so I wanted to start doing some trial and error. Well, hopefully, no error. This is kind of the only skill I have. I’m not sure what trial would come after this.”
I must’ve underestimated his persistence. I could kick him out again. He may be Taylor, Prince of St. Claire, but I’m Melina, Renter of this Apartment. That said, I was probably going to have instant ramen for dinner like a depressed college student. Maybe I deserve a home-cooked meal after a long day’s work.
So much for never wanting to see him again.
Slowly, slowly, I sit on one of the stools behind my kitchen counter and face Taylor’s back. He uses a spatula to mix whatever he has going on in the pan.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say to break the silence. He doesn’t answer me, though something prompts me to continue. “I figured you’d be too rich and busy to learn.”
“I’m not a baby, Melina. If I can’t do things myself, then what’s the point of living?” Taylor turns down one of the burners. “And I don’t like people waiting around for me.”
Makes sense. He could have stopped the sentence at ‘I don’t like people,’ and I would’ve believed him.
After looking up if pepper spray can expire, fun fact, it can, I watch Taylor take a clove of garlic and smash it against the flat side of a knife using the palm of his hand. The garlic is then quickly cut up into tiny pieces, a move it seems he’s done a thousand times before. I could tell him I have a garlic press, but I don’t. As he slides the minced garlic onto the knife and then into the pan, I notice on the counter a slightly crumpled scrap of paper. It’s stained and old. Though the handwriting is in French,it’s clearly a recipe. The letterhead can still be read through the scribbled ingredients list.
From the desk of Princess Charlotte.
“This is your mom’s recipe.”
Taylor turns around to see the paper in my hand. “Yeah, she always wrote down the more complicated ones. You don’t have that horrid gene where cilantro tastes like soap, right? Actually, don’t answer that, I already put it in, and I’m not taking it out.”
“I don’t. What are you even making? I can’t read what this says.”
“It doesn’t matter what I’m making. I know you’ll like it.”
I raise a brow.
“Chicken piccata,” he admits.
And for the next ten minutes, I watch him stir, pour, and chop. It’s all very methodical, almost serial killer methodical.
He’s not going to kill you, Melina.
