Page 21 of Prince Charmless
The back of the recipe has little kid handwriting I can barely decipher. Some of the B’s and D’s are backward, letters are randomly capitalized. The top reads, “Dear Taylor,” in English, which piques my interest.
Dear Taylor, I am very sorry for stealing your skateboard and hiding it in the greenhouse. I am very sorry for getting mad at you and Mom, and I am sorry that I made your feelings hurt. Next time I will use my words when I am mad. I love you. - Thomas.
A snort escapes me. This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever read.
Taylor turns around and swiftly steals the recipe from my hands. On his face appears the faintest ghost of a smile. He’s almost blushing. He must’ve not realized the note was there. “I forgot she made us do these.”
“Do what?”
“Whenever my brother and I would fight or do something wrong as kids, she made us write full apology letters.”
It’s weird to think of Taylor’s childhood. He wasn’t just spawned by God to become the ruler of St. Claire. When I was younger, I used to contemplate how different our lives are for being kids of the same age and living in the same country. I could ask him some more questions about his upbringing, but I don’t.
“Why is it written on the back of a recipe?” I ask instead.
“She didn’t like wasting things.” He holds up the paper. “I had to find this in a biscuit tin.”
It’s a bit sad learning the little details of a woman who has since passed. Taylor seems unphased.
“Did you have to write a lot of letters? You know, based on how your handwriting looks like America’s Declaration of Independence.”
He doesn’t answer me, which I know means yes. Instead, he turns his focus back to cooking.
A couple more minutes of silence pass until he sets a plate in front of me. The ‘piccata’ in ‘chicken piccata’ must mean a white sauce made with capers, lemons, and some other green herbs. The dish looks very nice, and the chicken is so tender I don’t need a knife to cut into it.
Taylor watches me like a hawk, his palms planted on the edge of the counter. He wears his Rolex like he doesn’t know or care how much it costs. With his sleeves rolled up, I can really admire his forearms from this angle.
No, Melina. No admiring.
Right before I put the chicken into my mouth, I inspect the contents of my fork. “So this is your big idea to make me come back? Taking my spare key, breaking into my home, using my kitchen without permi—”
Taylor takes the fork and shoves it into my mouth. I’m not sure why I didn’t stop him. Before I can get annoyed, I tastethe sauce. It’s light but savory. The lemons add acidity, but they don’t make the flavor too sour and distract from the chicken. I take another bite with some more capers. Goddammit.
“This is delicious,” I concede.
“I know,” Taylor says with wide eyes. He turns around to take care of the dishes.
“You’re not going to have any?”
“No.”
Weird. An apt adjective to describe this entire situation, weird. St. Claire’s future king is in my apartment making dinner because he’s an asshole and trying to get me to work for him. Although he doesn’t look like an asshole right now, cleaning and being all househusbandy. He’s playing mind games with me, isn’t he?
Taylor flips a towel over his shoulder in a way that shouldn’t look as cool as it does. “Same time on Friday, all right?” he asks like we’ve just had sex.
“You want to do this again?” I ask like the sex was mediocre.
“Unless you’re coming back on the project. Then I’ll be out of your hair forever.”
“Um, I don’t uh—”
“Um, I don’t uh,”he mocks. “Spit it out, Ramirez. What’s your favorite dish? I can make anything.” He seems very excited all of a sudden.
“Taylor, you don’t have to do this.”
He quickly turns around to steal my half-eaten plate and holds it over the sink, threatening to dump it in. “You’re right, I’m probably just wasting my ti—”
“Wait!” I don’t mean to sound panicked, but my mother taught me to never waste food. I look at him through the mirror above my sink. “Friday’s fine.”
