Page 14 of The Midnight Princess
Noah’s rooms? Maybe Mama has spent so much time mired in international politics that she forgot the palace floor plan. “Our private quarters are quite small. The suite has a shared sitting room and a kitchen.”
Mama waves her hand. “You hardly use it.”
When she finally excuses me, I execute a tight curtsey, depart the room, and run down the length of the hall, my brain jostling to an aching rhythm.Vede, vede, vede. Everything hurts, but I arrive at my suite in seconds, banging through the door, past the kitchenette, down the short hall, and into the shared sitting room.
It’s not a mess, but my things are everywhere—a favorite paperback mystery, spine cracked, perches open on the arm of the sofa. My knitting, a craft I’m genuinely terrible at, spills out of a basket on the floor. A graphic hoodie, a Christmas gift from Ella reading “Beauty” on the front, “Beast” on the back, hangs over a chair. I cram these into a basket and get on my knees to reach under the coffee table for a fuzzy slipper. I’m so focused on my task that I don’t register another presence until a pair of slip-on dress shoes one might generously describe as ‘vegan leather’ crowds my vision.
I yelp and scramble away, landing on my backside as the basket spills at our feet.
Crown Prince Jacob crouches down to eye level. “Hey.”
Blood drains to my toes, but he picks up my things and scoops them into the basket—calmly, comfortably—and holds out his hand. What would a princess do? I scramble to my feet—gracefully, royally—and step away as far as I can, taking the basket from him. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness.”
This formality amuses him. Though the man is in a suit, he has an aged, canvas duffle bag slung over his shoulder which he drops onto the table. “I thought this was my room.”
Ignoring the fullness of his lips and the laughter in his eyes, I try to remember that the manufacturing sector of Sondmark needs me now. If my mission is to fix this man, I’m determined to see only his flaws.
Item One: He can’t ask questions disguised as statements. As crown prince, his communication will have to be both diplomatic and direct.
Item Two: There will be no crouching over unsuspecting princesses. It’s unsettling.
I place the basket on a side table, moving as though my knees and ankles are tied with invisible string.
“You are in the right place.” I put my hand out and give him my best Alma-of-the-people smile—the one I employ when someone wants a selfie and their phone takes forever to get to the point. It’s a smile that says, “I enjoy this. It is pleasant to us. In such a manner, I could sail into the eternal sunset forever.”
As soon as he touches me, a frisson of attraction brushes every nerve and thousands of impressions queue for my notice. I beckon a single safe thought forward to speak for them all. His skin is rough.
Item Three: Moisturize.
“It looks like your place,” he says, glancing around.
I gesture, palm up, at Noah’s door. “The rooms are adjoining. You will be there and I”—I sweep my hand around to gesture at my own door—“will be here. This area,” I say, employing both hands, “isn’t anything more than a common pass-through.”
I must look like a first-class flight attendant performing a pre-flight safety check, and he grins.
Item Four: Fix the smile.
As a royal figure, he’ll have to find one that is at once warm and faintly unapproachable. One that doesn’t ignite the cotton fluff in my brain, lodge under my rib cage, and make me want to lean into him. Imagine an entire country full of women subjected to a smile like that on a regular basis.
“Are you going to show me where everything is?” he asks.
I lead him to the narrow galley kitchen, and he looks around, hands searching for the back pockets of his jeans. Finding the smoothness of a pair of suit pants, they drop to his sides.
“Housekeeping will stock the refrigerator for you and order any supplies you need,” I cough, dragging my eyes away from the sight. “You’ll be free to cook for yourself as much as you like. Your aide will have those details.”
“We won’t have to work out a schedule?”
“Schedule?” I ask, straightening a calendar.
“You cook from five to six on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I take Wednesdays at midnight under a gibbous moon and a rising tide—that kind of thing. Most roommates—”
“We’re not roommates,” I correct. “Think of this as a hallway. I don’t use the kitchen. It’s all yours.”
“Really?” He touches an old birthday present from Clara with the tip of his finger, eyes dancing. It’s a novelty coffee mug with a picture of me doing exaggerated Mick Jagger duck lips and a speech bubble that reads, “Hey. You. Get off of my crown.”
“I get why you might want to avoid me,” he says.
I back away several paces. “Why would I want to avoid you?”
