Page 71 of Royal Creed

Once we reach the end of the path and emerge onto the vacant beach, Creed leads us to an alcove between two rock formations we once pretended was home to buried treasure. Setting the backpack down, he pulls out a blanket and lays it on the sand, gesturing for me to sit. As I do, he joins me, retrieving two thermoses and holding them up.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee. Tea is an afternoon only kind of thing. Although when I was living in Paris, my typical afternoon tea was replaced with an afternoon glass of champagne. Which sometimes turned into an entire bottle of champagne.”

He chuckles as he hands me a paper cup filled with coffee, the color giving the impression he already prepared it the way I prefer. With sweetener and a touch of milk.

I bring the cup to my mouth, savoring in that first taste. And the fact I get to enjoy my morning coffee with a ridiculously gorgeous and compassionate man makes it all the better, even if we have to sneak away to do so.

“Did you like it?”

“The coffee’s great. Exactly how I take it.”

“No. Paris. Did you like living in Paris?”

“I adored it.” I sigh, wishing I could go back there. But like Dorothy was forced to learn in The Wizard of Oz. You can’t keep running away from your troubles. Or in my case, responsibility. Obligation. Duty.

“Then why did you leave?”

My expression falls, and I take another sip of my coffee. “I’d originally planned to come back just for the summer to spend some time with Anders before he deployed.” I set my cup on the sand, then lean back on my palms, extending my long legs in front of me as I take in the beauty surrounding me, the first light of day visible on the horizon. “I had every intention of returning to Paris afterwards. Even got accepted into one of the top culinary schools in Europe, if not the world.”

Creed’s eyes widen at my confession, something I haven’t told a single person until now. Why bother when it’s yet another dream I’ll never be allowed to pursue? I don’t feel like I have to hide anything from Creed. Around him, I can be myself.

“Culinary school? That’s… That’s incredible. I didn’t realize you could cook.”

“Why?” I feign annoyance. “Because I have a waitstaff who caters to my every need?”

“I suppose.” He shrugs. “Plus, I’ve never seen you cook.” He stares into the distance, brows pulled together in contemplation.

It makes him look so serious. So…sexy.

I love the way thoughtful Creed looks.

And lustful Creed.

Hell, I like all his looks.

“A lot’s changed since you left for basic training.”

His devilish eyes scan my body. “Yes, it has,” he remarks, his voice oozing with sin.

“Even so…” I attempt to ignore the way my stomach flips under his wanton stare, “I’ve always had an appreciation for the culinary arts. My grandmother used to yell at me all the time for sneaking into the kitchen to watch the chefs cook.”

“Now that you mention it, I remember that,” he muses.

“I was so fascinated, especially when they’d taste a sauce, then add a little more of some spice or seasoning. I wanted to learn that, too.” I lower my head. “If for no other reason than to have some sort of independence or freedom.”

“And culinary school would give you that?” he asks.

“Not culinary school, per se. But cooking. Anders and I were raised to depend on other people to do everything for us. Our meals are prepared. Beds made. Clothes laundered and pressed.” I laugh to myself as I reflect on the past seven years of my life, some of the lessons I’ve learned humbling and eye-opening. “Do you know I couldn’t even wash a dish before I joined the Humanitarian Corps?”

“You couldn’t?”

“It sounds crazy. Something most people take for granted. Or most normal people. But I had no idea. Hell, I didn’t know how to fold my own clothes, either. It was difficult enough to overcome the stigma of being a bloody royal when everyone at my camp already hated me. Thought I was only there as a publicity stunt. And here I was, eighteen years old, asking someone my age how to launder and fold my damn knickers. It was so embarrassing. I decided right then and there that I wanted to be as independent as possible. So I stayed up late. Learned how to do all these things I should have years ago. Over time, I became fascinated with cooking again.”

“And culinary school?” Creed asks, although I can hear the hesitancy in his voice. “Where do you stand on that now?”

On a long exhale, I give him a sad smile. “I guess that will have to be filed away in the hopes and dreams category.”

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