Page 14 of Royal Rebel

“If you like doing this though, we can get a recipe and make them from scratch?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

He’s almost shy in admitting it’s something he would like to do, and immediately that becomes my goal. For him not to be shy about the things he wants to do. For him to speak up and enjoy his life. Without his mom by his side, I think he’s forgotten how to do that. I can show him how, if he’ll let me, and I feel like by him sharing some of what he’s gone through with me, he’s allowed me in, just a tiny bit.

I turn on the burner, making sure the flame isn’t up too high as I warm the pan up. He brings the water over, putting it into the bowl, where the mixture sits. “Can I stir?” He’s almost bashful.

If anyone had told me a week ago this is where I’d be and this is what I’d be doing, I would have called them crazy, told them they had someone else’s life and it sure as the devil wasn’t mine. Yet, here I am, making pancakes with my new fiancé, the world’s ex-most-eligible bachelor.

“Go for it.” I hand him the spoon. “Just stir until it’s incorporated.”

He takes his job seriously and I have to wonder how long it’s been since he’s been given a task like this. He seems to enjoy it, and I wonder if this is something we’ll do together from now on. Cook in the kitchen and spend time getting to know one another.

I hope so, more than anything, I hope this is our new normal.

“This good?” he asks, his voice quiet, almost as if he’s completely unsure.

I look over into the bowl and see that he’s done a good job getting all the wet ingredients mixed in with the dry. “Perfect! Now just take a scoop and ladle some onto the pan.”

He does as I’ve asked him to do, watching intently as I hold the handle of the pan. “Have you ever watched anyone make pancakes before?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “They’ve never been a favorite of mine, but if they’re a favorite of yours I’ll be giving them a shot. I can already tell.”

Watching the batter, I notice the edges are starting to bubble as is the center. “We’re ready to flip.”

“Wait, I’ll get you a spatula.”

“Don’t need one.” I give him a wink as I flip it with a twist of my wrist and watch it land perfectly on the other side.

“Holy shit! How did you do that?”

“Lots of practice. Pancakes have been a favorite of mine for a long time,” I explain as I finish this one off, flipping it onto a plate. “Put some more in the pan.”

He does as asked, and I watch him, watching the batter. When I see that it’s the perfect consistency to flip, I step aside. “Do you want to give it a try, Tristan?”

“Yeah.” He’s almost like a child in his enthusiasm, and I love every minute of this.

I stand behind him, showing him the movement I use with my wrist to get it to flip, then back up so that he doesn’t elbow me in the face. “This is your moment, make sure you shine!”

He does what I’ve shown him, but he’s not quickenough and the gooey side of the unfinished pancake lands against his sweater. I try to hold in the giggle as my mouth opens wide, but I can’t stop it. The giggle comes out in full force.

“You think this is funny?” He turns to me, wearing a chest full of pancake mix.

“If you could see yourself.” I giggle even louder, throwing back my head and holding my stomach as I give into the laugh.

This is one of those laughs that takes over every emotion you’ve felt in the last week and just lets you release it all. Every bit of nervousness, arousal, stress, happiness. It’s all taken care of in this laugh, and when he starts to laugh with me? I realize this moment is as perfect as it can be.

“Try it again,” I tell him, wiping at the corners of my eyes, and giving him a new scoop to try it on, after we got rid of the ruined one.

And that’s how it goes for the next ten minutes. In the end, we only have three pancakes that are edible, and he has to take off his sweater. One thing I will never complain about, though, is Tristan in a skin-tight white undershirt. This will be my new favorite look for a while. He carries the plate to the table, and as we get there, I notice there’s only one fork.

“Share with me?” His voice is hopeful, offering a piece of him that perhaps he’s kept held back in the past few days.

“I’d love to.”

Having a seat beside him, I watch as he cuts off the first piece, dips it in the syrup, and then holds it up to my mouth. That bite of cold pancake is the best bite of anything I’ve ever taken, and I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER 8

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