Page 16 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Claire looked at him curiously. “But… haven’t you got everything you could ever want?”
Adrien sighed. That was what everyone thought…
“I have to be the person I’m told to be. I don’t have a choice. I couldn’t be a doctor, or a professor, or open a big store, or… anything. I have to be what I am. It was decided on the day I was born — before that, even. I’m the crown prince of Flandenne,and that means I’ll one day be king. It’s not a nice thought — waiting for your father to die. I don’t want it, but it’s inevitable.”
Claire looked at him sympathetically. “I hadn’t ever thought about it like that. But you’re right. You don’t get a choice — just a payoff. What would you do if you could do anything?” she asked.
The question caught Adrien off guard. He had dreams, of course, but none he’d ever voiced to anyone. What would the point have been? He blushed, wondering if she’d think it funny if he told her.
“Well, I… actually, I always wanted to be archaeologist. Like Indiana Jones. I love history, you see. I always dreamed of making some wonderful discovery in a far-off place. But it’s not going to happen, is it?”
Claire shrugged. “Not if you don’t make it happen,” she replied.
Adrien smiled at her. “I could say the same to you.”
For a moment, they looked at one another, a smile playing across Claire’s lips, just as the steward returned to check on the wine.
“I should be getting back to the kitchen,” Claire said.
“Don’t forget your dreams,” Adrien replied, speaking as much to himself as to Claire. “We all need them.”
CHAPTER 9
CLAIRE
Dessert was simple that day — fresh berries marinated in kirsch with a shortbread biscuit on the side. Claire served it out in something of a daze, though she didn’t dare take it up to the prince herself, having seen the mood her early venture had given rise to in Anna-Marie.
“Mr. Bellagio wouldn’t like you going up there. I should’ve taken the fish,” the maid said, as she snatched the dessert up from the counter.
Claire was growing tired of her jealousy. “I can’t help it if the prince likes talking to me, can I? I like talking to him. He’s… interesting.”
Anna-Marie glared at her. “He’s not interested in you. Why would he be?” and she stormed out of the kitchen and clattered up the steps to the deck.
Had Claire been feeling uncharitable, she might’ve retorted that there was no reason why the prince should show any interest in Anna-Marie either. Itdidseem strange to find herself the object of his interest, and yet, the more they talked, the morethey seemed to find in common. Claire’s dream of opening her own restaurant wasn’t one she shared openly. Mr. Bellagio had employed her on the understanding she was committed to remain in his employment for some time, and yet the dream remained — everyone has dreams.
And it’s what every chef hopes for, and most never achieve.
Claire had planned the menus, the décor, the service. She knew every detail of her restaurant, except for how it could be realized. Money was her first barrier. Second was location. Third was a lack of confidence. It was just as she’d said to the prince — she didn’t think her dream would come true. And yet his words about being trapped resonated with her. Had she been asked before, she might’ve replied that a man like that deserved no sympathy over what he was born into — his was a life of privilege, replete with everything his heart could desire. But his own dreams were nothing when it came to birth. He was what he was, and nothing would change it.
I suppose even princes can be unhappy.
The thought remained with her for the rest of the day. She thought about the things she’d read about him — the playboy prince — but he seemed more a tragic figure than a man to be admired. His life was at a crossroads. There was pressure on him to marry, but it was clear he was resistant to the idea. Claire wondered if the yacht wasn’t so much a vacation as an escape. In the hope of cheering him up, she made a batch of chocolate brownies — a recipe of her grandmother’s. They were unctuous, with a gooey center, and Claire put them out on deck when the prince was swimming, glancing over the side of the yacht for a moment to watch him striking out powerfully towards the headland. Beneath the water, almost gleaming, she could see histaut, muscular body gliding below the surface. It sent a shiver running down her spine — until Anton appeared to interrupt.
“Did you want something?” he asked.
“Just tell the prince I’ve left some brownies up here for him, and I’ll bring up some juice, too,” Claire said.
She didn’t think it would do to linger further, though she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if she did. The prince had surprised her — first by even noticing her, and second by the manner of his conversation. There was nothing haughty or arrogant about him. He was quite different to the way he was portrayed in the media, where pictures of his partying antics sold copies across the globe. But, on his own, without the show of cameras or the glare of publicity, he was really quite… normal.
“What are you making?” Anna-Marie asked, as Claire crouched down to look into the oven.
“Soufflé,” she replied. “And I’ll have to take it up. They don’t like waiting around. It needs to come straight out and go up.”
Anna-Marie pouted. “I think I know how to serve a soufflé.”
But Claire ignored her. She wanted to be the one to present the soufflé to the prince — chocolate and Grand Marnier, with just a hint of mint. It was something she’d learned at the cookery school in Paris.
“The secret to a perfect soufflé is the whipping of the eggs and the heat of the oven,” Monsieur Larofette had told his students, and Claire prided herself on a faultless rise.
