Page 17 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Now, she watched with trepidation as the soufflés began emerging above the rims of the ramekins. Anna-Marie had disappeared, but Claire remained by the oven door, ready to remove the dessert the instant it was ready. Timing was everything. Despite her years of experience, a soufflé could still go terribly wrong, and she wanted this one to be perfect.
They’d been moored in the bay off Île Sainte-Marguerite for three days now, and, during that time, Claire had served the prince dishes she hoped he’d enjoy, delighting in seeing the empty plates returned with his compliments. He’d eaten everything she presented him with, telling her she should pursue her dream of the restaurant, and making her feel a sense of confidence she’d previously lacked. In turn, she’d told him more about her dream for the restaurant, and how she’d planned every detail, even down to the menus and the opening night. He knew everything, and he’d been good enough to listen to her — to really listen to her. Now, as the tops of the soufflé began to turn golden brown, she opened the oven door, removed the tray and hastily transferred the ramekins to a waiting plate she’d dressed with a berry coulis and a dusting of icing sugar. It was already beginning to sink as she hurried up on deck, where she found the prince waiting for her at the table.
“Soufflé!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as Claire placed one of the plates before him.
She’d brought two, and now she wondered why — he was only going to eat one.
“I wanted you to see it before it sank,” she said, feeling relief at having achieved a successful rise. He smiled at her, pulling out his phone to take a photo. “You turned it back on, then?”
The prince had confided some of his woes to Claire — how he resented always being in the spotlight, his face splashed across the tabloids, and ever more bizarre untruths being written about him.
“I had to in the end,” he said, putting it back in his pocket as he took up his spoon.
There was a tone of regret in his voice, as though being without that constant connection to the outside world had been a balm to him — a relief from the stresses and strains of life beyond the confines of the yacht.
“And was it as bad as you thought?” Claire asked.
The prince sighed and nodded. “Why don’t you sit down?” he said. “You could eat yours here.”
Claire was taken aback by this invitation, though it was surely the natural progression of a growing sense of ease between them. Claire felt comfortable in his company. She’d told him things she rarely admitted to others, and it seemed he’d come to trust her, too — sharing his woes over the media, and the expectations placed on him as the crown prince. Knowing what Anton would say but not caring, Claire sat down opposite the prince. He smiled at her, taking a spoonful of the soufflé, and closing his eyes for a moment as he savored it in his mouth.
“Do you like it?” Claire asked.
Opening his eyes, the prince smiled. “It’s like eating a cloud — the most delicious cloud I could imagine.”
The description made Claire laugh, but she was grateful to him for his compliment.
“I don’t know how many times I practiced making them in Paris. It’s all about the whisk and the heat — that’s what we were taught.”
“I don’t know how to cook. Not really, at least. I used to go down to the palace kitchens and ‘help’ when I was a kid, but I was probably more of a hindrance.”
“I could teach you,” Claire replied.
She said it without thinking — it was as though she was talking to a friend, rather than a prince. But why shouldn’t they be friends? Over the past few days, they’d gotten to know one another over the dishes Claire had prepared. It felt natural, though Claire knew just what Anna-Marie and Anton would say.
“That sounds like fun. What are you going to teach me to make?” he asked.
Claire thought for a moment.
“What about the steamed sponge pudding? If you can make that, you won’t need me here to do it for you.”
At these words, his face fell, as though the prospect of being without her pained him.
“Actually, I’ve gotten rather used to your cooking… and to you,” he said.
Claire’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she didn’t know quite what to say, or what he himself was saying, either.
“I… well, I’m sure other people cook just as well as I do,” she said.
The prince was gazing at her across the table. It made her blush, even as she caught his eye, though still not knowing quite how to react.
“But they don’t all have dreams like you — and determination. I can see it in you. You’ve got ambition, and drive, and… passion.”
It was certainly a compliment, and one Claire found flattering. She hoped it was true, too. She’d worked hard for what she had, even if her dreams remained elusive. As a kid, she’d seen her parents working hard for what they had — and struggling, too. Life wasn’t easy. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be so. The prince’s story had proved that no life was without its difficulties.
“I suppose I have. I like to do things properly. And I want to do my best. Like with the soufflé, I suppose. I practiced and practiced until I got it right. There’re a lot of people who aren’t prepared to put in the work, I suppose.”
Claire hoped she didn’t sound arrogant in this, but the prince nodded.
