Page 3 of The Problem with Princes
“Well, is he coming?” Texie has her hands on her hips, but I can hear the slight tremor in her voice. “Why couldn’t you just stop?” She glances out the window in the door. “You don’t really think he’ll try and find out where we’re staying, do you?”
“I have no idea what Modern Ares will do. I mean, seriously. Could you evenseethe coffee drops on his shoes?”
“Modern Ares?” Texie shoots me a look.
“It seems fitting because he is hot in two ways.” I hold up two fingers and twist them back and forth. “Get it? Two ways?”
Her head shakes slowly.
“You know because—”
“Yeah. I get it.” She gives an exaggerated blink. “I just can’t believe you’ve already thought it through this much.”
I shrug. “We can call him MA for short.”
“Why are we calling him anything?”
I snort out a laugh. “Oh, I’ll be telling this story far and wide. You can bank on that.” I take a calming breath, allowing my heart rate to return to normal and my hands and knees to stop shaking. Now that the adrenalin has subsided, the pain from my burns is hard to ignore.
ChapterTwo
Texie movesto the display case. She huffs and puts her hands on her hips again. It is pretty much her favorite pose. “Oh. Great.”
My brow wrinkles and I look at her, my hands lifted in a shrug. “What?”
She points to the empty tray with the tag markedBaklava. “I told you it would all be gone if we didn’t hurry. Now what am I supposed to have? My taste buds are all primed forbaklava.”
I roll my eyes again. Because that is my favorite response. “I’m sorry my third-degree burns have caused you to miss out on a dessert.” I fold my arms across my chest and scowl at her.
An old woman comes out from the back room and smiles. She looks like a golden raisin with her dark olive skin and abundance of wrinkles. I’m guessing she is sweet like raisins too.
I point to a flakey pastry on a tray. “Boró na páro to Galaktoboureko.”
The old woman smiles wider. “Échete émfasi se polý kalá.”
Texie leans in close and whispers. “What did she say?”
“My accent is very good.” I smile at the woman. “Sas efcharistó—thank you.”
My stomach growls again, and I hold up two fingers. “Dýo, parakaló. kai éna boukáli neró.”
She nods and takes two pieces of the custard filled pastry, placing them in a small cardboard box before turning to a small refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. She tells me the cost and I plunk a few bills and several coins onto the counter. If anything can take my mind off my burns, it’s this little box of heaven.
“Are you sure you don’t want this instead?” I ask Texie just before taking a large unladylike bite. Bits of phyllo dough fly from my mouth and I feel a dollop of cream filling sticking to my upper lip, just out of reach of my tongue.
Texie brushes at her shirt exaggeratedly. “No. I don’t want that. I want baklava.”
I wave the pastry in front of her face. “Come on, just try it. Everyone’s doing it.”
She pushes my hand away.
“You’ll be popular,” I say in a sing-songy voice.
She juts her hip out and puts a hand on it. “Fine.” She takes a large bite. “Mmm. That is good,” she says with a mouth full of cream. “But I really did want baklava.”
The raisin lady speaks up. “Baklava vrísketai sto foúrno.”
Texie looks at me for interpretation. “She says there is more in the oven.”
