Page 110 of Tall, Royal Hater
“Hmm.” She nodded. “He’s…he’s going to meet his father.”
Oh…
That wasn’t what I’d been expecting Esmeralda to say.
I settled against the car seat, an indecipherable feeling circling in my chest.
Shehryar hated his father’s guts, so the fact he was going to see him was…wow.
Had that been why he’d been distracted in the morning?
It would make sense he’d been bothered by the idea of meeting his estranged dad after fuck knew how many years of no contact.
But as I glanced out the window, watching the greenery and city streets pass by us as we headed further and further away from the palace, an odd, dry taste coated the back of my mouth.
He could have at least told me he wasn’t going to be coming.
But then again, why did I care that he hadn’t? And what would he have told me in the first place, because I probably would have asked him why? Then what?
The last time his dad had been part of our conversation was five years ago when I’d insulted him by the riverside.
Besides, we weren’t anything to each other.
He didn’t owe me an explanation, and I didn’t owe him one either.
Chapter 27
Shehryar
He was late.
My leg bounced furiously under the wooden café table as I checked my wristwatch. Again.
Andrew Platmon, my father, was late to our meeting by thirty-four minutes and counting.
I wasn’t surprised by his tardiness, but I was livid to the point my bones felt cold rather than hot.
I glanced across to the clock above the young boy, who was probably around Prince Adam’s age, at the serving counter. For confirmation rather than to check for a different result.
Thirty-five minutes late.
If he didn’t show in five minutes, I planned to leave, and the fucking bastard could forget about any talk or potential reconciliation between us.
Relaxing into my chair, I picked up the wide cappuccino mug before me and took a leisurely sip.
The café I’d chosen to meet my father in had been nearly a three-hour drive from Chaukham Palace, one of my reasons for picking it. It was a small, rustic place in a town within the countryside that sat between Pavilion City and Trillham City to the south, full of mismatched wooden chairs and town locals out for lunch or grabbing coffee after walking their dogs.
It wasn’t a place my father from generations of wealth would have ever visited, which was my other reason for choosing it. I wanted him to feel uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place. I also hoped townsfolk etiquette meant they were less likely to approach me even if they recognised me.
Thirty-six minutes late.
I finished my coffee.
Thirty-seven.
The older man, who quite possibly was the young boy behind the counter’s father going off their similar features, smiled at me as he took my empty mug. “Would you like anything else?” he asked. “Our cakes are made fresh every morning. As are our sandwiches.” He pronounced “sandwiches” as “sam-widges,”something a lot of Western Toumans did.
I offered a smile back. The bell wenttingabove the door as someone with a brown poodle left the café. “Thank you. I intend to buy something as I leave.”
