Page 31 of Royal Icing
“Do most of them work at the castle?”
He shrugged. “Some do, but a lot own or work in small businesses right here. And the rest commute to the city for work. It’s only twenty minutes away.”
She glanced at the stage as they passed by. A band was standing on it, new wood gleaming brightly against the old. That must have been what Leo was doing when they met yesterday.
“Why is it that you do so much yourself? Aren’t there maintenance staff to take care of things like broken boards on the stage?”
“I have certain privileges, access to some funds for community outreach. The least I can do is cut through the red tape when I can.”
“You really care about the people,” she observed.
“Of course I do. I wish I could do more,” he said, scanning the festival. “I’m trying to do more.”
“Oh?” She waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
“We’re supposed to be talking about you, not me,” he said.
“I think technically we’re here to thank me for saving your life. Which you could do by telling me more about your impossible-to-please mother’s likes and dislikes,” she said pointedly.
He nodded, and they pulled to a stop.
She swayed to the band’s rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” while Leo pondered. Her stomach growled, apparently unsatisfied by the candied nuts, and he glanced at her.
“Come with me. Let’s warm up a little.”
Her eyes dropped from his face to his toes against her will. The hormones that had lain dormant seemed to be firing up again. Maybe it was the brisk walk in the frigid air. But she had a visceral mental image of Leo shedding his clothes next to a crackling fire. Desire stirred in her, and she bit the inside of her cheek.
Focus, idiot. He’s a literal prince, and you’re a girl who bakes cookies. He’s just being polite.
“Sounds great.”
He led her to a pub with a weathered sign over the door that read The Scarlet Hare.
It was welcoming and warm inside, which was great because her nipples were about to snap off.
The pub’s interior was surprisingly modern and tasteful—almost industrial chic. Clean lines, rich leather booths. Glass globes dangled throughout, bathing the space in warm golden light.
“Leo!” someone exclaimed from behind the bar.
Leo slid onto a heavy iron barstool, and she claimed the one next to him. The barkeep didn’t bow or even nod. They must have been friends. Unless he was royalty too?
“And who’s this?” asked a man with amazing eyebrows.
“This is Emma. She’s part of the baking team for the anniversary party.”
“You’re the girl with the dog,” the man said. His eyebrows were perfectly manicured, and his teeth were incredibly straight and bright.
Right. Shit. He had been there when Cooper peed on Leo.
“Yes. I instruct Cooper to pee on heads of state everywhere I go. I have a punch card,” she said with a serious face.
The man laughed. “I like her. She’s funny. I’m Salvador. Everyone calls me Sal.”
“Emma.” She reached across the bar and shook his hand.
“What’s your special tonight?” Leo asked.
“Pasta pancetta.”
