Page 44 of The Midnight Princess
“Perfect,” I say. She darts away and we mount the stairs. “Why is it perfect?” I ask.
“I thought I was getting a break.” He raises his hands above his head in a stretch and the shirt untucks a little, exposing a narrow band of taut muscle. I dig my fingernails into my palm.
Jacob continues, blind to the havoc he leaves in his wake. “If she goes to one of those shoeless houses, her pants won’t bedragging on the ground. It looks pulled together”—a phrase I taught him today—“but not intimidating?”
I nod approvingly. “Why is intimidating not a goal?”
His shoulder bumps mine and a shock of electricity rocks through my stomach. “We’re not on the clock anymore.”
“Civilian,” I taunt. “Royals are always on the clock. It’s the price we pay for gilded chair rails and bronze statuary.”
In our suite, housekeeping has come and gone, leaving a single lamp lit, casting much of the common room in darkness. We’ve had our fill of each other today and need a rest. That’s what I tell myself as I reach for my bag. He shifts it into his other hand.
“What are you doing for dinner?” he asks. “Are you eating with your mother again, or do you have to get done up?”
I’ve spent the whole day answering distracting, obstinate questions like, “What psychopath named this color oxblood?” I don’t hesitate to answer him now.
“Housekeeping left a plate of veggies and hummus in the fridge. I’ll add some cheese and nuts.”
It won’t satisfy my appetite, but I can’t eat at my mother’s table where thecoq au vinarrives with a side of geopolitics and a reminder to keep my eye on our Vorburgian guest. If I was honest about how well I’m keeping my eyes on Jacob, she might start a war.
“That’s not enough,” he says.
“It’s enough for me.”
As if on cue, my stomach gurgles.
Jacob grins. “Change into something comfortable. I’ll make you an omelet.”
I’m too famished to turn him down. “You cook?”
I hear a low chuckle. “Some of us didn’t grow up in a palace.” He hands me the bag and walks backward, luring me with promises of a hot meal on a cold night. “Go change. I’ve got mushrooms, ham, peppers, an avocado…”
“An avocado in Sondmark?” I laugh. “In January? How rich is your father?”
He ducks into his room, calling across the divide. “You can share some of your fancy cheese.”
I throw on a pair of leggings and the Harvard sweatshirt, and return to the kitchen, clutching my Gruyère and Fontina, when he appears in the doorway.
He’s wearing another one of his concert t-shirts, this time featuring a man with a wild cloud of hair, his lips a smear of red lipstick and thick eyeliner apparently applied by one of those captive elephants who do art for charity.
The shirt must have been laundered hundreds of times because the neck is slightly stretched out and the material is soft, hugging his chest like an emotional support koala.
He reaches over my head for a couple plates and I lean out of his way, backing into the counter, hands gripping the edge.
“That’s an old shirt,” I observe. Purchased before he had all these muscles.
“Vintage. Original. Rare.” He grins. “I thought you were good at diplomacy.” He fires up a burner and reaches for more ingredients.
“Can I help?” I ask.
He sets a grater in front of me. “Two cups of cheese.”
I click my tongue several times. “You’ll get 500 grams, and you’ll like it.”
We work quietly, my ear trained on his progress—the crack of the eggs, the shake of the seasonings, and the whisk working through the mixture followed by the gentle sizzle when it’s poured into the skillet. The album title stretches in neat copperplate across his chest.
Jacob clears his throat. My eyes snap closed.
