Something in the Heir (It's Reigning Men, #1) (7 page)

“A barrel full of monkeys, I am,” she said, scratching her armpit and hooting like a monkey, desperate to divert the conversation away from its inevitable direction.

Adrian’s eyes grew wide. “Perhaps we should get back to chopping?”

“Stick in the mud,” she said, grumbling.

She reached around him again, breathing in the scent of him, realizing she hadn’t smelled a man this close in forever. And that she needed to dismiss that thought immediately, so instead she focused on demonstrating the rocking motion the knife should make with her hand, nestling closer to him to have a good handle on the vegetable. And grateful she wasn’t demonstrating what to do with a cucumber, at least.

Suddenly she was acutely aware of his breath, moving in sync with her own, as if they were one. With her soft and shapely parts matching up a bit too comfortably with his solid, very male parts. For a minute she wondered what would happen if she reached around right there, in that perfect spot, just to see if he was feeling it as much as she was. But no, that would be such a bad idea, what with her kinda sorta chastity vow and renouncing all men and plus having nothing in common with someone of his ilk.

Although the word “ilk” seems a little lowbrow in reference to royalty
. Though lowbrow was in keeping with where her thoughts were going anyhow, considering she kept pondering reaching down to see if he was as turned on as she was.
I am human, after all
.
It’s a natural reaction to do that. After all, a man, a woman, alone. Throw in some food. I mean, we’re
hungry
. It’s the empty stomach talking, I know it. It’s not the empty heart. It’s not.
Only she didn’t just mutter it in her mind, that last part, she said it loud enough for Adrian to hear her.

“Empty heart?” he asked.

“Heart? No, not heart. I said
part
. I was just talking about this bowl over here, it’s empty. The empty
part
, that’s where you’ll put those shallots.”

Lord, she needed a class on self-editing.

They finished their chopping in relative quiet, and Emma assembled her raw ingredients to complete the omelets.

“So you heat up this pan, drizzling a little bacon grease on it for added flavor,” she said, rolling the grease around to lubricate the pan. “And then you pour your egg mixture here, spread it around, then put the sautéed veggies on top of it, and cover with a thin layer of cheddar cheese, like so.”

Adrian watched, mesmerized, as the omelet sizzled in the pan.

“You act as if this is the first time you’ve ever cooked anything,” she said.

“Would I betray myself as a spoiled rich boy if I admitted it was?” he asked, feeling a bit sheepish. “It must sound somewhat pathetic that I’ve hardly stepped foot in a kitchen, doesn’t it?”

Emma turned around to face Adrian. “A culinary virgin, huh? Pathetic? Not at all. It's what you know. Why would you have done so? There was no need. Besides which, the kitchen was probably nowhere near your living quarters, I’m guessing.”

He laughed. “I am further ashamed to tell you I wasn’t particularly concerned about where in the palace the kitchen facilities were located, as long as good food showed up on my plate. I feel a bit out of touch with reality to admit that.”

Emma put her hands on either of his shoulders. “Look, Adrian. We all come to the table with our strengths and weaknesses. So you can’t cook. No big deal. We can easily rectify that. At least you’re willing to give it a try; that’s not such a bad thing, right?”

He shrugged. “Slight concession, but I’ll take your pity vote if you’re willing to give it to me.”

Emma grabbed the handle of the frying pan and with a rubber spatula, deftly turned over one side of the omelet, then flipped it. “Voila!” She said, glad she didn’t drop the thing in a heap on the floor.

“Bravo!” Adrian clapped, impressed at her culinary prowess. “I’ve never seen something so entertaining before!”

“Oh, please,” she said. “I’m pretty sure whatever royal entertainment you’ve had over the years eclipses a little omelet showmanship. Even if I am pretty darned masterful at it.” She mockingly buffed her nails on her shirt, as if she was a pro.

“I don’t care what you say,” he said. “That was terribly impressive.”

Emma slid the omelet onto his plate and gave him several strips of bacon. She made quick work of the rest of the ingredients and served herself.

“Now, to top it off.”

She pulled out a carton of orange juice from the fridge that mercifully hadn’t expired yet, then walked over to her parents’ wine rack in the dining room and helped herself to a bottle of Prosecco.

“Sir, if you’ll do the honors.”

“Now
this
I have some skill with,” Adrian said, removing the foil cover and wire basket from the head of the bottle and popping the cork. “Thank goodness I didn’t just shoot that into your eye.”

“I have faith that one thing you’ve mastered is cracking open a little bubbly. Granted, this isn’t vintage Dom Perignon, but mixed with a little orange juice it’s a perfect addition to our brunch.”

She handed him two champagne flutes to fill with the Prosecco, and she topped them off with juice. “To adventure,” she said, clinking her glass with Adrian’s.

“And to my gracious hostess. Thank you for saving me from a fate worse than death,” he said, tipping his glass to hers yet again. “At least for the time being.”

They sat down at the tiny dining room table off the kitchen.

“As my grandmother used to say before each meal here, enjoy your vittles,” Emma said, laughing. “Before you even ask, it’s a country term for food. Not that my grandma was a country gal, she wasn’t. She just loved
The Beverly Hillbillies
.”

Adrian raised his eyebrow.

“Of course you wouldn’t know that cultural touchstone. Television, from back in the dark ages. Just know that it’s a classic, and if you’re lucky maybe we’ll watch some this week on Nickelodeon.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, digging into his first bite, his eyes opening wide in surprise at how good it was. “This is amazing.” He moaned. He actually moaned.

“Huh, I don’t think anyone has ever gotten too excited about my cooking,” Emma said. “So glad you’re enjoying it. You can take pride in knowing you contributed to its amazingness. You helped birth this puppy. Even though I’m fairly certain the food you’ve eaten to this point in your life is a bit more impressive than my omelets. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You underestimate your gifts.”

“Beats being a gifted jewel thief, or a talented stripper, I guess. So tell me, besides being painfully dapper and charming, what gifts do you hold up for the world to see?”

Adrian sat in silence, pondering this question, cutting a bite of omelet and eating it, then cutting another bite and eating it as well. “I suppose no one’s ever asked me that before. I’m not certain I have any gifts.”

Emma shook her head. “I think you underestimate yourself,” she said. “First off, you’re flexible. I mean come on, twenty-four hours ago you were a pampered prince. And look at you now! You’re slumming it in a statue of David apron in my parents’ beach house. That’s nothing if not flexible.”

“So I’m on par with Gumby, then.” He smiled.

“Aha! So you do have cultural references. You’re familiar with Gumby.”

“Who isn’t? That would be like not knowing who Saint Nicholas is. Nonetheless, resiliency doesn’t win me any prizes in the humanitarian department.”

“And cooking a good omelet does for me?”

“Good point. But still, you give me pause to wonder what I’m doing that is relevant in this life.”

“Hold that thought.” Emma raised her index finger, got up from the table and grabbed her laptop that she’d left near the door. She sat back down, opened it up and started typing into a search engine. “Aha, just what I thought.

“‘Monaforte’s Prince Adrian, at the opening of a homeless shelter in the nation’s capital,’” she recited from a news story. “‘His Royal Highness Prince Adrian, heir to the throne of Monaforte, visits infirmed children at a local hospital along the coastal town of Principia.’ Wait, wait, here’s another: ‘Prince Adrian hugs a grieving mother whose child died in an avalanche in the Alpine village of Alise.’”

She threw Adrian an I-told-you-so glance. “So let’s dispense with the ‘I’m useless’ mentality and appreciate the ‘that with which we have been blessed’ one, got it?”

“Okay, you win. I’ll concede I’m able to use my position as a platform to help others. But I am still not convinced that I have a higher purpose. Maybe it’s still to be determined. Like you, you’re a fabulously talented photographer, I assume.”

“Damn straight I am,” she said, laughing. “Nevertheless, we’re talking apples and oranges, my life and yours, though. And not like that makes me any great savior. Let’s just be happy with we are who are.”

“Indeed. And that you had a getaway car at just the right moment for poor, poor pitiful me. You’re my savior, at least.” He grinned at her.

“And I’ll be grateful I have you here to help me do the dishes. So roll up your sleeves,” she said, pointing to his bare arms, sleeveless since he’d removed his shirt while prepping the meal, “and let’s knock this out so we can figure out the rest of your vacation.”

“Deal,” he said. “But, er, um, I’m afraid you’re going to have to teach me how to wash pans. I haven’t a clue.”

“You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

E
mma
sat glued to her laptop, cranking out an email to Caroline.

“Oh, girl, you are so not going to believe what I’ve been up to.”

She’d put Adrian on the nearby sofa and turned on Nickelodeon, figuring he’d be perfectly entertained with classic sitcoms for a while.

She proceeded to fill in the blanks on what had transpired over the past twelve hours, adding her friend was sworn to secrecy on all of the above.

“I alternate between being all fan-girl that I’ve got this handsome prince as my captive at the beach house, and wanting to dope-slap myself that I am even thinking of him as a handsome prince. I have no business going there in my brain. He is so far off limits for me he’s practically within limits.

“Argh, maybe that’s the problem. He’s actually very approachable and
normal
even, yet he’s never even cooked a meal before. Can you imagine? Who hasn’t stepped foot in a kitchen to prepare a meal? Unfathomable what that life must be like. Although I think he’s really chaffing at the rules and restrictions. I guess even those with unlimited everything have limitations. It seems his mother is calling the shots on his marriage. He said she’d let him ‘sow his wild oats’ and now it’s time to buck up and do what’s right for the family. I guess it’s all fine and good to sow those oats, but you can’t harvest them and eat the bread from it! I can’t imagine my mother telling me whom to marry! Although as we all well know, she would give up her first-born child to see me married, except that I’m her first-born — make that only— child.  Then she could stop worrying about my availability shelf-life. I swear the woman thinks I’m a tub of yogurt about to spoil. Ahhh, well, I have to run. Now that I’m royal social director I’ve got to figure out what to do with the guy. Other than the obvious, which is not an option. I think the first order of business is finding him something to wear. Can you picture me putting him in Bob’s clothes? Somehow I can’t see him donning those brightly patterned pants Daddy loves to wear. I mean they might have a certain tacky charm on my father, but how mortifying would that be for his royal highness to be tugging on a pair of seersucker pants with embroidered red lobsters all over them? I’m not sure I even want Adrian to
see
them they’re so far beyond what normal people in his world wear, let alone have to wear the things. I’ll keep you posted. And remember, mum’s the word. Don’t tell a soul!”

~*~

“W
ell, your most princely, what say we find you some clothes to wear?”

Emma had earlier unearthed an oversized sweatshirt stuck in the back of her closet that she’d lifted from an old and mostly long-forgotten boyfriend. Great sweatshirt, not so great boyfriend. If memory served her, he was the one who ditched her because she told him that his brilliantly self-serving suggestion of a threesome with her best friend was perverted. At least the threads lasted longer than that relationship. So right now Adrian was wearing the guy’s Carolina blue Tarheels hoodie and a thousand-dollar pair of tuxedo pants, along with those spiffy shoes. Somehow the look worked, in a slumming-it sort of way.

“I’m fine with this, really,” he said.

“You won’t be for long. Before you know it you’re going to find those clothes have gotten ripe. Plus I don’t want Jeffery’s creep factor to inadvertently rub off on you.”

He turned to sniff his armpit. Typical male. Guess they weren’t that different the world over. “Smells okay to me,” he said. “And what’s this about a creep factor? Go on. This must be a good story.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yeah, definitely. One that’s better left untold.” She tried to divert his attention. “Besides, I can’t begin to know how to wash designer tuxedo pants. Let’s at least aim for some variety. My treat.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to change the subject. Believe me, I will get that story out of you. Vee haf our vays,” he said. “And no, no, a thousands times, no. You are not treating me to a wardrobe.
I’m
paying.” He whipped out the collection of cash and cards he’d tucked away.

“In that case, maybe we can buy me a new wardrobe too. I have been known to spill my guts if the price is right,” she said, winking at him. She grabbed her keys and his hand and pulled him off the sofa. “Don’t want you to become a couch potato. Yet, anyhow. Speaking of potatoes, we need food. This will be your indoctrination into daily life for us commoners. It’ll be fun!”

~*~

“I
had considered taking you to a big box store first, but I think they’re just a little too low-end from what you’re used to. There’s a cute little beach shop I think we’ll start at. Then we’ll hit a grocery store for the necessities.”