Between the stainless steel counter tops, three modern glass-front refrigerators, and more cooking implements than I’ve ever seen in one place, it’s rather different from the kitchen I grew up using — a narrow galley with barely any room to move around and a gas range so old, the burners don’t light without a match.
But I bet no one’s ever had as much fun in here as Mom and I did chopping onions on those cracked linoleum counter tops, laughing till the tears were gone.
After my meeting with Linus, I went straight back to my bedroom and stared at the wall for about an hour, wondering if I’d made a massive mistake. Torturing myself, replaying all the counter-arguments I should’ve used, analyzing all the points I forgot to touch on during our negotiation, until I thought my head might explode from the strain of it all.
I needed a distraction. Something to take my mind off the future. Preferably, something involving semi-sweet chocolate morsels and a nice rush of sugar. I needed…
Cookies.
So, I put aside my worries about bumping into Carter or Chloe or —god forbid— their demonic mother, and set out to find the kitchen. Now, if I could only find the flour, I’d be in business…
“Dammit,” I mutter, opening another cabinet. This one is full of what appears to be an antique china set.
“Miss, are you sure I can’t assist with—”
“I’m sure!” I cut her off, shaking my head in exasperation and muttering to myself. “Seriously, how do rich people live like this? What do theydowith all this free time?” I pull open another cabinet.Spices. I’m getting closer. “No chores to complete? No meals to prepare? Food appears magically on the table, dirty clothes vanish without me lifting a finger… I feel like I’m living with freaking house elves.”
“I apologize, miss,” Patricia says, sounding near tears.
“Oh, please don’t be upset!” I whirl to face her, guilt flooding me. “I know you’re just doing your job. It’sme. I’m not used to sitting around all day without pulling my weight. I go a bit stir-crazy without anything to keep me occupied. Can you understand that?”
“Of course, miss.”
I smile, but she doesn’t return it — she’s too busy chewing her bottom lip. Clearly, she’s not used to royal guests making themselves at home in her domain.
With a sigh, I resume my search for ingredients. I’ve nearly given up hope when I pull open the final set of white doors and find a narrow inset pantry, fully stocked with baking supplies.
“Of course, it’s the last one I open…”
I laugh as I grab the containers marked FLOUR and SUGAR off the shelf, cradle them to my chest, and carry them over to a nearby prep table. The Lockwood Estate’s heavy stand mixer is far nicer quality than the one I have back home, but it doesn’t look much different in terms of basic mechanics. I’m sure I can figure out how to use it easily enough.
Patricia wrings her hands in silent agony as she watches me make trips back and forth from the pantry, lining up my items in a neat row — baking soda, salt, vanilla extract, chocolate chips. When she sees me heading for her immaculately organized refrigerator, she can’t quite contain her sound of distress.
“Miss, are youquitesure you wouldn’t prefer me to do that for you? If you’ll only dictate the recipe—”
“Sorry,” I say wryly, plucking two eggs from a carton. “I’m just the kind of crazy person who actually enjoys making things for herself.”
“Crazy person?” A warm, familiar voice cuts through the room. “That, I can vouch for.”
I’m so startled, I drop both eggs to the floor. I hear the unmistakable crunch of shells on tile along with a shriek from the housekeeper as she watches yolk spreading across her floor, but I don’t care. I’m already in motion — flying across the kitchen into Owen’s waiting arms.
“You’re here!” I cry as he crushes me to his chest, breathing him in. He smells so good. Safe. Solid. Secure.
Like home.
“Of course I’m here. You think I’d let them lock you up and throw away the key without putting up a fight? Not a chance, Ems.”
“My hero,” I tease in a swooning voice.
He laughs. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly easy. I probably called a hundred times, screaming as an apathetic operator fed me the same bullshit line aboutconfidential royal protocolandroutine security procedure. I was scared out of my fucking head that something had happened to you. Another hour, I was ready to call the press and plead my case to the public.”
“God.” I squeeze him tighter. “I’m really sorry.”
“Not your fault. It’s the bastards who dragged you here,” he mutters darkly.
“Owen, the thing is—”
“You know, I’m not actually sure why they changed their minds. I guess I must’ve worn them down, though, because about an hour ago this fancy black town car pulls up outside my apartment and the driver tells me to get in.By order of the King.How insane is that? I felt like I was in an action movie.” He snorts. “Not a good one.”