Page 27 of Heavy Crown
“It’s a mystifying standard. Sort of expected it to look more like bread.”
“You know what raw bread dough looks like?”
He chuckles. “We royals do all sorts of things around the world while we travel—for charity, for press, for a laugh at our own expense. I made naan bread in India, but it was stretchy.”
When I turn to say something in response, the words die on my lips, and I forget what I was going to say. We’re so close our breaths mingle, and his gaze connects with mine.
I dart my gaze from his lips to his eyes, and I long to wrap my arms around him and bend into him, melding our bodies and mouths together.
“What’s next?” he asks, and there’s a hint of a smile in his voice.
My cheeks heat. Does he realize what I was thinking? Oh my God. What is wrong with me? “We need to, um, shape the scones.”
With the pastry cutter, I show him how to carve out wedges. Each brush of our hands or scrape of our bodies shoots awareness through me. When we finish, I cover the wedges, put them in the fridge, and set a timer.
“Why are we making them cold?” Alex points at the fridge and then at the preheated oven. “Am I going to get to eat these? I suspect I’ve been duped.”
I laugh and then wince as my headache reemerges. Alex reaches around me, his arm grazing me, and he takes my pill bottle off the counter. He fills a glass of water and passes me everything without a word. With the pen, he notes the time in the notebook.
He might not be much for baking or putting away groceries, but he can read the pain on my face in a second. I hope he can’t read anything else.
“Thanks.” I take the pills and gesture to the fridge. “They keep their shape better if they’re cold when they go in.” I glance at him over my shoulder as I head to the couch. “And yes, you’ll get to eat them. I promised you a proper cream tea.” I try out my British accent again.
He grimaces.
“Really? That bad? I don’t believe you. I’ve got to be close. I’ve watched a lot of British TV shows.” I flip my hair over my shoulder and sit on the couch, drawing my knees into my chest.
Alex follows me and sits on the other end in a relaxed sprawl. He runs a hand through his hair. “You need to watch more, clearly. That was truly terrible. I would not lie to you.”
“Right,” I say, giving my accent another shot. “I reckon it’s all gone pear-shaped.”
He chuckles. “British expression with a Texan accent. Somewhat impressive that you mixed and matched so fluidly.” He eyes me.
I grin and decide to spare him another attempt. “So what were you doing on West Shore Road last night? I was fleeing my cheating boyfriend on my birthday. What were you doing?”
“Headed back here and decided to take the long way.”
“Interesting. Didn’t you scold me for taking that road in thick fog?”
He slings an arm over the back of the couch. “I did.”
He doesn’t offer any other explanation, and I get the impression Alex isn’t used to justifying himself to anyone about anything. “You were all dressed up.”
“Work event. Wasn’t particularly enjoyable.” He sighs. “What were you supposed to be doing for your birthday? Did Douchey Derrick forget?”
“Have you really nicknamed him that?” A slow smile spreads across my face. Alex doesn’t seem like the type to say those things out loud.
“I have. Do you object? I could go with dickwad, dipshit, dumbass—those were all considerations before I settled on douchey.”
“I think I’d prefer dumbass. It’s more Canadian.” I tap my chin. “Dumbass Derrick. I already feel better. Amazing.”
Alex chuckles and runs his fingers along the top of the couch. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He didn’t answer mine in great detail either. But I suppose I’m not worried he’ll sell stories about me to the newspaper. Broke and desperate isn’t a good look, and it’s currently the one I’m sporting.
“I have no idea if he forgot. If he didn’t, he’s a shitty gift giver too because I’ll never get that image out of my head.” I cover my eyes. “Or does that make him a good gift giver? Certainly memorable.”
“In any scenario, it makes him a terrible boyfriend.”
