Page 56 of Heavy Crown

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, tugging the door shut behind her. “It’s so early it’s still dark out.”

“Means I’ll get all my work done early enough to hear about your first day later.”

“Your work never ends.” She loops her arm through mine.

She often tugs me around her tiny apartment from place to place, and I relish the contact. Now, in public, even if it’s early and dark, I should discourage her from being so close. But I won’t.

“This coming weekend is my father’s birthday,” I say. “Every year, there’s an island-wide celebration.”

“I remember.” Rory squeezes my arm. “A huge party.”

“The biggest and best part of the day takes place here. We have a ball in his honor. Your name will be on the guest list.”

She releases my arm and lets out a little laugh. “I can’t go. I work here. If I wasn’t working, I still couldn’t go. I have nothing to wear.”

“My father’s birthday is catered so the regular staff can attend if they wish.” I examine her for a beat, but she won’t meet my gaze. “Tanya will bring you a few outfits to choose from.”

“I pay for them. Garnish my wages or whatever.”

“Consider it a birthday present from me.”

“Alex, my birthday was a few weeks ago now, and you already bought me a necklace.”

“I meant my father’s birthday,” I say as though she’s being daft.

“Traditionally, you buy a present for the person celebrating their birthday.”

“Well, yes. But my father buys everything he wants. Instead, he asks that we do a kindness for someone else. This year, you’re my recipient.”

She stops walking and stares at me in the glow of the pathway lights. “I swear, if I find out you’re lying to me…”

“You’ll?” I prompt.

“Be very angry.”

I laugh. “Oooh. Very angry. Sounds ominous.”

She slaps my chest and resumes walking. “I want to say no, but I have no idea what people wear to royal birthday balls.”

“Clothes, typically.”

“You are exasperating sometimes.” She grins up at me. “Fine. Thank you. I’ll take your help and accept your invitation.”

We arrive at the kitchen, and I let Rory in the side entrance. Joyce, the head cook, is here this morning to help Rory get settled. Normally, Rory would be here this early by herself. She said last night she covets the quiet and the large kitchen. Her Zen space.

I introduce Rory and Joyce. Despite the thirty-year age difference, the two of them strike up an easy banter over flour, recipes, and substitutes for various dietary concerns. I lean against the island listening to them while Joyce gives Rory a tour around the kitchen and pantry.

When they come out of the pantry again, Rory’s lips twist with an amused smile. “I thought you said you were going to get an early start.”

“Right, yes,” I say. “Just going to make myself a cup of coffee.” I wander over to the coffee machine and keep half an ear on their chatter. She seems to be okay, so perhaps it’s safe to leave.

Her shoulder brushes mine as the coffee trickles into the pot. “I’m making French bread for Brice for his lunch. Any requests of your new pastry chef?”

I absorb the playful joy emanating from her and press my hands into the counter to stop myself from brushing my knuckles against her cheek. We’ve gotten used to casual contact in her little apartment—neither of us thinks twice about a graze here, a brush there. I need to keep myself in check.

“Bring me a cream tea at the end of your shift?” I suggest.

“Cream tea for one, coming up.”