tell from the scent of browning sugar that whatever she’d stuck in the oven was almost ready.
She smiled as she started over to him, her hands still weighed down by the large mixing bowl containing dough for her second batch, or something like it. “Oh, yes. It’s a little something I’ve been working on.”
Unfortunately, this declaration from Mel was punctuated by her tripping over the perfectly clear and smooth marble floor and spilling the dough all over him.
He gritted his teeth and rushed to the sink to get the sticky mixture off his shirt. This was one of his favorite button downs. Ray had purchased it in Milan at Fashion Week and it was one of his clubbing staples. It had cost well over a grand. Chump change then, but still, such a favorite shirt deserved more than apple turnover or whatever the hell it was that was now stuck all over it.
“Are you serious?” he roared, and then he stilled, flushing, when he noticed her flinch.
It was just a moment before she was all over him with a bottle of club soda and a hand towel. “I can get that right out,” she said. “It’s not that difficult at all, whoops!” she exclaimed as a large flood of water dripped over his crotch.
It was a disaster.
He shook his head, mindful of upsetting her – after all, he already felt like a dick for shouting at her. Ray excused himself and rushed back to his room. He dumped his shirt in the Jacuzzi, deciding he’d trash it later.
After a quick second shower, Ray opted to slide on some sweats and a plain t-shirt. Until this latest kick of hers was over, he needed to avoid nice clothes.
When he went back downstairs, he was surprised to find that though the kitchen was still a world class disaster zone rivaling Chernobyl, there were two plates laid out for them on the kitchen table, both brimming over with giant cinnamon buns that could make Cinnabon close up shop and go home in defeat.
He sat at the table and pulled the bowl of icing to him and started decking out his massive pastry. He missed homemade pastries. In the castle, the lead baker, Irina, always made a variety of delicious strudels, sweet rolls, and pies. Some of his fondest memories as a child were of sneaking into the kitchen with his sister Serena and eating his weight’s worth in sweet breads. Sure, even without access to unlimited wealth, he still ate well. But it wasn’t the same as the warm, buttery goodness of something straight from the oven.
Mel sat across from him and waited for him to take his first bite.
He obliged and moaned a bit, an almost obscene sound, in response to the explosion of flavor on his tongue. “My God, these are amazing.”
She smiled back at him and bit into her food as well. Some of the spastic perkiness, that Stepford Wife vibe he’d felt earlier had abated; she seemed calmer, like that collected siren from the balcony of a week ago.
“It’s a special recipe.”
“I can tell there’s something else here besides the cinnamon and apple shavings. Is there a chance it’s nutmeg?”
She mimed turning a key in front of her mouth. “A good baker never tells. Those are trade secrets.”
Ray sighed and took another bite. “I know a lot about those.”
“Baking or secrets?” she asked.
“Both. Mostly about secrets. There are plenty of secrets in the royal closet that have to be kept hidden, things that can never be allowed on the world stage.”
“Must be hard.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But I think we all have our secrets. For example, this weird Julia Child act aside, you play your cards incredibly close to the chest. What is it you’re hiding, or hiding from?”
Her expression darkened, like a shade coming down over her eyes. She shook her head. “What you see is what you get from me, promise,” she said. Then there was a flicker and her demeanor completely changed; that same plastic Disney World approved smile was back on her face. “Anyway, sweetie, I’ll make a ton more of these. I even have
She smiled as she started over to him, her hands still weighed down by the large mixing bowl containing dough for her second batch, or something like it. “Oh, yes. It’s a little something I’ve been working on.”
Unfortunately, this declaration from Mel was punctuated by her tripping over the perfectly clear and smooth marble floor and spilling the dough all over him.
He gritted his teeth and rushed to the sink to get the sticky mixture off his shirt. This was one of his favorite button downs. Ray had purchased it in Milan at Fashion Week and it was one of his clubbing staples. It had cost well over a grand. Chump change then, but still, such a favorite shirt deserved more than apple turnover or whatever the hell it was that was now stuck all over it.
“Are you serious?” he roared, and then he stilled, flushing, when he noticed her flinch.
It was just a moment before she was all over him with a bottle of club soda and a hand towel. “I can get that right out,” she said. “It’s not that difficult at all, whoops!” she exclaimed as a large flood of water dripped over his crotch.
It was a disaster.
He shook his head, mindful of upsetting her – after all, he already felt like a dick for shouting at her. Ray excused himself and rushed back to his room. He dumped his shirt in the Jacuzzi, deciding he’d trash it later.
After a quick second shower, Ray opted to slide on some sweats and a plain t-shirt. Until this latest kick of hers was over, he needed to avoid nice clothes.
When he went back downstairs, he was surprised to find that though the kitchen was still a world class disaster zone rivaling Chernobyl, there were two plates laid out for them on the kitchen table, both brimming over with giant cinnamon buns that could make Cinnabon close up shop and go home in defeat.
He sat at the table and pulled the bowl of icing to him and started decking out his massive pastry. He missed homemade pastries. In the castle, the lead baker, Irina, always made a variety of delicious strudels, sweet rolls, and pies. Some of his fondest memories as a child were of sneaking into the kitchen with his sister Serena and eating his weight’s worth in sweet breads. Sure, even without access to unlimited wealth, he still ate well. But it wasn’t the same as the warm, buttery goodness of something straight from the oven.
Mel sat across from him and waited for him to take his first bite.
He obliged and moaned a bit, an almost obscene sound, in response to the explosion of flavor on his tongue. “My God, these are amazing.”
She smiled back at him and bit into her food as well. Some of the spastic perkiness, that Stepford Wife vibe he’d felt earlier had abated; she seemed calmer, like that collected siren from the balcony of a week ago.
“It’s a special recipe.”
“I can tell there’s something else here besides the cinnamon and apple shavings. Is there a chance it’s nutmeg?”
She mimed turning a key in front of her mouth. “A good baker never tells. Those are trade secrets.”
Ray sighed and took another bite. “I know a lot about those.”
“Baking or secrets?” she asked.
“Both. Mostly about secrets. There are plenty of secrets in the royal closet that have to be kept hidden, things that can never be allowed on the world stage.”
“Must be hard.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But I think we all have our secrets. For example, this weird Julia Child act aside, you play your cards incredibly close to the chest. What is it you’re hiding, or hiding from?”
Her expression darkened, like a shade coming down over her eyes. She shook her head. “What you see is what you get from me, promise,” she said. Then there was a flicker and her demeanor completely changed; that same plastic Disney World approved smile was back on her face. “Anyway, sweetie, I’ll make a ton more of these. I even have
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