Page 12 of Heavy Crown

Concussion or not, I’m not immune to admiring an incredibly fit, gorgeous man when I see one. He catches me staring, and my cheeks light on fire again. A smirk forms on his lips.

Of course he knows he’s attractive. The whole family is cover-model material. I’m stunned I didn’t realize last night that the reason he seemed so familiar is because I’ve seen his face staring out from various gossip magazines for the last year.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for a coronation instead of rescuing damsels in distress and then watching over their recovery?”

“What sort of Prince Charming would I be if I only did half a job?” He winks. “Breakfast, yes or no?”

“Yes,” I say with a small laugh. “There are people who turn down food?”

“People pretend all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons,” Prince Alexander says, and there’s a tinge of sadness in his voice before he backs out the door. “I shall return.”

Such an odd response, but I guess he was pretending to be Alex for some reason last night. Knowing who he is puts all the strange things I witnessed into context—his desire not to be too seen, the doctor’s comments, and the nurse’s reaction to him each time she entered. They were responding to their future king.

I have an urge to text someone about this incredible turn of events, but when I turn to grab my phone from the nightstand, I remember it’s at the bottom of the ocean, along with my purse, my keys, and what feels like my entire life. My temples throb at the reminder.

I have a job, but it’s working for the parents of the man who was balls deep in another woman on my birthday. If I leave him, I’ve got nowhere to go, and with the little I’m paid by the McGuintys, I won’t be able to locate much in terms of an apartment. That’s assuming I can find one. Affordable housing is horrendously hard to secure. How in demand is a pastry chef in Bellerive?

Prince Alexander appears in the doorway again and leans against it. “It’s all hitting you smack in the chest?”

“How’d you guess?” I take in his casual pose in the door, and the idea of leaving the bed and seeking solace in the crook of his neck takes me by surprise. I’d slip my arms around him and breathe him in, soak up his warmth and strength so I’m not so alone, so lonely.

“You’ve got a very expressive face,” he says with a hint of a smile.

“Oh, I—” Another blush heats my cheeks. Please tell me he can’t really determine the thoughts in my head by the look on my face. Otherwise he knows I’ve contemplated snuggling into the crook of his neck. Oh God. I just thought it again. Can he read these thoughts?

“It’s nice, actually.” He doesn’t move from the door. “No pretense.”

Subject change. Subject change. We need to be talking about something else. “I thought you were getting breakfast.” I pick at the pale-blue sheet in my lap and try not to stare at him. His presence is magnetic in the room, in my life. For the first time, I understand all the girls in high school and college who went weak in the knees over some famous guy.

Or perhaps I’m just weak in the head. I do have a very bad concussion. The likelihood that Prince Alexander is experiencing this same inexplicable pull has to be less than zero. I’ve seen pictures of the women he’s dated—royalty, famous women, Bellerivian elite. Farm girls from Canada aren’t on his radar.

“I made a phone call. Breakfast appears. Palace magic.” There’s a teasing light in his eyes when I glance up.

“Will the mice be turning into people? A pumpkin into a carriage?”

“No pumpkins in Bellerive, I’m afraid. Perhaps a watermelon.”

Our gazes meet, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about comparing myself to Cinderella. That’s what I just did, right? Of course, he already called himself Prince Charming, so maybe it’s not weird? Ugh. Why am I like this?

My head hurts.

He checks his watch and then crosses the room to a pad of paper on the dresser. “Your painkillers must be wearing off. Are you in pain? You winced.”

From my own stupidity, but my head also hurts. “I could use something to help with the pain.”

He pops open the top of a pill bottle and shakes two out, passing them to me with a glass of water. I take the pills without comment and down the entire glass of water.

It’s weird he’s playing nursemaid, isn’t it? Couldn’t he afford to pass the job to a literal nurse or maid? Hell, he could probably afford to have both of them in here fussing over me.

Someone knocks on the doorframe and wheels in a cart with an extravagant setup. Of course breakfast is served on fancy china with tiny tea cups.

This has to be a hallucination.

Or a dream. Maybe I’m still in the hospital knocked out.

Prince Alexander checks under the various covered plates and narrows his gaze. “I probably ordered too much.” He eyes me. “What’s your favorite breakfast?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked before you ordered?” I let out a little laugh and then wince at how the sound reverberates in my skull. “I’m a no-fuss person. Bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast.”