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“No,” I whisper.

“Lactose intolerant?”

I chew on the corner of my mouth then say again, “No.”

“Then pour two glasses of milk, princess.”

I blink once. Twice. Then manage to propel myself into motion.

I fill both glasses with milk then return the carton to the fridge.

“Forks are in the drawer next to the dishwasher,” he says, cutting two huge slabs of cake. They’re big enough that they’ll give me far more than the proverbial ten pounds on camera.

I move to the drawer, open it, and snag two forks, then pause and tear two paper towels from the roll next to the sink. By the time I make it back to him, he’s lifted both plates and brought them to the opposite side of the counter, pulling out a stool.

“Sit,” he mutters, doing the same on his own stool. “Eat.”

I hesitate.

But the cake looks amazing, and Hudson is already downing his slice and if he was mad at me for invading his kitchen, he wouldn’t have cut me a piece and ordered me to eat.

I grab the glasses of milk and carry them over to our plates, sliding one toward him before I settle on the barstool.

“Thanks, princess,” he says softly.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

His gaze lifts to mine, holds. Then his mouth kicks up. “Because you looked like a princess sleeping so peacefully in that hospital bed—just waiting for your prince to wake you up.”

My prince hadn’t come.

Only my nightmare had.

Except…Hudson came to my bedside, reading to me softly as he roused me from my sleep, coaxed me to consciousness.

“Oh,” I murmur quietly.

Then I slowly reach for my fork, heart skipping a beat as I scoop up a bite.

Part of me expects him to stop me. Another part—a bigger part—knows that won’t happen.

I lift my fork to my mouth and eat that bite of cake.

Flavor explodes on my tongue, and I find myself cleaning the tines of frosting and crumbs completely, trying to get every last morsel.

“You finish that,” he whispers gruffly, “and want more?—”

I hold my breath.

“—then you have another slice, yeah?”

“I shouldn’t,” I whisper.

“Life is too short to not eat cake.”

“Why does that feel like the modern equivalent of Marie Antoinette saying let them eat cake?”

The words flow out of me in a rush, the sass something of my past.