Page 51 of American Royals

Connor rose to his feet. His silhouette glowed like warm amber against the fire. “Why don’t we do a little investigating?”

He headed into the kitchen with long, lazy strides and began to scavenge through the cupboards. Moments later he emerged with a bag of macaroni and some Alfredo sauce in a jar. “Looks like your options are pasta and … pasta.”

Beatrice tilted her head, pretending to consider the question. “Pasta sounds delicious,” she declared. “Can I help?”

“You could grab a colander.” Connor filled a pot with water and turned on the stove, then pulled out another saucepan and poured in the Alfredo.

“A colander?” Beatrice stared at him. She had no idea what that was.

Connor’s mouth twitched against a smile. “Never mind.”

She watched as he brought the water to a boil and added the macaroni, then drained the noodles in something that must have been a colander. It struck Beatrice how utterly normal this was. Hanging out in a kitchen, cooking pasta sauce from a jar: this was something that other people could do whenever they wanted.

“Want to try stirring?” Connor offered.

Beatrice ventured toward the stovetop and began whisking the sauce. Connor laughed in protest. “Not so fast—you aren’t trying to make whipped cream!” He nudged Beatrice out of the way and grabbed the wooden spoon, stirring the pot at a slower, more sedate pace.

“Sorry I’m so hopeless in the kitchen.”

“It’s okay; I don’t exactly like you for your culinary skills.”

Something about his words, about the way he said like, lingered in Beatrice’s ears. But before she could think on it too closely, her Guard’s face hardened. “I’m guessing it doesn’t matter to Lord Boston, either.”

Beatrice knew she should let the comment go—but a catch of vulnerability in Connor’s tone, beneath the layers of sarcasm, gave her pause.

“You know his name is Teddy,” she said quietly.

“Honestly, Beatrice, I’m happy for you, that—”

She cut in. “And if you’d been paying the slightest bit of attention this past month instead of glowering in the corner, you would realize that there’s nothing real between us.”

Connor frowned. “You seem happy when you’re together. And … he’s a nice guy.” Those last words were delivered with obvious reluctance.

“Sure, he’s nice.” And warm, and friendly, and scrupulously good. She could envision her future with Teddy, straightforward and simple, stretching on and on into the distance. He would do a wonderful job as America’s first king consort.

Beatrice braced her palms on the counter, fighting back a sudden feeling of dizziness. She had the sensation that her entire world was poised on a knife edge, and her next words would determine which way it fell.

“Trust me, I wish I could fall for Teddy,” she said helplessly. “It would make everything so much easier if I could. But he isn’t …”

“Isn’t what?”

Silence stretched taut between them.

Beatrice was so very tired of running from this, of hiding it all beneath a smooth layer of denial. She needed to say it—to risk rejection, even if she had to carry that rejection with her for the rest of her life.

“He isn’t you.”

Slowly, her meaning unmistakable, she reached for Connor’s hand and laced her fingers in his. He gave a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t move.

It was strange, Beatrice thought, over the deafening pounding of her pulse. She had felt Connor’s touch so many times: his touch on her elbow as he helped her navigate a crowd, or the accidental knocking of knees that might happen when they sat next to each other in a car. This felt monumentally, unbelievably different. As if some magic glowed and gathered there, where their hands were intertwined.

Then Connor forcibly broke away.

“Beatrice, no.” The kitchen seemed to vibrate with what he’d said.

She took a step back, crossing her arms to hide their sudden shaking. “I’m sorry. Just—forget I ever said anything.”

She began to sweep past him, but his next words stopped her cold.