Page 45 of The Midnight Princess

“Do you play?” I manage, nodding at his shirt. “Guitar or anything?”

He leans on the counter and crosses his ankles. “Enough to impress the ladies.”

I don’t want to hear about ladies. “How much is that?”

He squints an eye. “Two and a half verses of ‘Escalator to Limbo.’”

I snort. “Let me guess, when the key change comes you have to tune your guitar.”

“I’m that dedicated to the craft.” He palms his chest, mock-serious.

I tear my eyes away from his chest in time to see his expression change. It’s nothing special, this look he gives me. Nothing more than a lingering gaze on my eyes and mouth. But my slow, hormone-addled brain shifts into overdrive, delivering a clear, lightning-fast translation of its meaning.

Jacob likes me, too.

I don’t want to know. No, that’s not quite true. Ican’tknow. So I turn on the tap of the sink and start washing a bowl, waiting for this forbidden knowledge to swirl down the drain with the last of the bubbles.

“Here,” he says, taking the bowl, brushing his fingers with mine, and drying it with a dishcloth. We linger in this state of potent awareness for several moments until he clears his throat. “I’m not very musical. I just like music.”

“What kind of music is that?” I fling the question at him, doing my part to keep realizations at bay.

“You don’t know The Antidote? Come on.” He tosses the cloth down and drops into an off-tune bass.

I want you

Can’t have you

A better man would know better

“I played this on a continuous loop through most of seventh grade because Anna Melanson started going out with my best friend,” he says, plucking the shirt away from his body.

I laugh because the alternative is horrifying. “Was their breakup super satisfying?”

“They have three kids and run a successful heating and cooling business.” He turns the omelet with the flick of his wrist, and the smells make my mouth water. “I think she’s going to run for mayor in the next election.”

I laugh. “You could have been the First Gentleman of Blackberry instead of a lousy crown prince.”

“Right?”

When he’s in this mood, I think I could ask him a question—thequestion—and get a real answer. He loves his grandparents and his home in Blackberry. He’s uninterested in leading a European country and living in a castle. As far as I can tell, he’d be content to handcraft furniture for the rest of his life. As much information as his dossier contains, this is the blank page at the heart of it. Why did he agree to become the crown prince?

“What do you want for toppings?” he asks, closing the door on complicated questions.

“Anything.”

“Not anything. What if I put on canned tuna, creamed corn, and yams? You’re fine?”

“I’m fine.”

He sets the spatula down. “Nobody likes everything.”

When I don’t answer, Jacob heaps a generous amount of grated cheese, diced peppers, and ham onto one side of the omelet, flips it, and makes a rustic half-moon. It’s going to be delicious.

Every day I look for ways to protect him when he assumes the role he wasn’t born for. Though we’re not on the clock, I can’t afford to ignore it when he gives me an opening. “Have you ever tried mämmi?”

He grunts, tipping the omelet onto a plate. A quick swipe of a dishcloth and the pan is ready for his spinach and avocado omelet. “What is that? A Scandi metal band?”

“Food. It’s gritty and sticky, and some people say it looks like paving tar. The Finns serve it around Easter to, I don’t know, remind themselves of the inevitability of death and the hope of the resurrection. Motovia has a dish—it’s a loaf of bread with herring poked into it, like a helmet with fish spikes. It’s the stuff of nightmares.”