A Prince of a Guy (Red Hot Royals #1)(16)

“You think I’m making this up. That’s what others thought, too, and they all failed.”

No, she wasn’t going to ask.

“Go ahead, dear,” Mrs. T said with a knowing smile. “Ask. I know you’re dying to.”

In the end, Carlyne couldn’t help herself. “Others?”

“Well, he’s a handsome man, don’t you think?”

Gorgeous. But absolutely beside the point. “How many others?”

“Oh, I really couldn’t tell all his secrets,” she said demurely. “Just trust me. Feed him. Cook for him. It’ll work.”

This was insane. “I’m not looking for his heart.”

“Well, now. There’s no reason to lie.” And with another knowing smile, the woman waddled away.

Carlyne shook her head and went inside, through the kitchen, where she stopped and stared at the stove.

The way to his heart is through his stomach.

Well, Carlyne didn’t want his heart, though his body would be nice.

And yet she was rather hungry. But where to start?

Until she’d come here, she’d never done more than boil water or push the buttons on the microwave. She’d never seen her own mother in a kitchen, other than to thank the chef.

But really, how hard could it be? She was a college graduate, for God’s sake. She could do this. After rolling up her sleeves, she cracked some eggs and dropped them in a pan, contemplating the stove for a moment before turning on the burner. Eggs, no problem. She shoved bread into the toaster. Easy enough. Then she threw some sausage in another pan and flicked on that burner, too. Pancakes took some extra doing, as she had to open the one and only cookbook she found, but following a recipe was easy. Any idiot could do that, right?

So why was the batter thick and sticky enough to form sidewalks?

She was contemplating that when the eggs started making an unusual popping sound—or maybe not unusual, she really had no idea. But when she tried to stir the boiling mess, it was…rubber.

Probably not good. Then she smelled smoke.

Oops. The toaster was on fire. Definitely not good. With a little screech, she snatched it away from the paper-towel rack, pulled the cord from the wall in the process, then promptly dropped it to the floor.

“Ouch!” There was a smoldering toaster at her feet, and the eggs were still popping, probably close to igniting, too. She was a complete and utter failure at being normal, and oh, my God, she’d set her bunny slippers on fire when she’d dropped the toaster.

That was it, the final straw, and the princess who never cried burst into tears. Then suddenly a big, tough, strong body sat her down on the floor and was slapping at the flaming bunny heads.

While she sat there staring at the burned fuzz, sniffling, overwhelmed by a bad case of self-pity, Sean efficiently and quickly smothered the small flame still coming out of the toaster.

He reached up and turned off the stove.

Then—and this was the part she’d never forget—he dropped to his knees, scooped her against that chest that was even more magnificent up close and personal, and peered into her face.

“You okay?” he demanded hoarsely. “Are you hurt?”

He had the most amazing eyes. And those hands…hands that were at this very moment running over her body, looking for burns, she supposed.

“Carly?”

Oh, my, he felt good. She felt good.

“Carly!”

He’d plastered her against him so they had full body contact, which was fabulous as all he wore was jeans—unfastened. And okay, yes, it had been way too long since she’d felt such delicious contact, but it wasn’t the lack of sex in her life that was making her dizzy.

It was Sean.

“Carly! Talk to me!”

His rough, edgy voice was like a bucket of cold water. While she’d been melting into a little pool of longing, he was anxious and probably furious. He certainly wasn’t helplessly turned on, not as she was, and why would he be? She wasn’t a glamorous princess, but a normal plain Jane. This man could have any woman he wanted—why would he want her? “I’m…” Pathetic. “…fine.”

Not satisfied, he reached for her hair, probably to smooth it out of her face, and she catapulted into action, because what if he dislodged the wig? Leaping to her feet, she grabbed for a kitchen towel. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything completely under control now.”

“Carly—”

“We’re lucky I wore out the batteries on your smoke detectors yesterday.” She bustled around, tossing dirty pans into the sink, avoiding his gaze. “I promise, I’m not in the habit of setting the kitchen on fire every time I make breakfast.”

Mostly because she’d never made breakfast before.

Darn it, this was all Mrs. Trykowski’s fault.

Rising to his feet, Sean glanced at the flat, lumpy pancakes. Then at the burned-to-a-crisp sausages and rubber eggs. He raised an eyebrow. “Do this a lot, do you?”

“Sure.” Another pan hit the sink. It would probably never come clean, not with her expertise, anyway. “Every morning.”

“Really?” His expression changed, went guarded. It was as if he just…vanished. He was standing right there in front of her, yet he was gone. Eyes flat, mouth grim, gone. “And you’re not hurt?” he asked in a polite voice twenty-five degrees cooler than he’d been only a second ago.