Royally Not Ready(60)

“You can dump the box in there.”

“Okay.” She opens the box and shakes the prunes into the water, letting some of the contents splash out. “Oops, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Now we’re going to let that cook for about thirty minutes or until the water is evaporated.”

“Lovely. Now what?”

“We make the dough.”

Together, we add ingredients into two separate bowls, one dry, one wet, and I offer her direction that she takes easily, and we move seamlessly through the kitchen, almost like we’ve been doing this together for years.

“That’s good, see how the dough has pulled off the side of the bowl clean?”

“Yeah,” she says as I stand behind her.

“That means it’s ready to be rolled and cut. Let’s take the dough out.” But she doesn’t move. Instead, she turns around and leans against the countertop, her wary eyes meeting mine. “What’s wrong?”

“You just said rolled and cut.”

“Yes . . . is that a problem?”

“No, I just . . .” She shakes her head. “Wow, I just had this memory flash through my mind, almost like déjà vu. When you said it’s ready to be rolled and cut, that . . . that reminded me of a time when I was really young and baking with my mom. It was around Christmas. But we were making something called . . .” She presses her hand to her forehead. “God, she called it cardamom cake. It was layers of cake and a mixture for between the layers.” Her eyes turn to mine. “This feels so familiar.”

Smiling softly, I say, “Because that’s what we’re making. Queen Katla always called it cardamom cake because she wanted to remind people that she loved more cardamom than cinnamon in the filling mixture.”

“Wait, seriously?” Lilly asks.

“Yeah. So, you’ve made this before.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes well up. “My mom loved this cake. Every holiday, she would make it. Even Easter, which would make my dad mad because he loved lemon cake on Easter. Not my mom, though. She hung tight to her real love, cardamom.” She smiles softly as a tear falls past her eyelid and down her cheek.

“Hey, come here,” I say, pulling her against my chest and offering her a hug. Her arms wrap around my waist and her head presses against my chest. I smooth my hand over her hair and say, “This was my dad’s favorite Christmas cake as well. He made several for the palace holiday party, and then when he got home, he’d make one for just our little family of three. He never got tired of making it.”

“I had no idea, this is . . . this is special, Keller. This is what I was hoping for, this sort of connection with my mom. I wonder what else is a part of my childhood that comes from Torskethorpe that was just normal to me?” She glances around the kitchen. “She used to always make this carrot and beef stew.”

“With celery and fennel?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, her eyes wide.

“Theo’s favorite soup. It’s not a tradition of Torskethorpe, but it’s very much a Strom tradition.”

“She always served it in brown crocks.”

I smile at her, then move to a cabinet by the stove and pull down a brown crock bowl. “Like this?”

Her hands go to her mouth as she walks up to me to get a better look. “Holy shit,” she says before taking it. “Keller, this is . . . this is exactly what she would use, and then she’d put those oyster—”

“Crackers over the top.”

More tears stream down her face, and I gather her in my arms again, letting her have this moment. After what seems like a few minutes, I lift her chin to look her in the eyes. “There’s so much more to come. Harrogate has rarely been used by Theo and Katla, but there will be so much more at Strombly, where your mother grew up. So many more memories, I’m sure.”

“When do we get to go there?” She wipes at her eyes.

“When Theo thinks the time is right. Things are complicated right now. He’s trying to protect you.”

“I understand.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean to get emotional on you. I just, wow, I wasn’t expecting to have a wave of memories hit me like that. I have very little from my childhood. After the estate sale to help pay off my parents’ debts, I’ve sort of forgotten about the material things that were part of my childhood.”

“No, it’s fine. We lost everything in the fire, so I know how you feel.” I give her another hug. “I’m here for you, Lilly.”

She smiles. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath, claps her hands together, and says, “Now, let’s roll this dough out.” She turns back around and picks up the rolling pin. “I’d prefer if you lean over and help me.”

“Like this?” I ask as I move my arms around her body and grip the rolling pin with her, my chest to her back, my head next to hers.

“Yes, like that.” I can’t see her smile, but I can feel it.

I’ve tasted this woman in my arms. This temptress. Vixen. This spitfire. She’s pushed and prodded, determined to crack my self-control, and fuck did I want to make her come in the hot springs. And even though in this moment she has me exactly where she wants me, our confessions only moments ago have created a deeper, undeniable connection.