A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals #1)(17)

It was somewhat comforting for someone to ask if he could do something in such a tone. She was doubtful, but throwing her support behind him anyway. At home, no one was allowed to doubt whether a prince was capable of something—not even the prince himself. Her lack of surety made him all the more eager to please her.

“Of course I can do that,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll go do a round and make sure the guests are okay.”

She held her fist up to him expectantly.

“Black power?” he guessed. He had just watched a documentary about the Civil Rights movement but wasn’t aware that Americans used it as a form of salutation. He had kept abreast of the latest social justice movement in the states, and supposed it was related to that. He lifted his fist high into the air.

She laughed that tinkling laugh again, but this time it didn’t anger him. It made him want to know what he’d done to cause it so he could create the sound again and again.

“Um, that’s not what I was going for, but yes, that too. Chef is in his office.”

Thabiso marched off toward the chef’s office, invigorated by Ledi’s belief in him.

This is ridiculous. You’ve climbed Kilimanjaro. You’ve told the Prime Minister of Belgium to get stuffed. You will not be defeated by a chocolate fondue!

When he arrived at the chef’s office, it was empty. He waited, but as the minutes ticked by, he grew more agitated, knowing Naledi must be thinking he’d not been up to the task.

I can figure this out.

Of course he hadn’t been quite sure what Naledi had meant by “burner,” but he marched up to the dessert table with purpose. He possessed deductive reasoning skills, didn’t he?

He noticed a decorative candle holder on the buffet table. Instead of a wax candle inside, there was a wick with a small plastic reservoir filled with kerosene. He’d seen those used for all manner of things back home.

It didn’t match the small metal can under the fondue, but it should work just as well. Thabiso placed it under the fondue dish and smiled. He would get the hang of things. He wouldn’t be a disappointment, to Naledi or his people.

He turned to search her out in the crowd, to see what else he could accomplish that would ease her burden. It was after three steps that he felt the burst of heat at his back.

“Oh, looks like they’re going with flambé,” one of the guests said. “Maybe there will be Bananas Foster!”

Thabiso turned to discover flames dancing around the metal fondue pot, racing across the tablecloth and devouring the napkins and decorations strewn across its surface. Dread and a crushing sense of failure froze him for a moment, but then he grabbed the closest thing to hand—a suit jacket hung over the back of a chair—and began batting at the fire.

Ah, Goddess, what a catastrophe. The flames were undeterred by his attempts to smother them. They climbed up the jacket and nipped at his hands but he was focused on stopping it before—

“Out of the way, Jamal!”

Naledi charged past him with a fire extinguisher, fierce as Mujaji the rain goddess. It was over in a few seconds. She blasted the flames, and him in the process, the party attendees clapped, and everything went back to normal, minus the chemical-covered dessert table.

Thabiso was still on his ass coughing up flame retardant when Naledi held the melted gas reservoir in front of his face.

“This . . . isn’t a burner.” Her eyes were wide and her chest heaved with quick breaths. She had looked at him with disappointment before, but now she looked at him like he was a fool. Like she had been wrong to believe he could ever handle a seemingly simple task.

Shame raced through Thabiso’s blood, quickly followed by indignation. “Well, how was I supposed to know what a burner is? Aren’t you supposed to be training me?”

“I have been training you. I’ve also been cleaning up your messes. And Dan’s messes. And the guests’ messes. I shouldn’t have to worry about you starting a fire while I’m busy with that.” Her words came through gritted teeth, as if he were the one at fault.

“You really shouldn’t talk about cleaning up after others as if it’s something to be proud of.” His indignation flared, higher perhaps than the flames that had nearly singed his beard. “Only a dog seeks reward for performing lowly tasks for others. Fetch! Pour! Serve! You’re no better than a—than a Saint Bernard!”

He leaned forward into the charged space between them, ready to continue their battle, but Naledi’s expression had gone completely blank, even those expressive eyes.

Regret washed through Thabiso as his anger sapped away—yet another unfamiliar emotion. Maybe there was something in the water in the US causing these fluctuations. Fluoride? He’d read about that, too.

He had started this subterfuge in the name of getting to know his betrothed, but he’d made a mess of it, like the buffoon in a fairy tale before the prince comes sweeping in. Except he was the prince.

“Did you burn yourself?” she asked quietly.

“Only a little. I’m fine.”

“That’s great,” she said. “Because now I won’t feel bad about firing you. Get out.”

She turned and walked away, and then stopped. Hope flared. Maybe he could fix this . . .

“The tux shirt costs twenty dollars. Make sure you leave it on the counter because I’m not covering anything else for you tonight.”