Chapter 9
ADDISON
The note Louis tucked under the chessboard this morning is currently in my pocket.
I took it because I needed to think about my answer before I responded. I’ve already read his neat and confident handwriting four times since I found it.
Have dinner with me.
Not would you like to have dinner with me, or please join me, or any of the polite phrases a prince is supposed to use. He’s direct, demanding, and I hate that I enjoy his possessiveness so much.
I unfold the paper and stare at his words again while I brew a pot of coffee. The cottage is quiet, except for the birds outside my window and the maker hissing. I’m already an hour behind my schedule because he knocked me sideways with this direct order.
I should say no, give some smart-aleck response, hoping he’ll deflect and we’ll go back to teetering that barely visible line. When we’re together, it’s too intense, and while I love that dance, I know where it leads.
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my daze.
Kendall
How’s palace life? Have you seduced the prince yet?
Addison
Not purposely. It’s very complicated.
Kendall
I want details.
I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the screen.
Kendall knows everything about my life—every bad date, every proposal I’ve turned down, every moment of weakness.
But what’s going on between Louis and me feels different.
It seems like something I should keep close to my heart until I figure out what it is.
Addison
We’ve played chess. That’s all.
Kendall
Chess? So, you’re both nerds?
Addison
I think he has me beat. Anyway, gotta get to work. Love you!
Kendall
Love you! We need to talk about wedding planning details soon! Kinda want to marry your brother ASAP.
Addison
Eww, I almost forgot about you and Patterson. :)
Kendall
Ha-ha, shut up. GET TO WORK. WIN THAT CONTEST!
Addison
I plan on it.
I silence my phone and turn it face down on the table.
A pen taunts me, and I grab it, returning to the note.
Have dinner with me.
I want to. After spending some alone time with him lately, I selfishly want more.
Every warning bell rings in my ears, but my heart is also fluttering.
If I were being logical about the situation, I’d say it wasn’t a great idea.
My brother warned me about him, and so did Louis himself, multiple times.
He’s hiding something behind the required dates and wanting me to leave.
And deep down, I think we both need this excitement in our lives.
I write my response beneath his words.
Already can’t get enough?
“I’m going with the flow,” I mutter as I walk to the east wing to drop it off.
The stroll feels longer than usual. I leave my response and spend the rest of the morning working on his portrait with an unhurried excitement streaming through me.
After lunch, I stop by again and see the note has returned to my side.
Tonight. 8 p.m. East wing.
Follow the light.
P.S. Rain check on the sitting.
That’s it. No explanation, no real details, only the confidence that I’ll be there.
Arrogant bastard.
I scribble a message below it.
I never accepted. You’ll get my answer at 8 p.m.
I smile, knowing my oppositional defiance wants to keep him on his toes.
On the way back to my cottage, I’m giddy. When I return, I paint more of him until the room glows golden. If it weren’t for this dinner tonight, I’d probably work until I couldn’t keep my eyes open because inspiration has taken over.
Five hours later, I force myself to clean my brushes, then shower.
I spend over an hour getting ready, changing in and out of almost all the clothes I’ve packed.
When I slide on a cream dress with pearl buttons running down the front, I know this is the one.
It’s modest and elegant but still casual in a I’m not trying too hard kind of way.
At seven forty-five p.m., I slip out of my cottage into the summer night.
After sunset, the palace is quiet and feels empty.
Even though most of the staff have retreated to their quarters, the hallways are lit with amber sconces, and the glow makes everything seem vintage.
I keep my pace steady, even though anticipation of tonight hums through my veins.
When I finally reach the east wing, I look for the light and see a lantern flickering at the end of the hallway.
I move toward it, and when I turn the corner, I see the entire corridor is lined with them.
The hallway seems like a never-ending optical illusion, but I move forward, following the light, as he told me.
During my daily strolls, I was never brave enough to explore this area of the castle. The nook with the chessboard was as far as I ever got.
My shadow dances against the wall with each step I take forward.
I pass doorways that look like they haven’t been opened in years, and other long hallways that intersect with this one. I start to wonder if I’m being led into some kind of medieval dungeon.
Light leaks from under the door, and the closer I get, the stronger the savory scent becomes. Music plays—jazz, the kind I sometimes listen to when I paint.
I suck in a deep breath, composing myself, then gently push the door open.
It’s a modern New York–style loft, hidden inside a centuries-old palace.
The floor plan is open and even has exposed beams. Copper pots hang above the oversize stove.
In the middle of the room sits a dark leather couch, facing a gigantic stone fireplace with a TV hanging above it.
Bookshelves are stacked to the high ceilings, full of books that look like they’ve been read and loved several times.
Then I notice the dining table is set for two with candles.
Louis stands at the stove with his back to me, stirring something in a pan. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray T-shirt. The sleeves expose his muscular biceps and forearms. He looks comfortable in a way I’ve never seen him, like he could be anyone in the world.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks, not even taking a glance back.
“Wait, did you hear me walk in? I was as quiet as a mouse,” I say.
“You were,” he admits without turning around. “I could feel you.”
My heart thumps a little harder.
“The lanterns were a nice touch. Very Prince Charming of you,” I say.
“Thought you’d appreciate the drama of it all.” He glances over his shoulder with a half-smile. “Come in. Lock the door.”
With the click of the latch, the entire world outside disappears.
His place is cozy, and I appreciate the exposed brick that lines the long wall.
If I close my eyes, it’s almost like I’m back in my loft in Tribeca.
The furniture is modern but used, and I can imagine him sitting there, shoes off, relaxing.
The wooden floor has large rugs spread across with a funky pattern.
I move farther into the kitchen and notice there are even dirty dishes in the sink. I’m actually shook.
“What is this place?” I ask, stopping beside him, leaning against the counter so I can watch him.
“My secret escape.” He adjusts the flame on the gas stove.
“Oh, am I the first girl you’ve ever brought here?” I ask jokingly.
“Actually, yes.” He smirks, wiping his hands on a rag that’s beside me.
We’re suddenly too close before he reaches past me to pour wine into two glasses.
“Stop. You might make me feel special,” I say, loving that he’s sharing his secrets with me.
“You should.” He hands me a glass.
The moment grows too intense, and I glance away, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Your humble abode reminds me of something I’d see in New York.”
“Funny you say that. My penthouse in the city was identical to this. When I decided to sell my real estate, I hired a designer to re-create the space. My heart is always in Montclaire, but I love New York. Sometimes, when I’m in here, I can imagine I’m back there again.”
I watch his hands move confidently over the ingredients, but I can’t help but notice the sadness in his voice. He reaches for a wooden spoon like he’s done this a thousand times.
“I had no idea you were so … domestic. I’m impressed.”
He looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Really?”
“Kind of, yeah. I mean …” I gesture toward him. “Did you forget who you are?”
“If only I could.”
This is Louis unguarded. He’s letting all of his shields down.
“I enjoy my privacy. And I always thought …” He focuses on the sauce in the pan like he’s considering whether to continue speaking or not.
His eyes come back to mine. “I always thought I’d have a wife whose company I enjoyed, who I could cook for.
Prepare my queen something with my own hands instead of having staff do everything for us. But dreams are just that.”
His words float through the air. I think about the required dates, his obligations, and how he could barely meet my eyes when I asked if he was being forced. It’s a conversation I’d rather avoid because I’m not sure I want to know.
“Are you self-taught? Or did you have a Michelin-starred chef coach you?” I ask.
“This is all me, babe. I’ve watched a lot of YouTube videos. I’ve requested cuts of meat from the kitchen butcher that made him think I’d lost my mind.”
“Like?” I’m intrigued.
“Oxtail. Beef cheeks. Whole fish with the heads still on.” He shrugs. “It’s impossible to learn without trying. I failed until I didn’t.”
He dips a clean spoon into the pan and blows on it before placing it to my lips. “Try it.”
Our eyes meet as I lean forward and taste the gravy.
“I think I just fell in love,” I whisper as the flavors burst in my mouth. It’s savory and salty, and I want more.
“It’s called a demi-glace. Took me four attempts to perfect it. The first time, it was inedible. Second was passable. Third I burned because Delphine barged in, complaining about something insignificant. This is my fourth attempt. The way it should’ve always been.”