Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
Michel didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much.
In the end, they skipped rock, paper, scissors to the death and decided to share three of their favorite dishes—the chicken under a brick, the tagliatelle with chantarelle mushrooms, and the Dover sole. When he reached over to refill Emma’s chardonnay, she covered the top of her glass with her fingers and shook her head.
“No more for me. I’m a lightweight.” She narrowed her eyes at his skeptical expression. “Just because I enjoy adult beverages doesn’t mean I drink a lot. For me, it’s more about how the flavors meld with the food, adding another layer to the experience.”
“The experience?” He chewed thoughtfully on a morsel of mushroom.
“I think every meal has the potential to be a special experience… a memory,” she explained, building the perfect bite of chicken on her fork—chicken, crispy skin, and a dollop of creamy mashed potato. “I haven’t even told you what I do for a living, have I?”
“No, you haven’t.” Michel blinked in surprise.
The initial awkwardness of the evening had melted away, and the last hour had flown by as they talked and laughed. It felt as though he’d known Emma for a lifetime—their connection solid as a deeply rooted tree—but he actually didn’t know anything about her.
“I’m a culinary instructor.” She smiled as though just thinking about her job made her happy. “I teach people how to cook Korean royal court cuisine.”
Michel choked a little at the words royal court but managed to pass it off as a cough. “That’s fascinating. How did you know that’s what you wanted to do? Did you always know?”
Never having had that choice, he found it intriguing how people decided on a profession—how some are guided by their passion while others stumble into it. Either way, he envied them the process of discovering who they were.
“Huh.” Emma tilted her head to the side and studied him curiously. “That’s not the first thing people usually say when I tell them that.”
“Then what is?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something like, ‘You’re Korean? I love BTS.’” She shrugged. “Or sometimes they tell me their cousin’s friend’s sister’s boyfriend is Korean.”
“Well… that’s strange.” His eyebrows furrowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Right?” She huffed an exasperated breath. “Anyway, I’ve always loved cooking, even as a kid. There’s something reassuring about being able to create something delicious, a slice of happiness, with a little time and effort. And I wanted to teach others to do that for themselves.”
“That’s lovely.” Warmth spread across his chest. “Why did you choose Korean royal court cuisine specifically?”
“Gungjung yori takes a bit more effort than other cuisines, but it’s harmonious and beautiful, not to mention healthful and delicious. I feel like cooking and eating Korean royal court cuisine feeds the soul as well as the body.”
He nodded, unable to look away from the amazing woman. Emma tucked her hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. Damn it. He was staring again.
“Where are you from, Michel?” she asked with a soft smile. “I promise not to play six degrees of separation to one of your countrymen.”
“How did you know I’m not from around here?” he said after a moment to regain his composure. Hearing his name on her lips made his whole body clench with need. “Did my accent give me away?”
“No, the fact that you’re living in a hotel did.” She didn’t have to roll her eyes. It was already implied by her tone. “And that you’re a visiting professor at USC.”
“That’s right.” He leaned forward, remembering his burning question about how she’d found him at USC. “Are you a student at USC? In addition to being a culinary instructor?”
“God, no.” She pretended to shiver with distaste. “I went to UCLA.”
“Sorry. No offense intended.” Playing along, he held up his hands in swift surrender. He knew of the bitter rivalry between the two LA schools. “Then how did you end up in my class?”
“My friend is a graduate student at SC and needed my advice on… something.” She shrugged her shoulder—the one left bare by her asymmetrical dress—drawing his eyes to its smooth curve and the delicate ridge of her collarbones. Her creamy skin caught the light and glimmered like satin. He gripped the stem of his glass tightly to prevent himself from finding out if she felt as soft as she looked.
“Fraternizing with the enemy?” he said a bit hoarsely.
“Does that make you my enemy, too?” Her dimple winked beside the mischievous curve of her lips.
“I’m anything but.” He couldn’t hold back the low invitation in his voice.
Her chest rose with a quick inhalation as a lovely blush blossomed on her cheeks. The air turned dense with awareness, and the space between them crackled with electricity. He grew lightheaded as all his blood rushed south. One word of encouragement from her—one glance—and he would hurl himself across the table for her. Then his lifelong discipline snapped him out of the trance, pulling him back from a place of raw need and breathless want.
“Besides, visiting professors don’t count as enemies,” he said to break the tension.
“Yes… well. Never mind, then.” She flapped her hand as though to clear the air. “So where are you from, Michel?”
“Rouleme,” he said, purring the R in the back of his throat in its proper pronunciation.
Her lips parted, and her eyelashes fluttered. His head tilted to the side. Did he surprise her? After a pause, she whispered, “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“Rouleme,” he repeated. She might not have heard of it. “It’s a small country that borders France and Switzerland.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve never been, but I heard it’s beautiful there.” Emma ran her hand down the side of her neck. “I just never heard it pronounced that way before.”
“What? The correct way?” he teased.
“I guess so.” She laughed, the sound traveling across his skin like a silken caress. “So you really are from another country. I thought maybe you had a permanent position at another college in the US.”
“No, Rouleme is my home.” And it would always be his home. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else even if he wasn’t meant to rule the country in a few short months. Would Emma be able to call Rouleme her home one day, too? He realized with a jolt he desperately wanted the answer to be yes .
“Like you said, it is beautiful there.” He braced his forearms on the table and leaned toward her with his heart pounding. “In the capital, buildings straight out of storybook fairy tales stand amongst modern architectural masterpieces in perfect harmony. And the people… they are open-minded and hardworking, united in their love for Rouleme. It truly is an incredible country. I think you would like it there.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said quietly, then offered him a soft smile. “Maybe I could visit someday.”
“Yes.” His hands were fisted on the table, and he forced them to unclench, not wanting to alarm Emma with his urgency. “Rouleme would love to have you.”
“So…” Her eyes scattered away from his. “How long will you be here?”
“For two more months.” He swallowed past his suddenly dry throat. Only two months to find my true love .
“Will the semester be over by then?” She took a long sip of her wine.
“Not quite. My colleagues—with the help of my TA extraordinaire—will wrap up the term for me.”
“Hmm.” Emma traced the rim of her glass with the tip of her index finger. “Two months, huh?”
“Yes,” he croaked.
Michel didn’t want his time with Emma to end—this fun, intelligent, and beautiful woman who turned a simple meal into an event. This incredible woman who made him laugh and catch fire with desire. Perhaps if they spent more time together, he might discover that she wasn’t the woman of his dreams. This might turn out to be nothing more than a passing fancy…
But in his heart of hearts, he knew there was nothing left for him to discover that would change his mind. This was it. She was it. Emma was his first and last chance at love. And he only had two months to convince her to start a new life with him in Rouleme.
“I want you.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I want to be with you.”
“You only have two months here…” She trailed off as her gaze roamed his face with part conflict and part yearning.
“Even if it’s only for two months, I want to spend my time here with you.” He ran his thumb across her knuckles, stopping himself from telling her he wanted to spend a lifetime with her. It was too soon for that. He didn’t want to scare her away. And there was the small matter of telling her that he was the prince of Rouleme.
“We have nothing in common,” she murmured, staring down at their entwined hands.
“Give me two months to prove you wrong.” He ducked his head to catch her eyes. “I’ll prove to you common upbringing and surface similarities don’t dictate how well two people fit together. I’ll prove to you that you don’t want perfect on paper.”
“I don’t think I’m wrong. I know what I want and what I’m not willing to risk…” She didn’t look away from him. “But if it’s only for two months, maybe it doesn’t matter which one of us is right.”
“Maybe,” he conceded without meaning it. She thought he was proposing a brief interlude, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I should go.” She pulled her hand from his grasp and stood from her seat.
“Of course.” He rose as his stomach plummeted to his feet. This couldn’t be the end. This could not be the end.
Michel saw Sophie’s door close discreetly as he and Emma stepped out to the foyer. Even with a secure floor, his royal guard had to stay alert while he was in the company of a nonfamily member.
As he walked Emma to the elevator, he contemplated begging her to let him see her again. His mind spun in frantic circles, looking for ways to stop this moment from being their last. Merde alors. Emma stepped inside the elevator, and he stood rooted to the floor of the foyer, his lips melded together. Even when she turned to face him, he couldn’t find the right words. He wanted to roar with frustration. Or prostrate himself at her feet and stop the elevator doors from closing with his body.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said.
He lurched forward as though someone pushed him from behind. “When? How soon?”
“I’ll text you.” A faint smile touched her lips just as the door closed.
With his back against a wall by the elevator, he sagged to the floor. He stretched a leg out and rested his arm on his folded knee. A chuckle rose from his throat, quaking his shoulders. He shook his head, pressing a loose fist against his forehead. When the top half of Sophie’s body materialized from behind her door, he lowered his fist to his lips to curb his laughter.
“Is everything all right?” she asked dutifully even as she leveled him with a stare that said he was a git.
“Everything is fine.” Another huff of laughter spilled out of him. “Against all odds, I’ve managed not to mess this up.”
“Congratulations, my prince.” The rest of her made an appearance as she leaned against the doorjamb, crossing her arms. “So when is your next date?”
“I don’t know yet.” He pursed his lips. “She said she’ll text me.”
“Sounds like you still have a chance to mess this up.” Sophie pushed off the door with an exasperated sigh. “Maybe you should read her file to learn more about her. It sounds like you need all the help you can get.”
“Her background check was about giving you peace of mind.” He stood up from the floor. “I have no wish to learn about her through a report. But I plan to learn every detail about Emma from the woman herself.”
I plan to learn every inch of her body so I can map out her pleasure. I plan to learn all about her hopes and dreams to help them come true. I plan to learn her fears and regrets to help assuage them. I plan to learn her past hurts to help her heal—and possibly to pummel anyone who had hurt her. I plan to spend a lifetime learning everything about her so I’ll know every way to make her happy.
“I don’t know,” she said solemnly. “I think you should learn about her porcelain clown collection before it’s too late.”
With an undignified snort, he turned his back on her and ambled toward his suite. If he was honest with himself, even a porcelain clown collection wouldn’t be a deal-breaker. The thought was rather alarming… and kind of wonderful.
“Good night, Sophie.” Michel waved over his shoulder, not bothering to look back. “And you’re sorely mistaken if you think a collection of creepy clown figurines is going to keep me away from Emma Yoon.”