Chapter 16Amelia
Chapter 16
Amelia
What began as a quiet royal absence has erupted into nothing short of a nationwide obsession! The hashtag #WhereIsPrincessAmelia began trending across social media platforms yesterday after Villadorata University students held an impromptu sit-in outside the palace gates.
"If our princess can find inner peace, so can we," declared organizer Selena Dupont, while posing cross-legged among two hundred similarly positioned students.
The playful protest quickly turned into something more significant when participants began sharing theories about the princess's actual whereabouts.
And now the palace gift shop reports that Princess Amelia memorabilia has sold out completely, with her infamous "Rule-Breaking Princess" coffee mugs fetching triple their value online, particularly the one featuring a cartoon of her climbing a tree with a group of foreign dignitaries.
Your faithful royal correspondent has been hot on her tail.
Several alleged "sightings" have sparked wild goose chases across Europe since the report of her dash onto a train in Tleurbonne well over a week ago. A barista in Vienna claimed the princess ordered a mocha coffee from her only last week, and a bookshop owner in Monaco insisted she purchased an armful of romance novels while wearing dark sunglasses. But quite possibly the most bizarre of claims comes from a farmer in rural Malveaux who reported seeing the princess fascinated by a chicken, as though she'd never seen one before.
All of this leads this royal correspondent to the conclusion that Princess Amelia is most certainly not currently sitting cross legged on the side of a mountain, having enjoyed a vindaloo and some poppadom for her lunch.
The royal press office’s official line is that "Her Royal Highness remains on her spiritual retreat and appreciates privacy during this time of reflection."
Well, this royal reporter does not believe it for one second and I make you this promise, good people of Ledonia. I will find the truth, one way or another.
You have my word on that.
Your steadfast and loyal correspondent on all things royal,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#WhereIsPrincessAmelia
#MeditationOrCoverUp
#AmeliaOnTheLoose
Mummy always said, a princess's duty is to be what people need her to be , and right now I need to be a café worker at this rather divine pink café. I will readily admit that I'm not very good at it, but you can hardly blame me. I've never made coffee before, let alone dealt with money and credit card machines, and I’ve certainly never served people before.
But despite my total lack of experience and expertise, I find I rather enjoy being a worker in this pretty café. There's so much to do. So much variety. I've folded napkins and wiped down tables and delivered delicious looking slices of pie and pastries and muffins to the patrons. No one has quite let me get near the coffee machine after I gave myself a milk shower with it last week, but I'm hopeful I’ll get to try it once more. After all, a girl has to learn, and what better way than on the job?
There's something rather marvelous about working as a team. The patrons are all absolutely lovely, always with a ready smile and time to chat about inconsequential things. Pierre is extremely attentive and helpful, even if I do catch him watching me a little too closely at times. I suppose he's just concerned I'm going to mess things up, just like Maverick is, too. Not that I blame them. But really, how am I meant to know that a cold brew isn't just coffee stored in the fridge? It's logical, isn't it? You make the coffee and then you cool it down, hence the name cold brew. But apparently, I got that one completely wrong.
What’s more, not being recognized by anyone in this town, except possibly Giovanna Fiorelli—although I’ve heard nothing more on that front—has been an absolute revelation. Here I’m not Princess Amelia, having to adhere to the rules that go with the title. Here I’m simply Amy, a café worker who's striving hard to get better at what she does, and enjoying every moment of it.
We have a roster for after-hours clean up, and it’s my turn this evening now that the café is closed. Maverick is out on his date with Giovanna Fiorelli, and Pierre has rugby practice.
As you might imagine, I've never cleaned anything in my life—other than myself, of course, and occasionally I've mucked in with the horses in the palace stables. But I can't imagine cleaning a café bears much resemblance to wielding a pitchfork and shovel. No horse manure for a start. Or at least one would hope not.
Francine gave me some clear instructions on what she expects before she left, so I've turned all the chairs upside down and placed them on the tables, and now I’m trying to work out how to use a mop and bucket. I mean, I get that I need to dip the mop-y end of the mop in the bucket. That much seems logical. But there’s this weird set of rollers at the top of the bucket that I've got no clue how to use. So, I've avoided them altogether as I’ve dopped the mop and sloshed it on the tiled floor, sending soapy water flying.
I suppose that's just part of the deal. You cover the floor with soapy water and then somehow soak it up. But how do you do that with a completely sodden mop? And a mop, I might add, that looks considerably grubbier than the floor I'm trying to clean with it.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket of my apron and google, “how to use a mop and bucket to clean a floor.” I learn that I need to mop in sections systematically
I get to work. By the time I've dipped the raggedy old mop in the bucket a few times there's a rather large, soapy puddle forming on the floor.
I consult my phone once more. It tells me the wet floor will dry overtime. I twist my mouth as I regard the puddle. Maybe I should use a hair dryer? Surely that would work? But I can't imagine there's a hair dryer here at the café.
Perhaps I could use some tea towels? There are plenty of those in the kitchen.
Resolving that tea towels will do the trick, I then find a clean bundle in one of the kitchen cupboards. Carefully, I lay them down over the soapy puddle, forming a kind of tea towel patchwork quilt.
I stand back and look at my handiwork. It’s rather pretty, if I dare say so myself, adding colors other than pink to the space. I'm sure Maverick would be relieved. He thinks this place is far too pink for his liking.
I can't help but laugh to myself as I think of him in the pink frilly apron that's part of the café uniform. He's so big and masculine, his bulk completely at odds with the apron’s femininity.
But thinking of how funny Maverick looks isn't going to help me get this floor cleaned. I need to refocus on the task at hand. The puddle is now completely covered in tea towels. All I have to do now is scoop them up before I move on to the next section.
I set about the task, discovering as I do that every tea towel is now soaked through, and as I pick them up, they begin to drip down my arms and back onto the floor.
Disaster! How on earth do people do this?
I glance around wildly for a place to put the dripping towels, and in the end decide to stuff them behind a large pot plant and hope that they dry by the morning. It's a warm enough evening. They should dry out in no time, I'm sure. Not that I have any clue how long it takes a tea towel to dry.
Princess, remember?
With one patch of floor now mopped, I move to the next section. I chew on my lip. This isn't as easy as I thought it would be. How I wish I had spoken with Theresa at the palace before I left about how to do this sort of thing. She’s a regular person, and very practical to boot. She’d know how to do something as simple as mopping a floor.
My fingers itch to message her. But I know I can't. I'm meant to be in India right now, silently contemplating my life choices. Not mopping a café floor only a thousand or so miles from the palace in Villadorata.
I know what I need. Music. I haven't listened to any music since I left the palace. Music will make the chore all that less cumbersome.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and search up a playlist. The top one on my list is a “mixed tape” I made for Greg and me to listen to together. Full of soppy romantic songs, I delete it quick smart.
I don't need the reminder.
But I can use Greg as the inspiration to my soundtrack for the task.
I smile as I search for Bad Guy , and as Billie Eilish begins to croon, I dedicate the song to Greg and his scheming ways. I think of a waltz I danced not that long ago at a palace ball. Of course it was classical music, but it had the same beat.
I sway gently to the music, holding the handle of the mop in my hands. Then my feet find the rhythm of the waltz, and I'm transported back to that ballroom, my mop a considerable improvement on those dreary, weak-chinned, self-absorbed aristocrats my parents insist on making me dance with.
I would take this mop over them any day of the week, thank you very much.
As it gets to the musical break, I spin around the mop throwing a hand out to the side, really hamming it up. It feels good to dance. Great, in fact. As I move, I push every feeling I ever had for Bad Guy Greg from my heart and from my mind, stepping one-two-three, one-two-three, picturing myself dancing in the ballroom, decked out in my Ledonian red dress.
To my surprise, I begin to feel a little misty eyed over my royal life. Odd, I know, but it's not like I hate everything about being a princess. I love my family, and the charity work I do. I even quite enjoy the grand events at times, but really only because I get to see Maddie, who regales me with stories of life in Texas before she became Queen.
I close my eyes and imagine my mop is a dashing man, someone who elicits so much sizzle in me I'm at risk of spontaneous combustion. My dream man. Tall with broad shoulders and kind eyes, the type you can get lost in. A man with strong arms with which to hold me, holding me against him as we step around the dance floor in our rhythmic waltz. A man who appreciates my zest for life. A man who understands what it's like to be me, both the highs and the lows. A man who understands who I am and fully accepts me, despite knowing the position I hold in the world.
A man who gets me.
And then a face pops into my mind, a face so clear it can only be one person.
Maverick.
I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes pinging open as my heart rate leaps.
Maverick? I'm fantasizing about dancing with Maverick ?
And not just fantasizing about dancing with him—fantasizing about having a grand love affair with him, too? About him being my dream man?
I stare straight ahead, rolling through everything I’ve felt for him since the day we met. Initially, I was struck by how determined he looked, plodding across the shop toward me. Then, I noticed how imposing he was, with a handsome face and the kind of deep blue eyes that hint at hidden depths.
Then there’s Maverick on the train. How kind he was to me in helping me with my suitcase, and how we chatted so freely as the train whisked us through the countryside.
Then I think of the impromptu picnic we had on our first evening here, how easy it was to talk to him, how I felt like I could be myself. Of course I couldn't be entirely honest with him about who I am and the life I lead, but that notwithstanding, I began to feel a closeness to him I didn't expect.
And how could I forget bare-chested Maverick when he rescued me from the tree? Don’t think I didn’t notice how well put together he is. Seriously, no man should look that good with his shirt off. He’s all tanned abs and broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist.
And since then, we've been working together here at the café, and he's been nothing but helpful. Kind. Attentive. Always there for me through my various disasters, never judging, rather letting me mess up so I can learn.
And tonight, he’s out to dinner with Giovanna Fiorelli.
My stomach twists with something unpleasant as I think of him with her, sharing a meal overlooking the lake, with romance in the air—and no doubt her dress a size too small.
It shouldn’t matter to me if he goes on a date with her, or anyone else, but the heat creeping up my neck begs to differ.
Do I have feelings for Maverick? Romantic feelings? Feelings that mean I want him to be more than just my housemate, my coworker, my friend?
Could Maverick be my grand love affair?
The thought has me sucking in air.
Don't get me wrong, I like being around him, and he’s more than easy on the eye. I could easily have a fling with a man like Maverick before I head back to the palace. Something fun with no strings.
But I don't want a fling. Not with him, not with anyone.
I want something so much deeper than just those sizzling feelings you get when you really fancy someone. As wonderful as those feelings are, I want more. I want to fall in love. I want to know how it feels.
I look at Alex with Maddie and Sofia with Marco and I want what they have. The way I catch them sharing little looks, smiling their secret smiles at one another. It's like they belong to an exclusive club of two, blissfully happy to be together in their little love bubbles for two.
Could Maverick be that man for me?
I swallow, my throat suddenly hot.
I've seen the way he looks at me when he doesn’t know I am. I'm not blind. I know he's jealous when Pierre helps me do things in the café, and I saw the way his eyes rested on my lips that morning in the bookshop.
But does he feel something more than mere attraction to me? Because attraction can evaporate just as quickly as it forms, and I want more than just that.
Do I want more than attraction with Maverick?
And if I do, would he want that with me, too?
I shake my head, doing my best to push the image of Maverick from my mind. I let the music wash over me and I return to my waltz, refusing to picture anyone but my mop—making it rather less romantic, but certainly less frightening as well.
As I turn with a flourish, I notice a figure in the doorway.
I catch my breath. Someone’s here! And not just anyone, either.
Maverick, the man I've been fantasizing about as my dance partner—and possibly more—is here, and what's worse, he's seen me dancing.
With a mop.
“I thought you'd gone on your date,” I say a little too brightly, pasting on a smile that I hope says that dancing with mops is perfectly normal behavior and that him going on a date with Giovanna is totally fine with me.
Which it’s not.
Obviously.
“All done,” he replies, brushing his date with Giovanna away with two simple words. He holds up a brown paper bag. “I got you some Chinese. There's a place around the corner, right next to a pub that’s running a quiz night I thought we could go to later in the week. But it looks like you were … kinda busy?” His lips lift into a smirk.
My heart thuds.
He saw me dancing.
I turn away and pretend to be focused on mopping the floor, my cheeks flaming.
One second I'm fantasizing about dancing with him and wondering if he feels something for me that’s more substantial than just the sizzle, and the next he's here?
Talk about humiliating.
“Oh, I was just trying different techniques for mopping the floor.” And trying desperately to not feel jealous that the man I think I have feelings for was on a date with a sexy woman.
“Different techniques? Is that what you're calling it? ‘Cos tell me if I’m wrong, but it looked to me like you were dancing.”
I risk glancing at him only to see that his smirk has now turned into a full grin.
“I was just being silly. It helps to pass the time when you're cleaning. That's what I always find.”
I neglect to mention that this is the first time I've ever cleaned in my life.
“I would say when it came to dance technique, Mr. Mop wins, hands down,” he says.
“Is that so? I'd like to see you do better.”
“You'd like to see me do better dancing with a mop?”
“I would.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It's a waltz off, if you will.”
He shakes his head. “That's not a thing.”
“Maverick, are you telling me that you’re a fraidy-pants?”
He laughs. “A fraidy-pants? How old are you?”
“You know precisely how old I am.” I waggle the mop at him, soapy water flicking around the room once more.
“Hey! You’re getting that on me,” he complains, wiping his shirt with his hand.
He places our dinner on the counter, and as he takes the mop from me, his fingers lightly brush against mine. It sends a shot of electricity right up my arm and down into the pit of my belly.
Sizzle. Big time.
Oh, I am in troooouuuble.
“Maverick, meet Mr. Mop,” I say lightly.
“How's it going, Mr. Mop?” he says, and it makes me smile the way he so easily plays along.
“What music would you like?” I pretend to concentrate on my phone, all the while trying to get my heart rate back to normal while simultaneously ignoring the electricity currently sizzling through my veins.
It’s not going well.
“Probably not this,” he replies.
“Why ever not? Are you saying you’re not a tough guy?”
He lets out a chortle. “Definitely not a tough guy. That's more my brother’s domain. Play me something else. Something a little less intense than this.”
“I know just the song.” I find the Dua Lipa song, Levitating , and press play. Instantly, the song’s catchy beat fills the café.
Maverick raises a brow. “This is a whole lot faster than the last song.”
“Challenge accepted?” I grin at him, thoroughly enjoying our repartee.
“I warn you, I’m a horrible dancer,” he says.
“Are you trying to get out of this challenge?”
“Nope. Just warning you.”
I wait for him to start dancing, but all he does is stand there, holding the mop, looking probably as ridiculous as I did a moment ago. “Well? What are you waiting for? An audience to applaud?”
“Definitely not an audience.” He takes a breath, holding on to the mop with one hand, and then he begins to move, but it's certainly not a waltz or any other dance I recognize. It's more like he's caught in an earthquake, jiggling around with the occasional pronounced movement thrown in for good measure.
I press my lips together to stop from laughing, but it’s no use. A giggle escapes, my hand instantly flying to my mouth.
He stops in his tracks. “I told you I was a horrible dancer.”
“You’re just sort of ... jiggling.”
He puts his hands up in the surrender sign, the mop handle balanced against one of his shoulders. “I've not got any clue how to do the kind of dancing you were doing.”
“Don't you attend balls back home in America?”
“You mean like Prom? That was a few years ago for me, and we sure didn't do any waltzing.”
“Why not?”
“’Cos this isn't the 19th century?”
“Everyone should know how to waltz, at the very least.”
“Is that so?” His eyes are dancing.
At least one part of his anatomy can do it.
“Let me show you.” I reach for the mop only for Maverick to take my hand in his. The touch of his flesh against mine has exactly the same effect it had on me earlier when our fingers brushed, and my breath catches in my throat.
Maverick shoots me a puzzled look. “Did you …? Were you …? Did you wanna dance with the mop?” he asks, clearly embarrassed, and struggling to find the right words—but I notice he hasn't let go of my hand.
I make a snap decision. After all, I've escaped the palace to have a grand adventure. I’m going to be brave. Although I never expected to feel anything for Maverick, despite his obvious masculine appeal, I now have a case of fireworks going off in my chest.
As our eyes lock, I know the last thing I want to do is dance with a mop.
“I'm certain you would be offended if I chose a mop over you. So, would you care to dance with me, Maverick?” I ask.
He slots the mop into the bucket and pushes it away with his foot. “You’ll have to show me what to do.”
“It would be my pleasure,” I respond, more than happy that I can finally show him something I know how to do that he doesn't. “Place your left hand on my upper back, just below my shoulder," I instruct, trying to sound authoritative despite the fact I know exactly how it feels to be touched by this man.
His hand settles lightly on the T-shirt covering my back and heat spreads from his fingers.
I clear my throat. “Now take my outstretched hand in yours.” I place my own hand on his shoulder and hold out my other.
“Like this?” he asks, taking my hand in his.
We're now a mere handful of inches apart, and I can't help but breathe in his woodsy, citrusy scent, the skin of his hand soft and warm against mine.
“Now what?” he asks, and I crane my neck to look up at this large hulk of a man for whom I have sudden feelings I don’t know quite what to do with.
Well, other than the obvious. But I can’t kiss him. I simply can't! The mere thought has heat rising in my cheeks once more.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Of course I am.” It comes out a little snappier than I intended, so I soften my voice and add, “Now, we move. It's just three counts. One-two-three, one-two-three. You move forward with your left foot first, and I move back.”
We begin to move, awkwardly at first, his height making him decidedly gangly. But after a few steps and clear instruction from me, we fall into a rhythm.
“See? You’re getting it,” I say a moment too soon as he steps on my foot, making me wince.
“I’m so sorry, Amy! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. My brother stood on my feet more than once when we were learning to dance. Ready to try again?”
“As long as you’re comfortable with potentially losing a limb.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Maverick’s brow furrows in concentration, those impossibly blue eyes of his focused entirely on me as if I'm explaining nuclear physics, rather than a simple waltz.
But after a couple more missteps he begins to get into the rhythm, and we move around the floor between the tables as Dua Lipa and DaBaby’s music fills the air.
“Not bad for someone who moments ago thought dancing was just jiggling on the spot,” I tease.
“I did not jiggle,” he protests.
“If you say so,” I reply, and we share a smile.
The frenetic song ends, morphing into the artist’s slower, more romantic Anything for Love , and suddenly standing so close to Maverick, alone in the middle of an empty café, feels intense. Far too intense.
I pull away, working to regain my composure. “And that's how to waltz,” I say as lightly as I can manage.
“I think I got it. Like, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.” He takes the steps, holding his hands in place, dancing with an invisible partner.
“Well done.”
As I watch him move, I wonder if he felt it, too, this thing that seems to have come from out of the blue, hitting me like a jolt of electricity.
Surely something so strong must be reciprocated.
But then I think of how, up until this evening, he was just Maverick to me, my new friend, my housemate and fellow café worker. Nothing more than that.
Now? Now he’s morphed into an object of desire, someone it would seem I fantasize about as I’m dancing around with a mop.
I blow out a breath.
“How did your date go with Giovanna Fiorelli?” I ask as jealousy squirms in my belly.
He stops dancing and turns to me. “We’ve agreed to be friends.”
The rush of relief brings unexpected tears to my eyes. “Friends?” I reply, aiming for casual indifference, and knowing my face is probably giving me away.
“Friends,” he echoes, his eyes soft, and I’m hit with my feelings for him with full force, right in my chest. He takes a few more dance steps and smiles at me. “So? What do you think?”
I think I’ve got a big, fat crush on you that will mean I’ll spend my entire time thinking about what it would be like to kiss you while you’re blissfully unaware.
I lift my lips into a brave smile, doing my best to push these new-found feelings I have for him down until they’re flattened into nothing more than a paper-thin reminder on the café floor. “You’re a total natural, Mav. A total natural.”