“Your brother isn’t here yet. And your papa wants to see you before we leave.”
Despite some initial reluctance because of how uncommon the practice of trick-or-treating is in this part of the world, Lukas had eventually relented after seeing how exited the children were about the prospect. They’re to stay inside the palace, though, and Veronika’s been busy over the past few days making sure everyone has little treats on hand to share with the prince and princess when they come knocking. I actually think the palace staff are starting to get just as excited about the novelty of the occasion as the children are.
A moment later, Prince Tomas rushes down the stairs dressed as Harry Potter, complete with a Gryffindor scarf around his neck, a wand in his hand, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. The only glaring difference between the prince and everyone’s favorite boy wizard is Tomas’s dirty blond hair.
I decide not to pull the same act with Tomas as I did with Katya because he’s eleven and won’t appreciate it the way his sister did. “Wow, Your Highness, you look fantastic! Just like Harry!”
Tomas frowns. “It would look better if I had black hair like Harry does, but papa said I wasn’t allowed to dye it.”
“I think that’s a wise decision,” I say. “I dyed my hair once and it didn’t go well. And it took forever for it to grow out.”
“What color was it?” Katya asks.
“Well, I wanted it to be blond, but it came out green.”
I hear a rumbling chuckle coming from the doorway of the living room and turn to see Lukas has arrived to catch the last snippet of the conversation.
“I hope you have pictures,” he says, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“They’ve all been burned.”
I’m surprised when Lukas decides to come trick-or-treating with us, as are pretty much all the palace staff we come across. But it turns out to be a good thing, because by the time we’ve finished traipsing all over the palace—including the section at the opposite end that houses the Parliament chambers and other government offices—Katya is dead on her feet and needs to be carried back to the residential suites. The image of Lukas holding his sleeping daughter in his arms makes me just want to melt. Pretty sure I vaguely resemble that emoji with the heart eyes right about now.
A week into this ‘just friends’ arrangement with Lukas, I am seriously doubting the wisdom of my suggestion. Him constantly ignoring and avoiding me was frustrating, but now that we’re in close proximity on a regular basis? Let’s just say my balls have never been bluer.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying getting to know him better, and I love spending time with him just sharing a glass of wine in the evenings, or playing a game of Scrabble, or helping him in his garage—and by helping I mean standing there staring at his ass while he works on his cars—but doing all that while not being able to touch him is pure torture. And compensating with my hand will only get me so far…
“Why are you cooking?” Owen asks. I have his FaceTime call set up on my tablet so I can talk to him while I’m busy making papanasi as a treat for the children. “You only cook when you’re mad or upset.”
Or frustrated…
“I’m making a treat for the prince and princess,” I tell him, not wanting to go into detail about why I felt the urge to let off some steam in the kitchen. “Papanasi.”
“What’s that again?”
“They’re Romanian fried donuts with cheese inside.”
“Wow, sounds healthy.”
I shrug. “That’s why it’s a treat. And I’m allowed to spoil them with shit, I’m not their father.”
“Speaking of their father…I heard you danced with him at some big party.”
My head snaps up. “That made it to the States?”
Owen nods. “Yup. Is there something going on between you guys?”
I return to my task of kneading the papanasi dough. Even if Lukas and I had crossed over to that next stage, I don’t think I’d be able to tell Owen about it because of the NDA I signed when I started working here. I decide to go with a version of the truth. “We’re friends.”
“You’re friends?” he asks skeptically. “With the king?”
“Yep. We play Scrabble together.”
“Scrabble?” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Is that some kind of euphemism.”
I glance up from my task of dividing out the dough so I can glare at him. ““No, asshole. We literally play Scrabble. He’s not very good.”
“By your standards, maybe. Not everyone’s a walking dictionary, man.”
We move on from the topic of Lukas, and Owen tells me more about the house he and his boyfriend have just moved into. It’s a brownstone in Greenwich Village, not far from the apartment Owen and I used to share, apparently. And from the way he’s talking about it and the pictures I’ve seen, it sounds absolutely amazing.
“I’ll have to come for a visit so I can see it for myself,” I tell him.
“There’s a guest room all set up for you when you do.”
“I didn’t realize you were such an accomplished chef,” Lukas says, biting into one of the freshly cooked papanasi, which, by popular demand, have become a bit of a regular thing since I first made them about a week ago.
“You’re not supposed to eat them like that,” I chide. “You should wait until I put the toppings on.”
It’s just the two of us in the kitchen right now. The prince and princess have gone to bed and Lukas and I have Scrabble plans. I made the smart decision to save back a few papanasi when I was making them earlier so the kids wouldn’t hog them all, and I’ve just finished cooking them.
“They’re delicious either way,” he says, holding one out to me.
I take it and pop it into
