Chapter Thirteen
The moment it gets to a reasonable hour, Ileave my fucking phone in my room,Iris and Kris can get their own breakfasts, and fly out of bed. Quick minor styling, a hoodie, then I race down to the kitchen.
Renee and her staff already have a buffet spread across a side table. At—I check a clock in the corner—six thirty in the morning.
Reasonable-ishhour.
Shit. Will he even be awake yet?
I start loading up a tray, grabbing one of everything because I have no idea what he likes. Pancakes. Waffles. Bacon. Eggs. Fruit. Coffee. Sausages? No, my self-control can only go so far, I cannot sit there watching him eat sausages—
“Hungry this morning, Prince Nicholas?”
I jump and damn near knock over the tower of bacon I have mounded on my tray.
Next to me, Renee’s sous chef Lacie is adding a platter of sliced melon to the buffet. She looks at my tray, then me, with a curious glint.
“Starving. It’s not all for me. But yes, very hungry. It’s for Iris too. And Kris.”
Lacie’s eyes narrow, that glint growing into a full-fledged spark. She glances over her shoulder at Renee, who is already crossing to us, extending a box and a little pot with steam creeping out the neck.
“Hot water and tea.” Renee wedges both items onto the tray.
“Tea?”
She holds my gaze. “Trust me.” Then she and Lacie go back to work.
All right. Sure. Can’t hurt.
The early hour means the halls are mostly empty, a few staff up and heading off on errands. It makes it easy to avoid passing anyone who might ask questions, and then I’m back in front of Hex’s door.If a reporter had caught me outside Iris’s door with breakfast, it would’ve at least played into Dad’s lie, but this?
I knock quickly.
My heart is all hasty thundering and I survey the haul I grabbed.
This is… a lot of food.
The door opens after a few seconds, which likely means I didn’t wake him up.
I’d seen him disheveled last night. Because of me. But he’s wearing a sleeveless gray robe now, hastily thrown on so the sash isn’t knotted, the hood up, and it hangs open to show a V-cut white tank beneath, black pajama pants and his bare feet on the carpet.
It’s more skin than he’s shown yet.
So I stand there gawking and I don’t care at all if a reporter might see us becauseholy fuck he’s stupid hotand that is absolutely headline worthy.
“Coal.” He tips his head, catching my eyes, because I was staring at his arms. The swell of his bicep.
“Sorry.” No, I’m not; has he seen himself? I lift the tray. “Breakfast?”
He blushes and pulls open the door to usher me in, his eyes on mine the whole time I cross the threshold.
I set the tray on the nearest table, one next to the couch, and he shuts the door and we stand there like fools, grinning at each other.
“I, um,” I twist to the tray, “I didn’t know what you liked. So I got everything.”
He moves. Closing the distance. Stepping up beside me.
And laughs. “You are not exaggerating.”
