Page 79 of Royally Yours
He took a turn I hadn’t noticed when I traveled to his bedroom. The tunnel angled downward and veered right. My small flashlight didn’t cast much of a glow, but with Fitz’s lantern, the collection of tunnels became impossible to miss. Small signs had been carved into wooden tablets at the start of each new offshoot. We passed the one marked ‘stables’ and then another marked ‘ballroom.’ As we took another turn, Fitz turned back and put his finger to his lips, asking for silence without a word. His grip lessened on my wrist, but instead of letting go, he laced our fingers together and slowed his step, careful not to make a sound. We continued that way for at least three minutes, carefully picking out the path without creating noise. He slowed once more as we approached a door. His grip tightened on my hand, like a message that this was the lynchpin, the one place where everything could go wrong. As we approached the sign on the door, it made sense.
King’s Chamber
I had to agree. Waking his parents sounded like the worst idea of all. I held my breath as we put space between us and the ticking parental bomb we were trying to avoid. Once we were in the clear, his pace increased until we finally ended in front of a wooden door.
“A moment, if you please.” He broke his grip in order to press both hands against the door. Exerting force, the hinges gave way, allowing a splinter of light to enter the passageway. Fitz pushed enough that he could fit his head through, much like a gopher looking for any predators before he popped out of a hole. Satisfied, Fitz motioned for me to follow him. We stepped out of the passageway onto the black and white tiles of the kitchen.
I don’t know what I expected, but considering it was supposed to be the palace kitchen, I expected something… better? Exposed brick framed in the walls, while white cabinetry lined the perimeter of the cozy space. One oven, one stove, one sink… and no fish smell.
As if reading my mind, Fitz grinned. “It’s the staff kitchen, not the royal kitchen.”
I nodded slowly, running my finger over the wooden countertop. “And you chose here because?”
“Because the royal kitchen is stuffy and snobbish,” he walked toward me from the opposite direction, deliberate in every step, “and I prefer this. It’s,” Fitz stopped in front of me, but his finger trailed over the top of my hand, tender in every touch, “cozy and warm.”
My skin tingled at his touch, not just the hand where his finger traced the space between freckles like an astronomer mapping the stars, but all of me, as if he knew how to flip the switch just being close to me.
“How about those pancakes?” Did I sound desperate? Like any longer and I wouldn’t know what to do. The line between us had always been clearly identified, a boundary that kept our friendship from going any further. And yet, from the first minute I saw him again, that line had blurred a little more each day until I couldn’t find it anymore.
Stranger still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“I’ll get the flour and eggs.” His fingers trailed from my skin, no part of him saying that this was over. If anything, he found my reaction amusing.
“Milk too, and butter if you can find it.” I glanced around the small kitchen and chewed on the inside of my lip. Fitz pulled open the refrigerator door and started retrieving the supplies I’d listed. “Are we going to get in trouble being in here?”
“You keep forgetting,” he leaned back far enough to see around the door, “I am the Crown Prince.” Fitz’s grin turned into a nervous frown, but it was all for show. “I don’t really get in trouble.”
“See?” I pulled a wooden spoon from the silver jar on the counter. “Entitled. If I was the chef and this was my kitchen, I’d wallop you with a wooden spoon for making a mess.”
The fridge fell shut again, leaving just Fitz with his arms full of supplies. “Is that a promise?”
I groaned. “Fitz…”
“Kidding… kidding.” He set the supplies on the counter. “Bowls are just there, in the cabinet where you’re standing. Flour and sugar, yes?”
“And baking powder, baking soda, and vinegar.”
He nodded, as if taking it all seriously for the first time. After retrieving a bowl, right where he said it would be, I organized what I needed. I went to work first, souring the milk with vinegar to make buttermilk. As it rested, I worked on the rest of the ingredients. Fitz stood by, watching, but ready to help whenever I needed him.
With the dry ingredients measured, I made a well in the center of the bowl and cracked the eggs. One by one they dropped. The buttermilk flooded the well next, joined by oil and melted butter. I glanced up, feeling his stare. Unashamed, he matched my gaze, unwavering.
“What?” I asked, heart pounding in my chest.
Fitz shook it off as if it was nothing. “I like watching you cook. You’ve improved a great deal.”
“I’ve lived on my own for years.” Gripping the bowl, I started mixing the batter. “I couldn’t rely on Mom anymore.”
He broke off his stare, looking away. “I’ve never really lived without my parents as my safety net. I suppose I’m about to learn firsthand what you’ve felt in your father’s absence all these years.”
Words wouldn’t come right away. I knew from personal experience that nothing could improve the pain that came from losing someone you loved that much. “He’s not gone yet, Fitz. There’s still hope.”
“And I keep clinging.” He laughed but not because it was funny. “I feel so ungrateful. At least I’ve had time to say goodbye. That’s more than you ever had. One day he was there, and the next…”
That car accident had stolen him from us, but I didn’t envy Fitz’s position either.
“There’s no easy way to lose someone, Fitz.” I left the batter on the counter to turn and check the griddle he’d set up on the stove. “It’s going to hurt no matter what, but that means that the person you lost was important. And they were loved.”
Silence grew and expanded between us as I prepped the griddle and started pouring the pancakes into grids of small circles. After a minute, Fitz made his way around the counter to lean against the wall near me.