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“Alex, wait.” She caught up with him as he placed his hand on the door knob. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”
“I believe that’s my line.” He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
They stood at the door, staring at each other. Jan chewed at the inside of her lip, unsure what more to say. Alex peered down at her in the darkness, trying to see things she showed to no one.
“Is it my word you don’t want?” he asked. “Or the business opportunity you don’t want? Are you really content to stay here for the rest of your life making cherry pies? I know you. It’s not what you’re meant for.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m meant for.”
“It’s not a mediocre life with no spice.”
She had no rebuttal to that. Prince Charming was offering her, an insignificant pastry chef, the opportunity to cook the way she wanted, in a new place, with a new flavor profile, for a clientele that liked the new and exotic. Why wasn’t she even considering it as a possibility?
“I have an investor interested,” he said. “That’s how serious I am. Just let me bring him by tomorrow.”
“An investor? But you’re rich.”
His grimace touched his eyes, and he winced. “I want to do this the right way. I don’t want to rely on my family, my name, my connections, or those bank accounts. I want to do this as me, as Alex, not as the Prince of Cordoba.”
There was so much earnestness in his eyes. Jan understood that. No one back home saw her as anything but Chris’s ex. Poor Jan who was left at the altar. Poor Jan who wasn’t someone’s first choice. But Alex had said she was his only choice.
“Why me?” she asked.
“Though you’re as brittle as plastic,” he said, his grin returning, “we work well together. You get my vision. You’re a beast with a baster. A rebel with a rolling pin.”
Now she winced at the memory of nearly knocking him unconscious.
“Just meet with the investor tomorrow? I’ll bring him by the shop for lunch.”
Jan swallowed. She was unafraid to take a risk in the kitchen on a daily basis. It had been a long time since she’d taken one personally.
“What should I cook?”
Alex brought her into a hug. He squeezed her so tightly her nose mashed into his neck. And there it was again; the smell of cherries and peppercorn.
“I’m so happy I could kiss you,” he said pulling away.
He gazed down at her as though he were about to. His sweet and spicy scent was clouding her judgment so much at the moment, Jan thought she would let him. It took a flash from outside the shop’s window to jerk them apart.
Chapter Seven
“So, the plan I have is to start the flagship restaurant in Cordoba on the high street.” Alex indicated in the digital presentation he’d had made for him before his flight across the Atlantic. “We’ll get the wealthy elite on the inside of the establishment in the evenings. Since we’re on the high street, we’ll get a lot of tourist traffic. Later in the year, I’m very interested in launching a series of food trucks for more affordable fare for families, the working class, and the young adults.”
Alex had had the best meals on the streets of Bangkok and Istanbul and, of course, New York City where they all currently were. Some of the most innovative chefs had no degrees. They measured by pinches and eyeballing, not cups and scales. Their kitchens were only as big as his bathtub in the palace.
He’d also dined at some of the most elite restaurants in the world where a single bite of food might set the diner back a commoner’s weekly wages. Alex was living proof that the two worlds could exist in the same place and on the same palette.
“Cordoba has a history of blended cultures,” he continued. “The menu and the flavor profile will reflect that.”
“And the name?” asked Gordon Rogers. The man leaned forward, eyes shining with excitement.
Alex smiled sheepishly. Though he wasn’t embarrassed. The smile was for effect. He may not want to use his family’s fortune, but he was savvy enough to know he needed to leverage his family name.
“The Prince’s Palate.”
“How clever,” said Phoebe Morgan. The real estate developer who only dealt with million dollar listings leaned back in the high-back chair and crossed legs covered in a bold red, high power suit. “I’m sure many women would line up to taste what has touched your lips.”
She didn’t have the decency to blush at her innuendo. Why would she? Power made not only men but also women heady with machismo. Alex had met her type many times before. Powerful women in leadership, those who had clawed their way to the top with no connections and had no qualms against putting their expensive heels in the chest of the next man. He’d had his fair share of the nouveau riche and long ago lost his taste for it.
