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Chapter Eleven
“Under the light of awareness, the energy of irritation can be transformed into an energy which nourishes.”
—Thich Nhat Hanh
Jameson had been so angry after he’d come home last night to find his kitchen ruined. It was like some twisted version of the rock star stereotype. Instead of destroying hotel rooms with sex, drugs, and alcohol, she’d decimated his kitchen with flour, baked goods, and attitude.
But it hadn’t taken him long to recognize he’d acted like a prick. Sure, she’d made a mess, but he didn’t have to respond the way he had. So, he’d gone back to apologize... and had gotten more than he’d bargained for. His anger hadn’t diminished his attraction to her. If anything, the encounter took his feelings a layer deeper, because he’d gotten to know a little more about her. As a person and not just a performer.
When he’d come downstairs that morning to find Margery making his breakfast, he wouldn’t have been able to tell a baking holy war had broken out the night before if he hadn’t been there to witness it. His kitchen was spotless. The countertops gleamed,the floor and walls were clear, and there were no dishes in the sink.
There was a brisk knock on his partially opened office door and Rhys stuck his head in.
“Heading to a meeting, but checking to make sure you’re still coming to the faculty party tonight?”
Jameson frowned. “The faculty party?”
Rhys’s brows rose in surprise. “Yes. It’s been on the calendar for a month.”
“Right.” Jameson massaged his brow and nodded. “Sure.”
“That was convincing.” Rhys stepped in the office. “How’s your houseguest settling in?”
“Making herself at home,” he said, regaling Rhys with an account of the night before.
Rhys laughed. “I would’ve given my left sac to see your face when you walked in. Nix that. I wouldn’t. But I bet it was hilarious.”
“I can assure you, at the time, it wasn’t.”
Rhys scratched his cheek. “Destroying your kitchen was unexpected, but she was bound to do something after the way you greeted her. You told her to call you Your Royal Highness.”
Jameson winced. It sounded even worse than he remembered. He wished he hadn’t felt the burning need to share their initial interaction with his friend.
“I thought you had a meeting to attend?”
“They can start without me. I’m sure you’re not following the coverage—”
“That would be the correct assumption—”
“—but your family has been getting a lot of praise for inviting Duchess to perform. They’re marveling at the queen’s inclusion and the notion that the royal family may be catching up with modern times.” Rhys eased into a chair.
Bullshit.
“What’s funny is that none of you had any idea what you were doing.”
Jameson shook his head. “That can never come out. Do you understand?”
Rhys straightened. “Whoa! Mate! I know. I would never. You know that, right?”
Jameson did know. Now. But in the beginning, he’d kept Rhys at a distance as he’d learned to do with everyone else in his life. He’d subjected the other man to all the usual loyalty tests, and Rhys had never let him down.
One night, over a pint, Rhys had turned to him and said, “Enough. I don’t want to hear any more about your secret skill making your stomach do weird belly rolls or that the toes on your left foot are webbed. Whether it’s true or false, I’m not going to the press. I want to be your friend, but I’m not going to stick around and be bloody tested all the time!”
And that had been that.
Jameson nodded and Rhys relaxed, tension easing from his body. His brown eyes lit with interest. “What’s she like?”
“That wasn’t in the coverage?”
