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EMILE
“Emile!”
Kate’s shout startled him from his book, and he felt a shot of anxiety run through him. He knew what that tone meant. He hadn’t expected to hear it this side of the Atlantic.
He cautiously popped his head out of his bedroom to see Kate stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, a stern expression on her face.
“Something wrong?” He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
“I think you know the answer to that one.”
He cringed at her words. The two of them had been getting on well over the past couple of weeks. He was just starting to get into the swing of things at the cafe. Yesterday, he’d only messed up two people’s orders, which was a vast improvement on his first day where almost nobody got what they’d wanted.
He’d even managed to keep the flirty comments to himself, for the most part. He knew that Kate wanted to keep things strictly professional and he could understand why, even though he was practically jerking himself raw thinking about her when she wasn’t around to keep that impulse under control.
“What’s up?”
Kate simply gestured around the kitchen. “This is what’s up! This place is a total pigsty, thanks to you! Do you ever pick up anything?”
“I…” He didn’t have a defense, his words faltering on the way out of his mouth. He couldn’t tell her the real reason, could he? He wasn’t used to this. He’d never had to pick anything up in the palace. He put an empty plate down or discarded a towel and it was whipped away immediately by some staff member or other. But now, as he surveyed the damage, he realized that he was going to have to change his ways.
“Who do you think is going to sort all this out if you don’t? God, if I’d known this at the start…”
Emile felt crushed. This was different to when his parents or his brothers admonished him. Their expectations were unfair, born of tradition and privilege. Kate had been nothing but kind to him, giving him a place to stay and a job, sorting out his wardrobe and teaching him how to do laundry. She didn’t have to do any of that.
“I’m sorry, Kate. Really.” He meant it. He didn’t often mean his apologies, forced as they were by his parents and his circumstances. This one, however, he truly felt and he wanted Kate to know that.
“That’s all well and good, but I need this cleared up by the time I get home. It’s driving me crazy!”
“Of course. Seriously, it won’t happen again.” Emile made a pact with himself that he was going to be better. He didn’t want to see that expression on Kate’s face again. She was right to be unhappy. She wasn’t his servant. If anything, he worked for her. He needed to step up his game.
“Okay. I’ll be back by dinnertime. The cleaning stuff is all in that cupboard.” She pointed to a cupboard he’d never thought to open before, before leveling him with a serious look and walking out, her blond hair whipping around behind her. Her hair was usually up on top of her head — he presumed for practicality’s sake, given their job — but sometimes in the evening or the weekend, she let it down. Emile wanted to run his fingers through it when she wore it like that, her head on his lap while they watched TV or chatted. Obviously, that couldn’t happen, but he couldn’t quite suppress the urge when he saw it.
As soon as the door had closed behind her, he sprang into action. He’d never really had to clean his own living space, but he’d been doing some cleaning in the cafe — just clearing the plates and wiping down tables — so he had a basic idea of what to do. He put the dirty clothes strung over chairs into the hamper. The dirty plates went into the sink — those he knew how to deal with. It took a while to sort through the random assortment of items that had ended up piled on the kitchen table — he wasn’t quite sure how he’d accumulated so much during such a short space of time — but he got there in the end. He read all of the spray bottles in the cupboard, and tried to pick the right ones for each surface; although the mixture of all the different scents made his eyes water.
Stepping back when he was finished, he surveyed the now mostly clean kitchen and living room. He was sweaty from exertion, and all he could smell was the bleach from the cleaning products he’d used, and he was sure that it wasn’t quite up to Kate’s standards, but he felt a strange sense of pride. It was the same feeling as when he and Kate closed the cafe at the end of the day. The feeling was new, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He still felt guilty, though, when he pictured Kate’s face from earlier. How long had she been mad at him about the mess? She’d mentioned it a couple of times in passing, obviously hoping that he’d pick up the hint, which he’d completely failed to do, so used to someone else making all of his problems disappear. That was his old life, though. Not his new one. His current one, he should say. This wasn’t going to last forever, he hoped. Although the thought of leaving Kate and his job at the cafe to return to the palace was slightly bittersweet, even if the promise of someone else keeping everything tidy and clean for him was appealing.
She said she’d be home for dinner. Maybe he should cook for her as an apology? He’d been practicing at the cafe and he was sure he could rustle something up that would at least be edible. Not exactly gourmet dining, not like he would have enjoyed at the palace, but something tasty at least. With the idea in his head, he didn’t hesitate, grabbing his wallet and heading out to the market for some supplies.
He imagined he cut a pretty sorry figure while grocery shopping. Kate had brought him here a couple of times to pick things up, but this was his first time on his own and he found himself wandering the aisles, confused and a little overwhelmed at what he should cook. He wanted it to be impressive enough — it was an apology, after all — but he had to be able to cook it with his limited skills. It wouldn’t be enough to stick a frozen pizza in the oven, although that was very tempting.
“You’re looking a little lost there, sugar.” A familiar voice interrupted his intense study of the tomatoes. Why were there so many different kinds?
He looked up to see the smiling face of Mrs. Lucas, one of the regulars at the cafe.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve been staring at that tomato stand for twenty minutes now, so you’re either very picky or you don’t know what the heck you’re doing.” Mrs. Lucas laughed and Emile fought his embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being so helpless. Or rather, he wasn’t used to having his helplessness pointed out to him so often. He was starting to learn, though, that the folk in this town were well-meaning, and their teasing comments were meant in jest, rather than censure.
“Take pity on me, please.” He did his best puppy-dog eyes at her. It was a shameless trick, but it worked every time.
Mrs. Lucas swatted at his arm and he pretended to swoon. It was easy to charm older women; that was one skill that he’d mastered as a working royal, if nothing else.
“Oh, you,” she said. “If I was twenty years younger.”
“I can’t imagine you’d be more beautiful than you are now, Mrs. Lucas.”
