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Emile’s heart sank as he saw that he had no signal and very little battery. Okay, texting them was step two. Step one was finding somewhere that he could charge his damn phone.
He dug around in his wallet and extracted a measly ten-dollar note, which must have been left over from his most recent trip to New York. Was that all the money he had to his name? A fresh wave of anger rolled over him.
He wasn’t going to get very far with that. He doubted that even in a town this small and quaint, ten dollars would buy him a night at a hotel or even much of a meal. It would, however, buy him a coffee. After that awful coffee on the plane, Emile was craving a caffeine hit that didn’t taste burnt and bitter. Something to distract him from the fact that his so-called family had left him completely stranded. Ten dollars would get a coffee. Maybe even two. And he could potentially charm someone at the cafe into letting him charge his phone.
That was the new plan. Everything else could wait for now.
CHAPTER4
EMILE
Emile was still seething as he walked through the door of the cafe, but he took a deep breath and tried to get a hold of himself. If he was going to spend his last ten dollars, he wanted to at least enjoy his cup of coffee without a red mist descending over him.
The place was bright and airy, and packed to the rafters. That was a good sign, he thought. The coffee couldn’t be terrible if this many people were willing to drink it, even in a small town without a lot of options. He looked around for a server to get seated, but the place seemed to be without staff at all. Was this some kind of weird American thing? He didn’t understand the way that Americans did things at the best of times, but he just wanted his damn coffee.
Then, he spotted her. A short blonde woman bustled out of what he assumed to be the kitchen carrying more plates than a person of her size should be able to do. She expertly navigated her way around the tables, taking orders from customers as she went, before placing down the plates in front of a couple of older women, who cooed and thanked her. Emile couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she moved through the room, wiping up spills from tables, grabbing empty plates and smiling at customers.
When she finally turned her attention to him, he felt as though he’d been smacked in the face. In a good way. If such a thing were possible. Unsurprisingly, Emile had been unlucky enough to get punched a few times — mostly at boarding school — and he had that same dazed feeling looking at this woman, as though time was moving more slowly and his brain was struggling to catch up, only without the associated pain.
The feeling only intensified as she smiled at him. She looked a little flustered, her cheeks flushed and tendrils of her hair escaping from the messy ponytail on top of her head. But although it seemed as though she had a million things to do, her focus was fully on him at that moment and it felt like the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. Any remnants of his anger were washed away.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, blinking her blue eyes up at him.
“Uh. Yes. A table for one, please.”
“You’re not from around here, huh?” She laughed.
“Um, no. How could you tell?”
“Well, the sexy European accent for a start. But we’re not nearly so formal in these parts. Just grab an empty table…” She trailed off as she looked around the place. There were a few empty tables dotted around the room but they were covered in discarded plates and cutlery. Her face flushed a deeper shade of red in embarrassment. “Sorry. It’s been… a bit of a busy day.”
“It’s no trouble.” Emile looked around again. It seemed as though she was the only person working. Surely that couldn’t be possible.
“Here. Let me just grab these.” She loaded up her arms with plates from one of the tables, and gestured that he should sit down. As a prince, he was no stranger to being waited on, but something about him felt uncomfortable watching her attempt to do everything on her own. His instincts were warring with him, telling him to jump in and help, but he’d no doubt offend her if he tried.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Sure thing. What can I get for you?”
“Just a coffee, please. Large.”
Ideally in some sort of IV drip, he thought bitterly.
Although he didn’t utter the words, the woman gave him a sympathetic look as if he had. “I feel you. Coming right up.”
Emile deposited his bags on an empty chair and sat down next to them, casting his eyes about the cafe. No one was paying any attention to him; they were all engrossed in their own conversations. It was… refreshing. He very rarely felt anonymous. Wherever he went in Charcieux, he was recognized — for good or for bad. He couldn’t go out for a run without having the paparazzi tailing him, let alone if he wanted to do anything fun. Not to mention his constant security detail, who were like shadows, always watching him and — he was sure — reporting back to the king and queen. He’d had to go halfway across the world to finally be treated like everybody else.
His enjoyment of being treated like everyone else started to wear off, however, when several minutes passed and no coffee arrived at his table. For all his complaints about being a royal and everything associated with his position, it did mean that he never had to wait. A cafe in Charcieux would ignore all other customers if he walked in, and make sure that he had his order within minutes. Seconds, if they could. There were some perks to the job. Perks which were certainly missing due to his current anonymity. Whenever he experienced poor service in his kingdom — which was rare, given that everyone would fall over themselves to ingratiate themselves to him when he walked into most establishments — he only had to snap his fingers in irritation and the problem would be rectified. He had a feeling that wouldn’t work here.
Not that he would want to behave that way here. Not toher. He watched as the woman — was she the owner, or had someone left her in this position? — darted from table to table. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The way she moved, the way she talked and laughed with the customers even as she was clearly snowed under and, well, her devastating beauty. All of it captivated him and distracted him from his lack of caffeine. Sexy. She’d called his accent sexy. Had she meant it?
Emile watched as she disappeared into the back again and then, all of a sudden, he heard a crash and a very loud curse word come from that direction. He almost chuckled at the sound — it was so at odds with her sunny disposition — but then another crash sounded.
“You okay back there, Kate?” a middle-aged man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt called through the open door.
Kate. That must be her name. It was a royal name, he found himself thinking before he could stop himself. His parents would approve of that. He shook his head to dislodge the thought.
“Yes, I’m fine! Don’t worry! Just a little spill,” the voice came back, but her words didn’t match the tone. Emile got the impression that whatever had just happened back there hadn’t just been a little spill. She sounded totally dejected.
