He gave me a sympathetic look and said, “Lucky for you, it only seems to affect the family and not the staff. I’d stay out of his bed if I were you. You don’t want to bring anything else on this family or country.”
Mercifully, that was the last I’ve seen of him since he, along with the rest of the parliament members, left after lunch. But he accomplished his goal. His message is stuck in my head, resonating within me. Leaving me with a deep ache. Not for myself. I know I won’t be in the king’s bed and I’m truly not a believer in this sort of thing, but for the king and his family.
I lost my mother and I’m losing my father day by day. Does that make me cursed? No. It makes me human. That’s all any of us are and there isn’t some mystical curse placed on any of us. Whatever. I refuse to believe these children are cursed. They need to be children. They need to laugh and run and play and go out and see and explore their world.
Not to be cooped up in some palace. At least that’s my opinion on it.
For now, we’re having a special Friday night party. I told thechildren that when I was growing up, Friday nights were my favorite of the week. My parents and I would make a fun dessert and pop popcorn and watch a movie together.
The girls were in for junk food and a movie and Zayer is in for whatever they are.
He’s a total clinger and likes to be propped up on my hip, which makes baking cookies a bit of a challenge, especially when the girls need a little extra help with instructions and how to do things since they’ve never baked before. Yet another crime I can’t wrap my head around, but again, royalty.
I told the head chef, Margarite, to scram. She’s been tending to and preparing meals and things for the prime minister and his crew all week and could likely use a break. Besides, baking is kind of my thing, even if I haven’t had the chance to do it regularly in the past few years. I have music playing. The girls wanted Taylor Swift, and I had no complaints, so now we’re all rocking along and singing our hearts out as we make chocolate chip cookies.
“Can we have one before supper?” Phaedra asks as I sneak each kid a chocolate chip. I think Zayer is going to give me away. He’s already got chocolate smeared on his lips.
“We’ll have to ask your papa. I can check with him when they’re out of the oven, but I don’t want to ruin your appetites.”
“But it’spoisson olivino,” Sabrina gripes. “I hate fish. I always end up sneaking it to Zayer. He eats everything.”
“You sneak a lot, my small friend.” I raise an eyebrow at her. I caught her this morning in my room when I returned from yoga. She was in my bathroom, playing with my makeup. That led to a thirty-minute conversation about asking for permission and not going through other people’s things and how she’s likely not allowed to wear makeup until she’s thirty.
I didn’t tell her father.
I’m not sure if that’s a need-to-know thing or not.
I didn’t want her to get in trouble, which seems to be hermiddle name in this palace. She promised she wouldn’t do it again, so I left it at that.
“What was your favorite food when you were our age?” Phaedra questions as I adjust Zayer on my hip so I can help her gently fold the chocolate chips into the dough.
“Chocolate!” Zayer shouts, making grabby fingers in the direction of the bag of chocolate chips. “More chocolate, Bewamy!”
“No way, Prince Charming. I’ve already given you three pieces. You can have more later, after supper.”
He doesn’t even pout. The kid doesn’t own a frown. For a boy who looks so much like his father, they couldn’t be more opposite in disposition. It makes him much more enjoyable to be around and smother with affection. Not that I want to smother his father with anything other than a pillow.
“My favorite food was chicken fingers with mac and cheese,” I tell Phaedra.
Three sets of eyes blink at me.
“Chicken…fingers?”
I snicker at Sabrina’s horrified expression. “They’re not real fingers, kiddo. Just breaded and fried chicken pieces. I love them with honey mustard or barbecue sauce. They’re delicious. I promise you’d like them. I have yet to meet a meat-eating kid who doesn’t.”
Again, more blinks.
“Maybe we can make them sometime. I’ll have to get a cookbook or something, but maybe once a week we can make a different sort of meal than what you’re used to. We can pick countries from all around the world and explore a bit through food. It’ll be fun.”
The girls seem to like that idea as they start talking about their favorite dishes they want me to try. No problem there as they’re pretty basic and delicious sounding. Things like lemon-and-honey-roasted chicken with bacon,pomme frites, andcreamed spinach. Yum. Zayer, I’ve learned, is a human garbage disposal. He’ll eat anything you put in front of him, and in mass quantities.
We put the two trays of cookies into the oven to bake. Just when I finally manage to set Zayer down so I can clean up, Sebastian comes into the kitchen. He’s still in his suit, looking sexy and powerful. At this point it’s almost annoying how handsome he is. He helps set the laws. That should be a law. The king shall not turn his nanny on.
Or melt like a popsicle when he sees his kids, because that does wild and wacky things to my ovaries every damn time.
“Ah, there you are,” he exclaims, all smiles for his children, some of the heaviness that lives on his face and the back of his neck being pushed aside.
“Papa!” all the kids cry out at once, jumping at him and hugging him as they vie for his undivided attention and affection. Kills me. Every damn time. It also makes me miss my dad. Miss him now, miss who he was once. All of it.
