“He also thinks Isabella is hot,” Marit adds.
I lift a brow toward Isabella. “So the bodyguard and the chef? My, oh my.”
“Marit is exaggerating. Chef doesn’t like me, plus he’s about ten years older than me.”
“Keller was older than me,” I say before I can stop myself. I pause and take a deep breath. “God, saying his name still hurts.”
“I’m sorry.” Marit pats my shoulder. “Maybe we can do some sort of cleansing ritual, you know . . . like how we bathed you and washed your virginity away? Maybe we can wash the Keller right off you.”
That makes me chuckle. “I’ll be damned before I hop in a tub again and have you wash my armpits with washcloths. Sorry, not going to happen. I’ll never get the feeling of you scrubbing my underarms out of my mind.”
“I did it extra hard just to make you laugh,” Marit says.
“Yeah, it worked. Not sure Katla was too pleased.”
“She was fine.” Isabella waves me off. “Plus, how can you truly take that seriously? Washing the virgin off? We all know that was washed away many years ago.”
“Too many to count.”
* * *
“And then youfold just like that,” Chef Martin says. He’s been giving us step-by-step instructions on how to make butternut squash ravioli. We’ll be serving it to Pala and Clinton tonight. And the girls were right, he’s incredibly patient, even when I added two times the amount of salt needed. “Perfect, Lilly, you’re doing a wonderful job.” We’re also on a first-name basis because Princess Lilija just isn’t sitting right here. And Isabella and Marit skip the princess formality as well.
“Thank you,” I say.
“And then we take our pizza cutter and slowly cut out the squares,” Martin says, giving us an example.
“Chef, could we see you in the bread room?” someone asks from the archway of the door.
“Yes, of course.” He wipes his hand on the towel over his shoulder. “Excuse me, ladies.” He touches my shoulder and adds, “Excellent. Keep up the great work.”
When he leaves the room, Marit slowly turns toward me, mouth open. “Oh my God, you’re stealing Isabella’s man.”
“What?” I ask, shocked. “No, I’m not.”
Marit laughs, and Isabella swats at her. “Don’t listen to my sister. She likes to cause trouble. Martin is just friendly.”
“He’s hitting on Lilly. She’s the only one he’s complimented, and frankly, our ravioli looks the same, if not slightly better. He’s into her. You’re old news, Isabella.”
“Well, she can have him,” Isabella says. “Although, I’d like to steal his Kringle recipe that he keeps locked in a safe. If I wed him, I bet he’d grant me access to it.” She taps her chin. “Eh, I’ll just demand it when I become queen.”
“That a girl,” Marit says. “Use that power in the right kind of ways. Kringle recipes.”
I chuckle and finish cutting up my ravioli. “Are you nervous about becoming queen one day?” I ask her.
Isabella shakes her head. “No. We’ve been groomed our whole life to take on these roles, it feels normal at this point. We’re already pretty much doing what our parents do minus the parliament-type stuff, but that’s all show. The community outreach though, and the parties and hosting, that’s as easy as it comes. Might seem scary to you, though, since you grew up in an entirely different environment.”
“Yeah, it’s more intimidating to me, but I’ve started to get the hang of it, although, I can’t imagine what my first public outing will be like after this whole wedding fiasco. I’m dreading it, actually.”
“I think the palace has handled the breakup well,” Marit says. “At least from what I’ve read.”
“I agree,” Isabella says, placing her cut ravioli on the flour-coated butcher block in front of her. “They didn’t go into detail, kept it classy, didn’t place blame on any party, and asked for privacy. I don’t think they could have handled it any better.”
“I haven’t looked,” I say. Both of them glance up at me, winces in their expressions. “No, it’s okay. I think it’s good that we don’t avoid the elephant in the room. It’s been two months. I’m ready to talk about it.”
“You are?” Isabella asks, just as Martin walks back into the kitchen.
“How’s it going?” he asks, a bright smile on his face.
