Chef Margot's eyes narrow as she studies me. "Ah. I've read your articles. You're the one writing about our Max and his shenanigans."
Our Max?
"I simply report the facts," I reply smoothly.
She arches her eyebrows. "Facts, you say?"
I tighten my jaw. "Yes. Facts."
"Hmm." She throws an appraising eye over me, and I shift uncomfortably.
I decide flattery is the best approach. "It smells amazing in here, Chef Margot. My breakfast today was delicious. I'm sure I'll love whatever you whip up while I'm here."
"I'm sure you will," she replies coolly.
I eye a pan behind her on the table. “Is that apple pie I smell?”
"It's tarte tatin," she sniffs, naming the French dessert. "Prince Max's favorite."
There's unmistakable fondness in her voice.
She cuts a slice, slides it onto a plate, and offers it to the prince, beaming at him like a fond mother. "Prince Max loves all my desserts. Don't you?"
He takes a bite. "Absolutely exquisite, as always,” he says around his mouthful. “You're going to make me fat.” He pats a non-existent belly I’m fully aware from photographic evidence is in fact washboard abs.
As I watch him chat with Chef Margot, I try to figure him out. The man who gave me that obligatory tour that so clearly bored him, is not the same person who asks about servants' grandsons or gets indulged by kitchen staff.
The question is: which version is the real Prince Maximilien?
And why do I have the sinking feeling that finding out might be more dangerous than I bargained for?
Chapter 6
Friends! I’m reporting to you from within the palace, where I’m shadowing none other than everyone’s favorite royal rogue, Prince Max. That’s right, I’m now officially a guest of His Majesty the King.
Call a prince a man-child and suddenly I’m living in the lap of regal luxury.
Who knew?
So, what have I been up to? First order of events was a tour of the palace,given by none other than Prince McHottie Junior himself, Max.
I'll be honest, I expected the usual royal dog-and-pony show. You know,this is where my great-great-grandfather received dignitaries, delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the tax code.
What I got might have started out that way, but then it took a turn for the interesting.
The Max who showed me the state rooms was perfectly polite, perfectly distant, and perfectly bored, probably wishing he was on a private island somewhere, sipping champagne and downing caviar.
So far, so predictable.
But then we hit the kitchens, the staff quarters, places where actual humans keep this marble monument functioning. Suddenly, I wasn't looking at the same man anymore.
He became someone else instead.
He remembered that a footman’s grandson was playing on a soccer team. The palace chef practically glowed with genuine maternal fondness when she saw him.
Darlings, I nearly got whiplash from the change in this man.
We all know he’s dashingly handsome. We all know he has a zest for life that makes even a confetti cannon seem understated. But which is the real Prince Max?
